

1 A.C.

'Ever Onward'

A Novel of

The Cleansing: Book 1

by

W. Wm. Mee

Copyright 2012 W.Wm.Mee

Smashwords Edition

_Please note_ _:_  
This is _not_ a children's book.

Mature language and actions are depicted.

'Not for the faint of heart'

_Revised in 2019_

** **
A Short Indulgence

Hi there.

It's the winter of 2019 and I'm the author of this work.

_'Ever Onward'_ was one of my first novels ever completed. I came up with the concept many years ago (almost 40 now) and over the decades it has gone through many 'face lifts'.

This is the latest and hopefully the last.

But then, you never know what's around the bend.

I wanted to get it just right and I think this time I came pretty close. From the start I wanted to show both sides of humanity --- the dark and the light. In previous incarnations however the story was a little 'overly dark'. This time I tried to let a little more goodness, hope and sunshine in.

Kindly let me know what you think.

Be well and enjoy.

W.Wm.Mee

Feel free to write me at

waynewmee@videotron.ca

A Short Synopsis of the book.

An unstable soldier is served his divorce papers. Enraged, he seeks revenge on his wife by shooting her; not, as might be expected, in their home or in the bed of her lover, but at her place of work --- a top secret chemical warfare lab.

As the bullets from his AR-15 spill blood and shatter bone, they shatter too the highly toxic vials of a secret nerve gas --- a gas cunningly designed to kill only to humans, chimpanzees and the greater apes. So deadly is this 'man-made plague', that, once released into the atmosphere and carried by the winds, eighty percent of the world's population is dead within a week.

_'Ever Onward'_ is the story of the twenty percent that somehow survive \--- at least for a while. As the lights go out around the planet, the rules of civilization soon become a thing of the past, and those few that remain must fight to stay alive --- any way they can.

***

Please note again:

This is not a children's book.

Mature language and actions are depicted.
**Chapter 1:** **IN THE BEGINNING**

Nellis Air Force Base,

Nevada June 21 (Day 1)

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, his sleek, black, AR-15 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 goddamned pills he'd taken hadn't kicked in yet!

The AR-15 trembled in his hands. Caressing it lovingly, he thought of his soon to be EX wife --- thought of 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 then, 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 virus. Not just your average 'wipe out the whole fucking village' kind, but one big mean mother, ball-busting GIANT kind of virus capable of muther-fucking mass destruction on a global scale!'

_'Agent C.D.'_ was its code name. The letters stood for Crystallized Deterrent, but Willie's personal name for it was 'Completely Demented.'. When Henderson had asked what the fuck that meant, Wee Willie had grinned slyly and said that this new man-made germ 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.'

When Henderson heard that he 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 AR-15 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 AR-15 now on continual burst. Full metal jacketted 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 AR-15 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's smile widened.

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 thirty-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 tables. Frankenstein's lab was also felled with electronic machinery of all kinds, each costing more than what a dedicated soldier like himself made in a year. 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 AR-15 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; so much so that 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 flung 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 Dave's 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 vial encased in clear plastic, exploding it like a grenade. The contents, left there by the late, great Estelle Dority, escaped unseen into the room.

Sergeant Henderson had just killed ten people in an attempt 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 engineered virus 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 dead yet familiar voice in his head had told him --- and it was that 'Blast from the past' that had forced him to take action. _'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 Agent CD. She suspected that this new virus 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 virus would most probably undergo a mutation of sorts --- a rather serious mutation. Wee Willie had even gone so far as to call it a double-scoop mother-fucking RADICAL mutation! Not only would it NOT die off like so much smoke on the wind --- it would GO FORTH, --- as all God's creatures were programmed to do --- MUTATE AND MULTIPLY!

As was Sergeant Henderson when he foolishly 'ruffled the placid waters of government', 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 now 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 mutation factor all along; new and improved Agent C.D. did indeed mutate and 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: HEAVEN AND EARTH

High Peaks Region,

Adirondack Park,

New York. June 22 (Day 2)

The boy, just past his mid teens, scrambled easily up the steep, rocky slope. The heavy pack on his back seemed to bother him not at all. With the scorn for fear that only youth can muster, the blond boy smiled down on the two older men below.

"Piece of cake, Dad! How's Uncle Bob doing?"

Josh Williams grinned up at his son, then glanced back at his brother-in-law. They were in the High Peaks Region of the Adirondack Park, a vast stretch of mountain wilderness only an hour's drive away from the sleepy little college town of Hawthorn, New York. Having hiked the High Peaks for years, Josh Williams and his son Jesse were completely in their element. Uncle Bob, however, was another story.

Robert Fuller had gone on a few day-hikes and canoeing trips with Josh, but this was the first time he'd attempted a week long 'expedition' --- and it showed.

"Think of it as a pilgrimage!", Josh had explained. That had been the 24th of May. At the time they were sitting in Bob's expensive bass boat in the middle of Lake Champlain, the hundred mile long body of water separating Vermont and upper New York State. The gentle shores were crowded with quaint summer cottages for those with enough money and time to escape the crowded cities. Bob had reached for a Miller Light and laughed. Bob's idea of 'roughing it' was having to contend with warm beer and cold Big Mac's.

"A pilgrimage to _where_? Deliverance Land?"

Josh had gone on to expound on the beauty of the High Peaks Great Range. Names like Rooster Comb, The Gothics, Haystack, Marcy had rolled off his tongue like honey, his green eyes flashing.

Bob had belched and reached for another Miller. "Sure, Josh, I'll go. Just go easy on that 'Spine of God' crap, eh?

Josh Williams had grinned and shot him the finger.

"Ya? Same to you, fella!"

It was an old joke from a very old TV show, not funny to anyone anymore but the two old friends.

Now, a month later and over four thousand feet higher, Robert Fuller found himself struggling up some god-forsaken goat's trail called the Shorty Shortcut and heading for a place with the heart warming name of Panther's Gorge. The view, he had to admit however, was incredible!

For as far as the eye could see, towering peaks stretched away in all directions. Fluffy white clouds floated in the green carpeted valley below them. A hawk, drifting on the thermal updrafts, hung suspended high above them, its sharp, predator's eyes watching for the slightest movement. The air felt clean and fresh as it must have on the first day of creation.

Just after dawn they'd left Josh's camper back at The Garden, a hiker's parking lot several miles up a twisting, stream crossed road above the quaint little mountain village of Keene Valley. Backpacks loaded with all the gear and food they'd need for a week in the 'great outdoors', the three 'bold adventurers' had hiked up to their present position. Now, dirty, sweating, heart pounding and back aching, Bob leaned against a boulder the size of his insurance office back in Crown Point.

"I'm fine, Jessie," he gasped. "Just giving your old man a head start!"

Josh Williams, making sure his son couldn't see, shot Bob the finger.

Both men smiled.

Jessie called down from above. "You guys coming or what? I'm getting hungry!"

"You're _always_ hungry!", Josh replied. "Have a Granola Bar!"

Jessie's face hung over the boulder thirty feet above them. His long blond hair covered all but his smile. "I finished those off back at the lean-to."

Josh shrugged at Bob and started up the open rock. "Better get going before he eats my supper as well as yours."

Bob sighed and adjusted his shoulder straps. "Let him. At least these bloody packs will be lighter!"

They made camp soon after on a flat outcropping a mile above sea level and just over nine miles from the nearest road. After a meal of noodles and Josh's wife's spaghetti sauce, washed down with tea and hot chocolate, they watched the sun set in all its fiery splendor, then turned in. Bob was dead to the world as soon as his head hit the non-existent pillow. Jessie gave his dad a nod and crawled into his sleeping bag, eager for the morrow's climb. By candle light, Josh wrote a short entry in his log and thought of his wife. Soon he too sought his bed.

As he lay in his sleeping bag watching the stars appear in the heavens, Josh wondered what Bob would say if he knew he was sleeping on what the locals called _The Spine of God_. All three hikers were totally unaware of the catastrophe that had taken place at Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada some twenty hours earlier. Josh turned on his side. Thoughts of tomorrow's long climb up Mount Marcy filled his mind. Hoping the weather would hold, he drifted off to sleep, while over half a continent away, silent, swift, death raced towards him.

***
**Chapter 3:** **THE DARK STRANGER**

China Lake Naval Weapons Center

California. June 22 (Day 2)

Private Jocko Wellington let the jeep role to a stop, hardly noticing the quiet crunch as the front wheel passed over yet another half empty uniform. Jocko was confused. Everyone was dead, and that bothered him. Not the fact that they were dead exactly, but the fact that he had no fucking idea how they came to _be_ that way!

Since waking up in the barracks and finding all the bunks filled with what looked like crumbling ashes, he had searched half the base and found nothing but bodies. Hundreds of bodies, or rather, half bodies; each with that gray papery shit spilling out of them.

Lighting a cigarette, he squinted up at the sun. Nearly noon. He got out and walked over to General Bremen's office. Bremen was a real hard-ass, but he'd know what the fuck was going on. But if General Bremen knew, he wasn't telling. All Jocko found in the office was a shirt-full of more gray papery crap with four gold stars on the collar.

Then the phone rang and Jocko nearly browned his shorts. Grabbing the receiver, he held it away from his sweating body as though it were a deadly snake.

"General?!", the voice on the line yelled. "General, is that you?! Thank _Christ_ you're alive!"

Jocko remained silent, his conniving brain racing. All his life he had lived by his wits. Pimping, running drugs, always playing it close to the edge, always just one step away from the Boys in Blue. But, like the fat lady said: _'All good things must come to an end!'_ Sold out by a little prick who sought to take his place, the D.A. had made Jocko an offer he couldn't refuse: join the army or do a seven year stretch in the can. Jocko had no great desire to serve Old Glory, yet neither did he much relish the thought of having his asshole reamed out by some killer retard named Bubba.

And now this! Life was just one big fuck-up from the word go!

"General? _Are you there_?" the voice on the line squeaked. "SPEAK TO MEEEEE!"

This last had been screamed, snapping Jocko back to the present. "I'm here", he said. "Who's this?"

"Oh, Sweet _Jesus_!", the voice wined. "I thought everyone was _gone_!"

"Get a _grip_ , soldier and _report_!" Jocko said, warming to his role. He'd always thought he'd have made a great actor. Sort of a cross between a young Tom Cruise and that handsome little prick, what's-his-name. After all, wasn't that what life was anyway? Just one big meaningless farce?

"Er, _yes_ sir!", the voice answered. "Lieutenant Pinkton here, sir! Walter J. From the Personnel Department. We've never really met, sir but..."

"Pinkton!", Jocko said coldly. "Get to the fucking _point_!"

_"Yes_ , sir! I _will_ , sir! But _they'll be here soon_ , so shouldn't we --- I mean, don't you ---"

Jocko's mind continued to whirl. "Pinkton, _WHO_ will be here soon?"

"Why, the boys from Miramar, sir. I phoned Fort Irwin first, and then the Marine Corps at Twenty-Nine Palms, but neither of them answered. Only the Naval Station at San Diego responded." His voice had been climbing higher and higher and Jocko could tell he was on the edge of panic. "After I saw --- saw \--- "

_"WHEN_ , Pinkton? _WHEN_ will they get here?!"

"What? Oh, _any time now_ , sir. They seemed to be having some trouble of their own, but they _promised_ they'd come! They _promised!_ "

Jocko felt the germ of an idea begin to blossom in his brain. He'd felt its tantalizing tickle before, but always had to push it aside as cold reality rushed in. Perhaps now however --- with these sudden change of events --- it was the time to allow such thoughts their freedom. Throwing caution to the wind, Jocko decided to give it a shot.

"Meet me in fifteen minutes at the Officer's Mess. We'll wait for them together."

Pinkton sounded like a Sunday sinner granted redemption. "Oh, _yes_ , sir; _thank_ you, sir! _Thank_ you!"

Jocko replaced the phone in its cradle, a cruel, crafty smile lighting up his dark, handsome face.

***

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

Now, sitting in a puddle of the soldier's blood and 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! Tooling along over the tarmac as nice as you please! There was just one guy in it and --- would ya look at _that_?! The bugger was smoking a cigarette and _smiling_!

Pussbag watched the dark stranger with ferret-like intensity. Something in that face reminded him of something that he wanted to remember yet longed desperately to forget. A dead dream resurrected from his hellish childhood. The one recurring 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 a younger version of himself, 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 claw-like 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 on his sleeve and fixed his gaze back on the man in the jeep. The handsome face was almost 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.

***

Jocko 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 looked like dropped manikins, that paper-thin gray shit leaking out of the sagging clothes.

With all the finesse of a runaway garbage truck, the ghost of a plan that Jocko 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 Jocko. His mouth fell open, a string of thick saliva trailing from his lower lip.

"You a _ghost_ , man?"

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

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

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

His hand close to the .45 at his hip, Jocko 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. Jocko 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. Jocko 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 Jocko. "Here, man. Help yourself."

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

Jocko smiled, his mind racing. Over a thousand men were stationed at the China Lake Base. It seemed that only three of them were left alive. Three out of 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. Another machine at the casino and Candy's number got him a recorded _'Moved. No forwarding address.'_ Jocko's grin widened. 'Even the local whore-house had suddenly packed up and blown away.'

His heart was pounding. With every passing moment years of conditioning were dropping away, leaving him stripped down to the emotional bone. He thought back over his 'various careers'. Ex-pimp, ex-pusher and now, ex-private in the army of the late-great U.S. of A! _'Ain't life grand?!'_

Just then a horn sounded. Jocko saw another jeep stop out front _. 'Lieutenant Pinkton from Personnel I presume?'_ Jocko 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 4: DEATH'S SHADOW

Miramar Naval Air Station

San Diego, California, June 22

The young pilot, Squadron Leader Ben Hymus, his eyes wide and nervous, caught up with Lieutenant Sam Waterman at the open hatch of the troop plane. Like the rest of them, he'd been told to report for active duty only fifteen minutes ago.

"What's up, L.T.?" Hymus asked. "Why the big scramble? And why this old piece of shit?" He rapped the camouflaged skin of the B-17.

As they spoke, a truck pulled up and men wearing what looked like yellow space suits jumped out and began loading heavy equipment into the plane. Most of the boxes were marked with big, black letters: **Property of the U.S. Government. Department of Chemical Warfare.**

Lieutenant Waterman shrugged. "No idea, Ben. All I know is that the brass has gone absolutely bat-shit. There's some talk about a plague outbreak, but nothing confirmed."

"' _Plague?!_ ', Hymus echoed. "Where?"

Waterman shrugged again. "Out in the Big Nothing."

"China Lake?", Hymus said. "Christ, _'Big Nothing'_ is right! That's up near Death Valley."

Waterman's smile looked more like a nervous twitch. "Join the Navy and see the world, son. Isn't that what they told you?"

Hymus grunted, watching the yellow space suits continue to load boxes into the B-17's big belly. "I've never flown one of these old relics. Hope can get it off the ground."

Waterman slapped him on the shoulder. "Relax, Ben; half the guys coming with us are pilots, myself included."

A yellow space suit strode over to them and swung open his face mask. Both Waterman and Hymus recognized Colonel Jackson Carter and began to salute.

"As you were, men. No time for formalities here. Haul your asses in there and get suited up! We're leaving in five minutes!"

Colonel Carter was wrong; they were airborne in three.

***

Lieutenant Waterman was having one hell of a time fighting down the panic. Outwardly calm, his stomach kept wanting to throw up. Twenty minutes into the flight he left the co-pilot's seat, nodded to Squadron Leader Hymus, and went back into the belly of the B-17.

The boxes were unpacked now, and the Chemical Warfare people were hard at work at whatever the hell it was they do. Lights were flashing and scopes were whirling, but these all dimmed by comparison to the red rage on Colonel Carter's face. He was literally punching a portable console, and getting anything but satisfying results.

Waterman walked over to Major Chino Fetti, an old friend and one of the colonel's aids. Fetti saw him and leaned forward, their faceplates almost touching. Waterman saw sweat beading the other man's face. The skin-tone looked gray.

"It looks _bad_ , Sam. The old man's about to bust a gut!"

"How bad?" Waterman didn't miss the catch in his own voice.

"No answer at _any_ base in the south-west," Fetti replied nervously. "None of them! What's more, it's been confirmed now. Chemicals were used! Somewhere in southern Cal. Looks like we've been caught with our fucking pants down!"

Waterman's mind seemed to have slipped into neutral. The words didn't quite register. "We what?"

Fetti's voice grated on his ears. "Somebody's shoved a grenade full of fresh new _bio-germs_ up our ass and pulled the fucking pin!" His suited hand stabbed at on of the B-17's round windows. "There dying by the _millions_ out there! L.A.'s out! So is Frisco! The old man's trying to raise Miramar, but getting _jack shit_!"

Years of training suddenly kicked in. Waterman's befuddled mind conjured up a picture of the White House. "What about _Washington_?"

Fetti's helmet nodded. "Airforce One is already in the air."

Waterman sighed with relief. Fetti, however, had more 'jolly news' to impart. "It gets worse, Sam. Everything west of the Continental Divide _is gone_! Colorado Springs was on line, but then we just lost contact. Now Omaha's out!" He scrubbed at his helmet as though his gloved hand could reach his hair. "Whatever the fuck this is, its moving east a hell of a lot faster than _we_ are!"

Just then the plain banked sharply to the right and Waterman bumped into Fetti. Both of them went down. Several of the Germ Warfare boys also fell. Equipment tipped and shattered. Waterman scrambled to his feet. Fetti didn't. Waterman staggered towards the cockpit. He didn't notice that the others still lay where they had fallen, or that Colonel Carter now sat slumped over his blinking console.

What he found in the cockpit did little to ease his troubled mind. Squadron Leader Ben Hymus sat half in, half out of the pilot's seat, his gloved hands still on the controls as the plane began to spiral downward. Leaping into the co-pilot's seat, Waterman righted the plane, got it back on course and flipped the Auto Pilot switch. Then he turned to check on Hymus. What he saw filled him with terror. Where the body of his friend had been just moments before there now remained only a sagging yellow Contamination suit. Through the faceplate Waterman saw what looked like a crumbling wasps nest.

Someone screamed. A long, piercing wail that chilled him to the bone. A part of his mind knew it had come from himself, another part kept right on screaming. For an undetermined length of time Lieutenant Sam Waterman just sat there, silently screaming into the wild blue yonder.

***

Jocko walked out of the Officer's Mess and watched as the heavy B-17 came around for its third and hopefully final approach. China Lake had a lot of runways, the only problem was that precious few of them were clear. Besides various planes, most runways had an assortment of trucks, jeeps and cargo loaders scattered about like giant Fisher Price toys after an especially hard day in the sandbox.

Jocko's cruel smile creased his handsome face. Whoever was flying that baby was going to have to really shuck and jive to make it down in one piece. Jocko didn't much care one way or the other.

Lieutenant Walter J. Pinkton of Personnel however, seemed to care one hell of a lot. Walter J. sat in his jeep, his hands white on the steering wheel, his eyes glued on the plane, a half-remembered prayer on his pale lips.

Seconds after the B-17's wheels touched down, smoke trailed out behind as the brakes were applied. The massive bird slowed, swerved to the left, straightened, and clipped the top of a cargo loader with its right wing. Metal screamed. Fuel began to spill out. The plane spun thirty degrees to the right, passed over a jeep, plowed through two parked trucks and proceeded on, at least two of the three vehicles now wedged under the fuselage. More metal screamed. Sparks flew. The trail of aviation fuel pouring out the right wing caught fire. Flames raced alongside like a hungry beast. The front wheel missed a parked truck but not the jeep just behind it. The tire blew, dropping the nose down on the runway. More screams. More sparks. Then the entire right wing exploded. The force of the blast shook the B-17 like a rag doll in a dog's mouth. In what seemed slow motion, the remains slid directly towards the Officer's Mess.

Pinkton, his eyes wide, sat in his idling jeep as a wet stain spread rapidly over his crotch. A small part of his brain told him to react, to do something! The larger part, the part that had been forced to cope with a morning filled with horror upon horror, wanted only to curl up and die --- like the hundreds of brittle, gray bodies that reminded him of the pages of a burnt bible.

Jocko, however, was a creature cut from a different cloth. Years of fighting and scrounging on the sharp, knife-edge of existence, had honed his senses. Reacting with a predator's swiftness, he leapt into Pinkton's jeep, shoved his .45 in the startled man's ear and stepped down hard on the accelerator.

_"Clutch!_ ", Jocko screamed.

Walter J. may not have been as street-wise as his saintly mother might have liked, but neither was he as stupid as his unsaintly father had thought. He popped the clutch and the jeep peeled away, just as the nose of the B-17 slammed into the Officer's Mess. The plane demolished the right side of the building, continued lazily on its way, finally coming to rest alongside an empty hanger.

"Stop!", Jocko said, smiling.

Brakes squealed. Jocko lowered the .45 and looked back at the demolished building. Private George Sampson, still holding his bottle of Scotch, staggered out onto the runway, seemingly oblivious to the fact that a wall had just been removed.

"Hey, man! What's going down?"

Just then the eject-bomb on the B-17 blew the cockpit cover sky high. The pilot, a very shaken Lieutenant Waterman, still wearing his yellow plague suit, scrambled out. Jocko motioned for Pinkton to drive over.

"Who _ARE_ you?", Pinkton asked the handsome soldier sitting beside him. "And where is General Bremen? He told me to meet him here." Walter's voice was a strange mixture of indignant-whine.

The .45 and the smile were back. "I'm God's little helper. As for the General, he's like all the others \--- gone. Now _move it_ , asshole, we've got to pick these two up before the rest of that plane blows!"

Lieutenant Walter J. Pinkton's momma had always told him to listen to 'God's little helpers' --- especially if they whispered in your year while holding a Colt .45.

Moments later, with both Lieutenant Waterman and Private Sampson bundled in the back, the jeep tore down the runway. They'd gotten about a thousand yards when the remaining fuel tanks exploded. The blast rocked the speeding jeep.

"Sheee-it!", Sampson yelled. Grinning from ear to ear, he passed the bottle around. After taking a long pull, Lieutenant Waterman looked at Jocko. "What the Christ happened here?!"

Jocko's broad smile flashed again. "Welcome to the end of the world, soldier. Ain't life a bitch?

***
**Chapter 5** **: A SAD AWAKENING**

High Peaks Region

New York. June 23(Day 3)

Josh Williams lay in hissleeping bag looking up towards Haystack's rounded, rocky summit. Still almost a thousand feet above him, all he saw was a blanket of wet, white mist. He hoped the sun would burn it away by the time they reached it.

Unzipping his bag, he glanced at the other two members of his party. His seventeen year old son, Jessie, was curled up in a ball, his tousled blond head sticking out of the down-filled bag.

Bob's bag, still in the shadows, appeared rumpled and empty. Frowning, Josh looked around for his brother-in-law. It was not like Bob to rise early, especially after lugging a heavy pack up four thousand feet.

_'Answering the call of the wild? No, the toilet paper was still on the branch. A walk? Maybe catch the sunrise?'_ Josh swore. One of the first rules about hiking the High Peaks was never go anywhere alone. Bob could be a real asshole at times, but he wasn't stupid. As Josh pulled on his boots, a shiver of fear coursed up his spine. His son's voice made him jump.

"Hey, Dad. What's up?"

"Probably nothing, Jess, but Uncle Bob's gone off somewhere." He then called out loudly. The only reply came from a chattering squirrel.

While Jessie scrambled into his clothes, Josh walked over to his brother-in-law's bag. Now that the light was better, he could see that there was something in there. Too small to be Bob. A raccoon? He poked it with his walking stick and heard a faint crunching sound. Nothing moved. Whatever it was, it was dead. Pulling back the cover, Josh saw what looked like a squashed wasps nest spilling out of Bob's red longjohns.

Father and son stood in the early morning light looking down at the remains of Robert Fuller. Jessie turned to his father. "It's a joke, right? Uncle Bob's sick idea of a joke?" The hopeful tone of his young voice was overlaid with fear.

"I hope so, son, but I don't find it very funny." They both called out, then began searching around the camp --- yet all the while Robert Fuller lay where they had found him. Ten minutes later, Jessie went back to his uncle's bag and stirred the remains with a stick. What he saw caused his to jump back with a shout. Shaking like a leaf he, called out to his father. Josh came and saw what had so startled his son --- a silver dental bridge with several teeth on it. Bob's. The father turned and hugged his son.

***

By the time they were packed, the sun had burnt off the mist surrounding Haystack, yet neither of them had any interest now in climbing. Both of them were in shock. One of their group was dead. Not only dead, but gone as well! All that remained of Uncle Bob was his deflated thermal underwear and dental bridge Jessie had found in crumpled gray ashes. Inside his bag Josh had also found Bob's wrist watch.

Jessie moved about like a robot long overdue for a tune-up, his movement stiffs, his expression blank. The boy was in shock and his father wasn't a hell of a lot better.

While Jessie silently packed their gear, Josh disposed of the body by rolling the remains in the sleeping bag and placing several large rocks on top. Jessie joined his father at the make-shift grave. As he looked away, he spied something glittering in the morning light. A gold band. Robert Fuller's wedding ring. Picking it up, Jessie handed it to his father.

"Aunt Doris will want this." The boy's voice was distant and dream-like.

Josh handed slipped the ring in his pocket, then once again hugged his son. Several minutes later they were on the long trail back down to the lodge.

***

John's Brook Lodge was well over a hundred years old. Over the decades it had been added to and refurbished many times, but for the most part it still looked like what it was, a rambling old log cabin beside a gurgling stream, nestled in a narrow valley between the High Peaks, some three and a half miles from the nearest road.

When Josh and his son reached it, the sun was a little past noon. The trek down had been a silent one. Josh had tried to get Jessie to open up, but the boy had only retreated further into himself. Josh decided not to press him for now, believing that time would work its slow but sure healing process. Once they were home, things would somehow sort themselves out. Heart attacks happened. People died. Neither of them wanted to think about --- let alone discuss --- the fact that Uncle Bob's body had somehow turned to brittle, gray ashes.

Lost in his own thoughts, Josh paid little heed to the fact that they hadn't met any other hikers on the trail. When no-one answered his call as he entered the lodge, however, his guts did another flip flop.

Where was the pretty young girl who was usually baking bread? Where was the grizzled old coot who always greeted them from his rocking chair on the front porch? Where the hell were the other hikers who had either spent the night or stopped in for tea or warm lemonade before going on to the various trails?

The main hall, usually bustling with hikers of all ages, was empty and silent. The large stone fireplace, always crackling merrily away, was now dark and cold --- the grey ashes reminding Josh of his brother-in-law's remains. His head suddenly pounding, Josh went into the back room. Row upon row of rough but sturdy bunk beds greeted him. Most were still made, the top of a faded sheet folded neatly over a warm blanket. Some, however, were occupied. Several packs leaned against walls. Clothes and raingear hung from pegs. Pairs of boots sat patiently waiting for their owners to awake.

Now they would wait forever. All the occupied bunks held the same dry, brittle remains that had spilled out of Robert Fuller's bag.

Josh staggered and would have fallen if Jessie hadn't caught him. Shaken, Josh looked at his son. The youth's expression might have been set in granite.

"They're all dead. Just like Uncle Bob."

Josh could only nod, his mind racing. _'What was going on? It must be a bloody dream! That's it! I'm having a nightmare --- a terrible nightmare. I'll wake up soon and find myself back at camp; or better yet, in my own bed with my wife beside him. Oh, God! Let it be a dream!'_

But a part of Josh's mind knew that this was no dream. Things were just too damn real. The smells, the sounds. Even the light seemed real. He squeezed Jessie's hand. There were tears in the boy's eyes --- but a determined look as well. Taking a deep breath, Josh led both of them back into the main room.

"Sit down, Jess. We've got to talk."

The boy did as he was told, silent tears still flowing. Josh hugged him, his own tears mingling with his son's. After a while, they faced each other, hands still touching.

"I don't know what has happened, Jess. I --- I'm not even sure what to say. Something has ---"

"Murdered Uncle Bob and all these other people," Jessie put in calmly, almost coldly.

His son's words struck Josh like a blow. Until now he had thought of this as some kind of accident; some crazy, insane mistake. A disease or plague of some kind. The idea that it might have been _man-made_ turned his stomach. He pushed the thought aside. That way led to madness. He stepped outside onto the porch, the crisp mountain air helping to clear his head.

Jessie followed, offering his water bottle. Josh accepted it with a sigh. Part of him wanted to scream; part of him still wanted to throw-up. He settled for a grunt.

"Tough little bugger, aren't you?"

"Can't help it," Jessie replied. "I take after my old man."

"Ya?", Jessie said. "Tell that to your mother."

That one word froze them both. 'Mother'. What about her? Everyone they'd seen in the mountains was dead. What about the world outside?!

Both father and son made it back to their camper in record time.

***

On the mile and a half back to the parking lot they'd past several tents. After calling out, Josh had looked inside and found only more of the same; brittle gray-brown parchment spilling out of sleeping bags.

Whatever it was, it had come in the night, somehow sparing only himself and his son. Thank God for small wonders!

Except for the silent cars and a few chirping birds, the parking lot was empty. No gangs of eager hikers chatted as they checked their gear. No trail weary trekkers sat resting their aching feet. The gravel lot looked like a four-wheel graveyard.

Josh unlocked their old, white Westfalia and tossed their packs inside. Jessie climbed into the front seat, a worried expression on his young face.

"Dad? Do you think Mom's O.K.?"

The Volkswagen engine roared as Josh swung the camper around. "I hope so, Jess, but ---." He stopped himself from speaking his fears. "We'll be home soon."

Ten minutes later they were in the small town of Keen Valley. Little more than a cluster of stores and houses perched on the stony banks of the East Ausable River, its claim to fame was a paper mill, a post office and first rate camping store. All were empty, all were silent, all held the remains of what just hours ago had been living beings.

After that Josh barely slowed down. Taking the 9N east, he pushed the aging camper up the rolling hills between Jay Mountain on the left and nearly mile high Giant on the right.

Jessie peered out the window as the slightly larger village of Elizabethtown flashed by. "Nothing moving here either, Dad. Maybe we should stop and check it out?"

Josh's answer was to slam the gearshift down into third and floor the gas peddle.

He did stop as they neared the overpass to Interstate 87. To almost everyone in the world the words _'New York'_ conjured up in the mind's eye a vast, sprawling city, teaming with cars, trucks and most of all, people. Known worldwide as the 'Big Apple' or the 'City that Never Sleeps'. To those living in _upstate New York_ however, those two 'magic words' meant something completely different --- green forests, blue lakes and tumbling streams, all punctuated by the majestic towering peaks of Adirondack Mountains. Interstate 87 was the Northlands lifeline. At any time of the day or night you could hear the traffic humming along; from the Canadian border just an hour south of Montreal, all the way down to the Big Apple itself over three hundred miles to the south. The I-87 was the major artery into the heart of the beast.

Only this day the beast was silent.

Looking up through the bug-splattered windshield, both father and son listened for a sign that the world as they knew it was still there. The only sound that came back however was the pounding of their hearts and the screaming of their souls.

***

After what seemed like an eternity, Josh looked at his watch. Five minutes had passed. A bubble of frightened laughter threatened to escaped into the silence. ' _Takes a lickin' 'n keeps on tickin'! Sweet Christ!'_ an anguished voice inside him wailed. _' whole damned world is gone!'_ Panic threatened to carry him away.

"Dad? Hey, Dad! You all right?!"

"Ya, son, I'm fine. Hey, how about we try to call Mom on the cell? Reception's poor in the mountains, but it's worth a try."

Jessie rummaged around in his pack and finally found his cell phone. His fingers shaking as they glided over the small buttons, a half hopeful, half frightened look on his pale face. Frustration soon waged with fear in his blue eyes. "Nothing! Only static! No 'roaming' sign --- nothing."

Jessie's voice was high and strident, fear lurking just behind every word. And who could blame him? He was young, but not stupid. His universe had just done a swift and deadly about turn --- and by the looks of it, the party had only just begun!

"It's fine, Jess. Let's just get home."

The youth attempted a smile and failed. Gears ground and the camper sped headlong into a dead world.
**Chapter** **6: PUSSBAG**

China Lake

Naval Weapons Center,

_California. June 22 (Day 2)_

Private Theodore Smith, alias _Pussbag Smitty_ , had been a busy boy since seeing Jocko drive by. Scuttling about like a spider, he had followed the jeep, keeping always in the shadows. As a child he had been afraid of the dark. The dark was where the 'bad things' happened; where his mother locked him after he had been naughty --- where He lived!

Oh, how she had loved that word!

'Theodore, you've been naughty again. If you're not careful the Dark Stranger will come for you. Mommy is going to have to lock her naughty little boy in the closet. Mommy is going to have to spank her naughty little boy's bum. Mommy is going to have to beat the living shit out of her Goddamned snot-nosed naughty little boy!'

_'Oh my yes,'_ Pussbag thought. _'Mommy had dearly loved THAT word!'_

But time had slowly passed and so had Mommy Dearest's physical power over her naughty little boy. The threat of the Dark Stranger however, had only increased. As the years rolled by, naughty little Theodore Smith grew to be very naughty indeed.

In his teens Pussbag Smitty became the terror of his already terrible neighborhood. By then his sad list of sins had become long and varied, yet torturing pets had been his specialty. Then one fateful night, just as his mother had predicted, the Dark Stranger had indeed come for him --- only instead of dragging him screaming off to Hell, the dreaded Dark Stranger had looked into Pussbag's torn and tattered heart and offered him the one thing Theodore would have gladly sold his very soul for --- friendship.

_'Follow me and I shall make thee great'_ an ageless voice had said. _'Follow in my footsteps and all shall be thine!'_ That same night Pussbag had beat the living shit out of Mommy, stuffed the arthritic-ridden old bitch in the infamous closet and ran off to follow his new found friend.

***

It was a long, hard run, taking several years and most of his sanity --- and each step of the way the Dark Stranger stayed just out of reach. Now and then Pussbag would catch the occasional glimpse of Him; in the leering face of a cop as he tossed the young vagrant into a cell; in the smile of a painted whore itching to give him the Clap; in the empty eyes of a strung out druggie offering him an empty promise. There one moment, gone the next. Tempting, taunting, always just beyond grasp.

Pussbag, however, was not dismayed.

_'Follow me and I shall make thee great',_ He whispered in his dreams. _'A promise was a promise.'_

Pussbag knew where to go by the signs his elusive new friend would send him. They came in a kind of _secret code_ , written between the headlines of newspapers and in the fake smiles of TV anchormen.

Bakersfield Girl Slain By Mysterious Man

Hit And Run Driver Kills Two Fresno Children

A Dozen Killed In L.A. Race Riots

Car Bomb Kills Christmas Shoppers

Shooting on San Francisco Cable Car.

Bus Bound For Disneyland Blown Up By Terrorists

The clues came in an endless stream of glorious devastation.

Sometimes Pussbag heard about His Friend in far off parts of the country; places like New York, Miami and Chicago. But again, he was not dismayed. The Dark Stranger traveled on the wind; _here, there, everywhere!_ Such was His power! Pussbag had but to follow. Sooner or later he would always catch a glimpse of Him, hidden in the face of indifferent strangers, or waiting in the headlines of the corner newsstand.

Then one day he was looking at a poster in a window.It showed a gaunt old man in a top hat pointing a finger. Pussbag felt his knees go weak. The stern face suddenly changed into a shadowy yet familiar one. The pointing finger touched his soul.

And Pussbag ha known what to do. His friend was telling him where to go. A place where his potential would be seen. A place where his skills were in great demand. A place where 'mommies' weren't allowed. The U.S. Army.

There were many things about the army that Pussbag wasn't overly fond of; the unkind, cutting remarks; the cold laughter; the casual cruelties. But these things he could endure. Even the Brig was easier than the Closet. His Friend spoke to him in the dark. In his heart of hearts, Pussbag loved the Army, for it had taught him multiple ways to do that which he loved best \--- to cause pain. And Private Theodore Pussbag Smitty had been a star pupil.

And now, just as promised, _'The Cleansing'_ had come at last! Pussbag had awoke this morning to a changed world. Everywhere he looked, death grinned back at him. China Lake Air Base was one giant wasteland; a place where brittle dead leaves filled bunks, littered the runways and spilled from empty uniforms.

Pussbag believed in his heart of hearts that the Dark Stranger, his only friend and distant companion, had not only spared him, but had chosen him for greatness --- just as He had promised.

When the young soldier had found Pussbag, had held out his hand and spoke soothing sounds, Pussbag had almost wept with relief --- for the Dark Stranger had come at last!

'Follow in My footsteps and I shall make thee great.

A promise is a promise. Mommy says so.

Trust me.'

Then Pussbag had looked into that young, nervous face and seen only a frightened boy. There was no hint of guile or cunning. No trace of hardness or cruelty. Only innocence, fear and desperation.

That was when Pussbag had used his bayonet --- over and over again.

***

How long had he sat there beside the body --- huddled in a corner, listening to his mother's voice? Minutes? Hours? An eternity? _'The clocks run backwards in Hell'_ his mother used to say. _'And you'll be a long time gone once the Dark Stranger drags you there!'_

Then he'd heard another sound, the sound of the jeep. Looking out he'd seen a lone man drive by, casually smoking a cigarette and smiling. A stranger. A dark stranger laughing at death!

Pussbag's heart had nearly burst with joy. _'He_ has _come for me after all!'_

That's when he'd gone in search of a present to give his long lost friend.

***

Being an army nurse, Shirley Bates had seen her share of death. Being a nurse, however, had not prepared her for what awaited her on the twenty-second morning of June. Death was one thing. THIS was something else!

The pills had helped. She'd taken three blue downers and chased them with a shot of Tang and two Valium from the locked supply cabinet. _Rank does have its privileges_. Now, sprawled out on the couch in the doctors lounge, the cares of an uncaring world had retreated to a warm, fuzzy haze.

A sound was trying to break through. A sharp, cutting sound, like the breaking of thick glass. Shirley rolled over and promptly fell on the floor. The jolt of her tail bone striking the hardwood snapped her awake.

'Shit! Must have dozed off. Probably late for ---.'

Memory flooded back like a tidal wave. Dead. All dead. Nothing but dead.

Suddenly she heard it again. It _did_ sound like breaking glass! Her heart raced. _'Someone else is alive! I'm not alone!'_

Scrambling to her feet, she raced out the door and down the main hall. She tried to call out, to let whoever it was know that she too was alive. All that came out however was a strangled croak.

Bursting into the room she saw him. A soldier, just inside the front door. He'd had to break the glass to get at the lock. Her arms wide, Shirley ran towards her savior --- towards the grinning face of Pussbag Smitty.

***

When she woke up sometime later head hurt. Her back hurt as well. In fact, after Pussbag had gotten through working her over there were precious few parts of Shirley Bates that _didn't_ hurt!

But he hadn't touched her face. He'd seemed very concerned about that. Shirley had been too for a while, but after several punches to the small of her back and the third or fourth kick to her ribs, she really didn't give a shit . All Shirley Bates wanted to do was to dry up like everyone else and just blow away.

And now the monster was back!

He didn't _look_ like a monster, but Nurse Shirley knew he was --- for only a monster could so easily and joyfully inflict such pain.

She tried to turn away, to put up some kind of fight, but he knew just the right nerve to pinch, just the right amount of pressure needed to set her squirming like an eel but not enough to pass out. _'Oh, yes, he was a monster all right! He may look like a man, but underneath was a foul-breathed, maggot-filled creature from hell!'_

Shirley summoned up the courage to spit in his face, hoping he'd get angry and snap her neck --- but the monster just grinned and licked the saliva away with his tongue.

Shirley moaned like a wounded animal and fainted.

Pussbag stood looking down at the bundle clothed all in white. He nudged it with the toe of his combat boot. 'Stupid cunt! Just like all the rest! But He'll like her! If not, there's always the Closet!'

Pussbag yanked the unconscious nurse over his shoulder and went off in search of the Dark Stranger.

***

First Lieutenant Sam Waterman sat in what was left of the Officer's Mess nursing a stiff drink and a savage headache. Second Lieutenant Walter Pinkton sat close by, nursing a full bladder and an even fuller blown case of the shakes. Private George Sampson paced back and forth, nursing an ongoing nervous condition that was rapidly approaching the psychotic. From his place behind the bar, Jocko Wellington, silent and deadly, watched the trio with cold indifference.

Suddenly George stopped his pacing, scrubbed at his shaven head, and swore. "Jesus Christ, Jocko, what the fuck are we going to do?! I mean, shit man, everyone is fucking DEAD!"

Jocko sipped his drink, then nodded towards the open space that had until recently been the fourth wall of the Officer's Lounge. There, standing in the growing dark, was Pussbag Smitty. Hanging over his shoulder was the limp form of nurse Shirley Bates.

"Not quite everyone, Georgie-boy," Jocko said.

George followed Jocko's gaze. "Holy shit! Who the fuck's that?!"

Pussbag shuffled forward, his wild eyes, fastened on Jocko, were big and bright. Madness danced just beneath their surface. He dumped Shirley at Jocko's feet and fell to his knees. _"Follow me and I shall make thee great",_ Pussbag chanted. _"A promise is a promise. Trust me."_ Then those wild eyes took on a dog-like luster. "I followed, just like you told me to. I worked hard, just like you said." He glanced down at Shirley's crumpled form. "I even brought you a present. Can I please stay?"

The silence hung in the three sided room like stale sweat. The very air itself seemed charged, as just before a lightning strike. No one moved. No one even seemed to breathe. Then Jocko spoke and broke the spell --- or perhaps he deepened it.

"Yes, my friend, you can stay."

The smile on Pussbag's face would have warmed all but his mother's cold heart. "Thank you!", he sighed. He then leaned forward and kissed Jocko's muddy boot.

***
**Chapter 7** **: HOME**

Mt. Hawthorn

Lake Champlain, NY

_June 23 (Day3)_

Once past the silent interstate, 9N continues east towards Lake Champlain --- that great, hundred mile long slash in the land between New York's Adirondacks on the west bank and Green Mountains of Vermont on the eastern shore. As you approach the lake the land swiftly flattens and small farms begin to appear. The odd deer is replaced by herds of grazing cattle. Tiny, quaint villages soon give way to hustle and bustle of towns.

Only now the hustle was over and the bustle had all dried up and blown away.

As he drove, Josh glanced over at his son. Jessie had been silent since they had stopped at the I-87 underpass, the useless cell phone still clutched tightly in his hand --- a grim reminder of a magic talisman that had suddenly lost its magic. Now, turning south at Westport, they began to see the wrecked cars. Josh had to swerve around several crashes. Stopping at the first, he had looked inside. He did not stop again.

Five miles past Port Henry, they turned back west towards Hawthorn. Built on a small, wooded mountain, Hawthorn, once a quiet little ski village, was now a suburban bedroom community to the bigger, busier college town of Crown Point. Ten minutes later they were home.

The human mind is a wondrous thing, having within it the capacity to hope when all hope is gone; to cling to an idea when all the evidence points to the contrary. Some say it is that ability alone that separates humanity from the other creatures. Without that spark of hope we are all just wanders blown about on a dark wind.

What they found however, was not comforting.

***

Several hours after arriving home, father and son sat alone on the front steps of a home they had both known all their lives. Silently they watched the shadows lengthening all about them. Sadness and Sorrow was in the air, and hope's eternal spark was flickering in a very dark wind indeed.

In the fading sunlight they had buried what remained of Ann Williams in her garden. Josh had mumbled something about 'finding peace in heaven' and 'going to a better place' --- during which Jessie had stood as one turned to stone. The cell phone was gone now, replaced by a trembling, tightly clasped fist. Then, as the rich, dark earth began to cover the 'thing' rolled in the sheet, Jessie had fallen to his knees, great wracking sobs filling the soulful silence.

Josh had joined him, and together father and son had mourned.

Now, sitting on the front steps, both silently watched the sun going down. Slowly, reverently, Josh took something out of his pocket. Holding it up to the dying rays, it flashed warmly. Gently he placed it in his son's cold hand.

"It was your mother's, Jess. I think she'd want you to have it."

Jessie looked at the ring, its yellow gold worn and smooth. His father still wore the mate. He dug Uncle Bob's ring out of his own pocket and held them up together. His uncle's was bigger, newer and less yellow. Through eyes red from weeping, he looked at his father.

"Is that all we'll ever find, Dad? Dead people's rings?"

Josh felt his breath catch in his throat. "No, son. God wouldn't be so cruel."

Jessie stiffened, his young face suddenly old. "God?!", he suddenly yelled. "There IS no God! God would never let THIS happen! And if He does exist, then --- then I HATE HIM!"

Josh moved towards his son, but Jessie turned away, dry sobs shaking his shoulders. Josh let him be, knowing that words at this point, even kind ones, wouldn't help. Jessie was grieving, not only for a mother that he loved dearly, but for everything and everyone he had ever known. Dead. Dead. The whole bloody world was dead! Inwardly Josh himself railed at a Creator that could allow his finest creation to be so casually destroyed!

As the daylight faded and night's darkness claimed the world, father and son sat clinging to the one thing they had left --- each other.

***

Jessie came into the kitchen, one hand rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His blond hair was tousled and he had slept in his clothes. Soon after dark he had gone to his room. Josh had found him fast asleep a few moments later, a tattered and much loved Phoo Bear clutched to his breast. He had covered both boy and bear and turned off the light. Not able to face the bed he had found his wife in, he slept in the spare room.

"Breakfast?" Jessie asked, attempting a smile.

Josh's was more successful. "Coming right up. But first take a shower. You'll feel better."

The attempted smile flashed again. "Sure thing, Dad."

After breakfast, Josh looked at his son. "We have to look, you know. We can't just give up."

The boy shrugged. "I know. It's just that, well, where do we start?"

"Right here in Hawthorn to begin with, then Crown Point. After that, we'll play it by ear. But first, we try Doc Gruber's."

Jessie frowned. "The vet's? Why there?"

"We passed farms on the way home and the animals seemed fine. I just saw Mrs. Brinski's cat out back. Doc Gruber always keeps lost stray dogs. We can't let them starve."

Jessie brightened. "Ya! We can let them all go. Maybe even keep one! I've always wanted a dog! Can we keep one, Dad?!"

It tugged at Josh's heart to see his son happy --- even if only for a moment. "I don't see why not."

Jessie was already moving towards the door.

_'So far so good,'_ Josh thought. He'd come up with the idea late last night. Jessie needed something to fill the void. He knew a dog couldn't take the place of a mother, friends, a boy's entire world, but he also knew that Jess needed to have _something_ to take his mind off what had happened. Loving and caring for a dog certainly couldn't hurt.

"Dad! Dad!", Jessie called from outside. "Come quick! A car!"

Josh ran outside. Jessie was standing at the end of the driveway, pointing down the road. "A car! I saw a car! It was driving by when I came out!"

Josh looked towards the corner of the main street. He saw nothing but empty houses and lawns that needed mowing.

"Let's go, Dad! We can catch up with it!"

"We can try, son."

Jumping into the van, they backed out, and roared off down the road.

"Right or left, Jess?"

"Right, towards the center of town!"

Josh gunned the old van, but by the time they got to the main intersection, nothing was moving. Jessie hit the dashboard. "I saw it! I know I did! A green one!"

Jessie turned left and headed downtown. If there was a car, the person driving was most probably looking for other survivors just as they were. Sooner or later they'd meet. Doc. Gruber's small clinic was a mile or so outside of town. Fifteen minutes later they were there. Jessie, all thoughts of the car now forgotten, leaped out and ran to the door.

"It's locked!"

Josh came a moment later. In his hand was a tire iron.

His son's eyes widened. "You going to smash the glass?" There was shock in his voice. All his life he had known his father as a quiet, law-biding man; a history teacher at the local high school who loved to read and to enjoy the outdoors. The thought of this mild spoken man smashing his way into a someone's house was beyond him.

"Let's try a window first."

Jessie nodded agreement and the two of them walked around back. There they came face to face with an old man sitting in the sun.

"Morning, gents. Care for a cup of coffee?"

Father and son looked at each other. Josh blinked, then walked forward, holding out his hand.

"You gave us quite a start, Dr. Gruber. I'm Josh Williams and this is my son, Jessie."

The old man smiled and shook Josh's hand. The dry, firm grip made tears spring to Josh's eyes. Karl Gruber winked at Jessie. "I'm real son. I'm seventy-one years old and my arthritis hurts like hell, but I'm still a long ways from being a ghost."

Jessie beamed. "Are there any others around?!"

The old man's gray eyes clouded for a moment, then brightened. "A few. Saw some young fool yesterday. Drunk as a skunk and yelling at the top of his lungs. I went over to him but he ran off. Someone else was busting windows down on main street. Set the alarm off in Godart's Hardware. But by the time these old legs of mine got me there, whoever it was long gone." He looked from the son to the father. "Heard a car go by a not long ago. Was that you?"

Jessie beamed at his father. "I told you I saw a car!"

Josh tousled his son's blond hair. "No, sir, that wasn't us."

"Call me Karl, or Doc. Now, how about that coffee?"

"My pleasure," Josh said. "Mind if Jess here has a look at your animals?"

The old man cocked his bald head to one side, reading the look in Josh's eyes. He nodded, then turned to Jessie. "Go right in, son. I'd appreciate the help. Got five dogs and a slew of cats that need watering."

Jessie was through the back door like a shot.

Doc Gruber turned back to Josh, his old eyes wise and knowing. "Good idea to get the lad a pet. That's why you came here?"

Josh nodded. "We buried his mother yesterday. I thought a dog might help take his mind off things."

"Hmmm," Doc replied, filling a second cup with coffee and motioning to a chair. "I was just sitting here thinking on that when you two came by. 'Things' have gotten a might out of hand of late. Got any ideas?"

This struck Josh as strange. He was hoping the old man might have some kind of explanation. "You're the doctor. I'm only a small town history teacher."

Doc seemed to find that funny. After a cough and a spit, he explained. "Sorry, Josh. Education is a wonderful thing, its just that over the years I've noticed that stupidity comes in all colors and sizes. Some people never learn, no matter what we do. Pearl Harbor. Hiroshima. Nagasaki. Viet Nam. Iraq. Bosnia. Afghanistan. You'd THINK we'd learn, but we never do."

Josh leaned forward, glad he'd sent Jessie inside. "You think this was done on _purpose_?! So kind of _attack_?!"

Doc sighed. "What do your history books tell you? Someone sure as hell did something! I think some fools probably hit us with a whole batch of new germs. There side, our side, who the hell knows?"

They both sat there, each lost in their own thoughts. Jessie came back outside, a cat cradled to his breast, a Beagle pup at his heels. He was beaming from ear to ear. Sitting down on the step, the cat hissed at the dog and bounded off. The pup, its long curved tail wagging furiously, jumped up and licked his face.

"Found a friend, eh son?", the old man asked.

Jessie's answer came in the form of a laugh. Both men smiled. Josh swallowed the lump in his throat.

"I've got his mother inside with a sore leg, the old vet said. "The pup's about a year old now, but he's going to be a big one. You can always tell by the paws. You're welcome to keep him, son, both if you like. But first you check with your dad."

Jessie's eyes went wide. "Can we, Dad? Keep them both? I'd take good care of them, and we can't take him away from his mother!"

His son's innocent words hit Josh like a kick in the stomach. "We'll take both, Jess. There's been enough partings lately."

Jessie, already going back inside for the pup's mother, missed the sadness in his father's tone. Doc Gruber didn't. The old man squeezed Josh's hand. "I lost a brother in that sad joke called Viet Nam, my only son in Afghanistan and a wife to cancer. Partings are terrible hard things, Josh, scaring the heart and the soul --- but in time the pain recedes. We never forget, but we learn to go on. I did. You will too."

Josh nodded out of politeness, even formed a half smile, but in his heart he ached for what once was, and it was his wife's face that swam towards him through a watery film of tears.

***

They spent the rest of the day driving around Hawthorn, looking for more survivors. They saw some sign of looters downtown; the liquor store had been broken into and the large plate glass window in the front of Billing's Food Mart was smashed, but they met no-one. Then, when they were heading back to Doc's place for supper, Jessie saw someone run behind a house. It was just a quick glimpse, but Jessie thought it was a woman. They stopped to investigate. Josh honked the horn and waited. Nothing. He got out and called. Still nothing.

"That house, Jess?", he asked, pointing to a rambling bungalow. Jessie nodded. "You stay by the van. I'll have a look." Josh was half way up the walk when the shot came. He felt the slug whiz by his head. Throwing himself on the ground, he yelled for Jessie to stay down. Touching his ear, he noticed with surprise there was blood on it. Cautiously he raised his head. "We mean you no harm! We're friends!"

Another shot rang out. Not loud; a .22 by the sound. This time bark chipped off the tree he had rolled behind. "Shit!," Josh swore to himself, then he was up and running for the van.

"What's up, Dad? Why are they shooting at us?!"

Josh gunned the motor and tore down the street. "Scared, probably! Or crazy! Not everyone's going to take what happened as calmly as old Doc!" He presses his sleeve against his ear. There was little blood now, but it stung like hell.

The ride was short and silent. Josh turned onto his own street and pulled in the drive. His home of twenty-some years stood silent and empty. Now little more than a box of dead dreams.

"I thought Doc was fixing us supper?", Jessie asked, clearly in no hurry to go back into a house filled with bitter-sweet memories.

Josh, still frowning, nodded. "He is, but I want to pick up a few things first. You too. Pack a change of clothes and your toothbrush. We'll be staying the night at Doc's. Maybe longer."

"Good," Jessie said. "This place doesn't feel like home now that Mom's gone."

Josh looked at his son. _'Already adapting',_ he thought. _'Christ, to be young again!'_ He followed the boy into the silent house.

While Jess was gathering his things, Josh went to the basement. Passing the washer and dryer gave him a sudden twinge and his wife's face floated before him again. It was good they were leaving. Too many memories here, for him and for Jessie.

He went on into his workshop. Cross-country skis and old packsacks greeted him. His eyes went to his workbench, cluttered with tools. Cans of paint and half used rolls of wallpaper stuck out of the rough shelves he had made several years ago. _'Always meant to clean this place up,_ he thought _. 'Now it doesn't matter.'_

He looked up and found what he had really came for; two long leather cases tucked in with the Alpine skis and poles. Pulling them down, dust and cobwebs came with them. Clearing off the workbench, he laid the two objects down. His fingers trembled as he undid the zipper of the heaviest one. Half-way, his hand fell to his side.

"Jesus Christ!", he muttered. "What the hell am I doing?!"

_'Protecting your own!'_ a cold voice inside him said. It was an ancient voice, first heard when the new upstart man discovered that a rock or a stick could be a weapon. A primeval voice; ancient; old --- as old as the earth itself.

Josh slid the shotgun out of its case. The bare bulb overhead glared off its blue-black barrel, glinted off the twin open hammers, danced along the wooden stock. His father's gun, dead now for a dozen years. Josh thumbed the breech open. There was the familiar 'clicking' sound. Both barrels were empty. He snapped it shut, old memories snapping into place along with it. The weight, the heft, even the smell. Josh ran his hand over the walnut stock. The scratch was still there. Josh had first fired it on a duck hunt when he was thirteen. The recoil had knocked him on his ass into the weeds, the gun to the bottom of the boat. His father had smiled and offered his hand.

Smiling sheepishly, dripping semi-stagnant pond-water, young Josh had reached out trembling much like the first Adam had so very long ago. The touch of any god lingers forever with a person.

Good old dad. The late, great white hunter. Kind but distant, caring but cool, unable to allow love to show beyond a smile or a pat on the shoulder. More at ease with animals than people, at home anywhere but at home, finally finding rest in the bottom of a bottle.

But before he checked out for that great skeet-shoot in the sky, he'd passed on his love of nature to his only son. Taught him the song of the silent woods, the caress found in the frosty wind and the magic of flowing water. He'd also shown him the thrill of the hunt and the triumph of the kill.

Josh hadn't fired the gun since before his son was born. He'd replaced hunting and fishing with hiking and canoeing; a _sharing_ of life rather than a _taking_ of it. The world had slowly changed since his father's long ago childhood. Davy Crocket and Daniel Boon had been eclipsed by cop shows, reality showsh and Doctor Phil. Hell, in these days of cell phones, laptops tablets, video games and 'surfing the net', any concept around for more than a year or two was considered 'ancient history'. To most people in the 'Modern World', the sport of hunting had gone the way of the dinosaur. Conservation, Green Peace and Save the Whales were ideals Josh himself strongly agreed with. The Hippies had long since come and gone, but their motto of 'make love not war' lived on --- at least on the surface.

But now it seemed that the world had changed again, only this time not as a slow, gentle movement, spearheaded by idealistic children with flowers in their hair, but by nameless, faceless scientists working in their top-secret labs. Sudden, brutal, total change, leaving only a motherless boy and an arthritic old man --- and frightened people who shot at you when you wanted only to be their friend.

Slowly he unzipped the other case and stood looking down at the second relic from a bygone age --- an age suddenly come round again. In it lay a bolt action .22 target rifle and two boxes of bullets. Josh began to rummage around for shells to go with the shotgun. He found a box and the heavy cartridge belt for the 12 gage in an old wicker picnic basket under his workbench. Its weight felt strangely familiar.

"What you doing, Dad?"

Josh turned to see Jessie standing in the doorway. Feeling suddenly guilty, he smiled at his son. "Just checking things out, Josh. You ready to go?"

Jessie came up to stand at his father's side. _'As tall as I am,'_ Josh thought. _'But still so young! Will he be alive this time next year? Will any of us? And if we are, at what cost?'_

"Wow! I didn't know you had guns!"

"They were your grandfather's. Now --- now they're ours."

***
**Chapter 8** **: IT BEGINS**

China Lake

Naval Weapons Center,

California. June 22 (Day 2)

George 'The Man' Sampson stood looking down at Pussbag kneeling at Jocko's feet, disgust warring with disbelief in his bloodshot eyes. "What's this shit?! And where'd that ugly skag come from?!"

Jocko graced him with smile, his gray eyes however, remained cold. "All in good time, Georgie-boy, but for now, get my new friend here a chair."

George didn't like taking orders, but somehow he liked even less the idea of crossing Jocko. He got the chair.

"Now," Jocko said, motioning for Pussbag to be seated. "Explain again that part about following me."

Pussbag was only too willing to comply. In a muddled torrent of words he told Jocko all, including his undying allegiance to the Dark Stranger. When it was over he fell on his knees again. Jocko left him there.

"Christ, man!", George swore. "The asshole's not playing with a full deck! If you can't see that you're as fucking crazy as he is!"

Suddenly George found his feet swept out from under him and a blood-covered bayonet pressed against his throat. Behind the sharp blade, Pussbag's wild eyes glared down at him. "You will not speak to Him that way!"

George the Man all but wet his pants. "Sure thing, man! Anything you say!"

Pussbag looked up at Jocko like a Doberman waiting for its owner's signal. Kill or set free, all on the whim of its master.

Jocko placed a hand on Pussbag's head, patting it twice. "Let him up, friend. I believe Georgie-boy has seen the light."

The bayonet disappeared into Pussbag's dirty fatigues, yet his wild eyes followed George as he made his way shakily back to his bottle.

On the floor, Shirley Bates was waking up to a changed world in more ways than one. Jocko saw her wince and smiled. "Ah, the fair princess awakes. Georgie-boy, help the lady up."

George was about to complain, but one look at Pussbag sent him scurrying over. Shirley cried out when he lifted her, then again when he tossed her on a sofa. From the other side of the room Lieutenant Pinkton watched in stunned silence as Flight Lieutenant Sam Waterman slammed his glass down and stood up. Facing Jocko, Sam summoned up his best officer's voice.

"Now you listen to me, _private_ , this has gone far enough! As senior officer here, I'm taking command!"

Still smiling, Jocko drew his .45 and pointed it at the girl. A shot rang out, filling the room with rolling thunder and the smell of burnt powder. Shirley pressed herself back into the sofa, screaming as she did so. A nice, round hole had magically appeared close to her head. Jocko raised the gun and locked his wrist with his free hand.

"One more word from you, Waterman, and the next one's between her eyes." The smile was still on his handsome face.

Sam stiffened and was about to respond when he read the madness in Jocko's eyes, and so, still glaring hatred, he slowly sat back down. Pinkton, his white face having turned several shades whiter, kept his eyes riveted on Jocko's gun. Pussbag's smiling face looked adoringly at Jocko, while George the Man chuckled in the corner.

"Oh man!", George beamed. "This is some weird shit!"

Jocko's .45 swung in Sam's direction. "Georgie-boy. Get the lady a drink. Several in fact. We're going to have ourselves a little party."

George's eyes widened, then a smile of his own spread over his sallow face. "Sure, Jocko! Anything you say, man!"

Jocko turned to Pussbag. "Help the two 'privates' to get in the mood, friend. Use your knife if you have to."

Flowing like a scarecrow on ice, Pussbag glided across the room and stood behind Waterman and Pinkton. His bayonet had once again appeared in his hand. Jocko set his gun on the table and, digging in his shirt pocket, produced a small pillbox.

"Georgie. Give the lady two of these. It'll help her relax."

George caught the pillbox and giggled. "Fucking-A, man! Fucking-A!"

***

Jocko woke to the sound of rain. Water dripped off the jagged edges of the demolished wall. Sleeping bodies lay scattered about. His .45 was in his lap. Picking up the weapon, he rose from the plush armchair and walked to the opening. Wind gusted across the tarmac. In the east a gray stain blotted out the rising sun. It didn't bother him though, for he had a bright, shiny plan for the future.

In a way, he had the strange, bayonet-wielding idiot to thank. The pathetic creature had given him the dark seed from which an even darker rose would grow. Now, looking out on the newly remodeled world, Jocko was anxious to put his plan into action. The building blocks of its creation lay scattered all about him. He breathed deep of the heady brew of expectation and took stock of his many options.

Over a thousand souls had resided at China Lake. All but a few were dead. He had found five survivors so far. How many more could be found in an all out search? He made a mental note to look into that later. Another truth that was obvious was that whatever had happened here had happened everywhere else as well! The pilot Waterman had confirmed that. Most if not all of the Big Bad World had suddenly just gone belly-up. Exactly _how or by whom_ he neither knew nor cared. Jocko's curiosity rarely went beyond gratifying his own personal interests. The facts were clear; something or someone had killed off most of the people in the world. He and a few others had somehow survived. Now his main concern was making himself the ruler of those survivors --- and to do that he would need an army. A small one to begin with, but an army none-the-less.

So he would search out other survivors and, one way or another, bend them to his will.

Also he would use this _'Dark Stranger'_ idea that the psycho with the bayonet had given him. He knew instinctively that shit like that really did a number on the weak and feeble minded, a group which, in Jocko's view, had always made up the vast majority of the world's population. Now, after this strange but oh-so-welcome Big Check-Out, the ratio of idiots hadn't changed, only the gene-pool had gotten much smaller. That thought caused him to chuckle inside. _'One hell-of-a-lot smaller!'_

His nimble mind still racing, he reviewed last nights 'recruiting session', the first, he now believed, in a long line to come. He smiled at his own play on words. The woman the psycho had found would continue to serve as a form of 'initiation booth' for his growing band of merry men. _'Bang her willingly or BANG, you're dead!'_

_'I even have a pilot!'_ he thought. _'A most unwilling one to be sure, but something can always be worked out.'_

***

Lieutenant Sam Waterman had indeed been a very reluctant to join in the deflower the fair damsel. Even after Pussbag had cut him a few times he still refused. Only when Jocko had his loyal servant give the bitch a pierced ear big enough to stick a finger through had Big Bad Sam finally half-heartedly took part.

As for that little shit Pinkton, he was so bloody scared he could hardly get it up! Big George however had no problem at all. Jocko saw no reason why what had worked in the past shouldn't go on working in the future. Of course, dear Nurse Shirley Rottencrotch might give out, but then he was sure that he would eventually find a replacement.

Part A of his plan would begin immediately --- the creation of T Army of the Dark Stranger. Part B would soon follow. The details were still vague, but then, hey, one step at a time. A line from some old horror movie surfaced. _'Step by step; inch by inch. Slowly I turned --- '_ Jocko smiled to himself. He wasn't sure just WHAT he was _turning into_ , but was very anxious to find out. The future lay before him like a land waiting to be conquered --- a land where the possibilities were endless!

***

The roar of the motor of the truck he was driving cut through the fog in George the Man's somewhat limited brain. Like Jocko, the Government of the State of California had made Georgie-boy an offer he couldn't refuse: two years in the army or five in the can. Up until the day he was caught, Georgie-Porgie had been snatching what he could from the grimier streets of L.A. A mugging here, a drug-deal there, here a rape, there a rape there, everywhere a rape-rape. Fortunately for him, three of the four women he had molested refused to testify, and of the one that did, the D.A. had failed to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Georgie-Porgie hadn't been invited to put his pudding in her pie. He was nailed on the drug bust however, and so was given the choice of being Uncle Sam's boy for two years or some con's girl friend for five. Owing to his strong preference for the fairer sex, Georgie-boy chose his kindly Uncle Sam.

Excited, nervous, and still half drunk, Georgie's mouth was running almost as fast as the truck's motor. Unlike Jocko, however, George the Man had no idea what the fuck was going on.

"Shut up and drive," Jocko told him. George shrugged, fumbled with the gears of the heavy troop carrier and drove out onto the landing strip. The rain had stopped, but puddles littered the runway like angels fallen tears. Pussbag had Sam Waterman, Walter Pinkton and Shirley Bates tied up in back. Shirley, her face bruised and puffy, sat staring off into happier times.

"So where we going, Boss?", George asked.

Jocko pointed across the runway to the long row of barracks. As the large truck approached the buildings, Jocko flipped a switch and a siren bleated out into the silent morning. George stopped the heavy vehicle and Jocko climbed up to the open command post on top. George sat waiting, a loaded AR-15 across his lap.

The strident sound of the siren stopped, and Jocko's clear voice boomed from the speakers mounted on the front of the troop carrier. "Now here this. All survivors will come outside immediately. Bring no weapons. I repeat, bring no weapons. Anyone failing to report will be shot. Anyone reporting with a weapon will be shot."

Silence followed.

On the hard bench in the back of the troop carrier Walter Pinkton strained to see what was happening. Beside him Sam Waterman sat glaring at Jocko's back, wondering if he could throttle the bastard before that maniac behind him used his bayonet.

Jocko spoke into the mike, his amplified voice both calm and cold. "Sergeant George. Give them a burst through the windows."

Georgie was out of the cab in a flash, the AR-15 cradled in his arm. Flipping the switch to full rock n' roll, he emptied a thirty round mag in a matter of seconds. The prefabricated wall of the barracks took on the texture of Swish cheese. Any glass left in the row of windows hung in long, jagged shards. Most of it lay shattered on the tarmac.

Pussbag had already moved out of the truck. What looked like scuba gear was strapped to his back. The long nozzle dripped tongues of flame, quickly dispelling any notion that he was on his way to the beach. Perhaps a weenie-roast of sorts, though such decisions now rested in the competent hands of his new friend. Pussbag himself was but the faithful servant.

The calm, cool voice spoke again. "Corporal Pussbag. Prepare your flame-thrower. On my word, incinerate the building. Sergeant George, at the ready. Kill anyone you see with a weapon. Corporal, commence on my mark. Three. Two \--"

"Wait a minute! Wait a fucking minute!!". Though muffled, the voice clearly came from inside the barracks. The door opened and a man came out, hands held above his head. Four more followed. The last one out was a woman. Jocko nodded to Georgie, who moved forward like an eager bully, AR-15 more than ready.

"Hands where I can see 'em!", George beamed, warming to his new-found roll. "No sudden moves or you're fucking dead!! Now, advance slowly."

All five shuffled forward, uncertainty written on their drawn faces. Ten yards from the truck Jocko had them stop. With Georgie on one side and Pussbag on the other, Jocko climbed down, his .45 held casually in his hand. Pinkton and Waterman watched silently from the back of the truck. Nurse Shirley was still hiding in the safety of the good ol' days.

The first man to come out, a tall African-American wearing corporal stripes, lowered his hands and started forward. Jocko raised his gun and smiled.

"No-one told you to move, soldier. Get back in line."

The man cocked his head, a frown creasing his dark features. "Just who the hell do you think are you anyway? You could have killed someone for real, asshole!"

Jocko wiped a grain of dust out of his eye, that terrible grin still on his face. Each word came out like polished ice. "We're the good guys, asshole. Now, get your black ass back in line!"

The corporal grunted, turned and spoke to the others. "These clowns ain't regular army! Are we going to stand here and let them order us around? I say we ---"

Jocko shot him in the back of his head. As the body collapsed, the woman screamed. The man closest to the corporal had brains spattered all over his face.

"Insubordination will not be tolerated," Jocko said calmly. "Sergeant, check them for weapons, then put then in the back of the truck."

Like swimmers struggling against the current, the four moved towards the troop carrier. The woman's scream had shrank to a low moan. Waiting wide-eyed in the back, Walter Pinkton looked down to see that he had pissed his pants.

They found a few more survivors in the other barracks, making a total of seven men and two woman. Later that night, by the time the Recruiting Ceremony was over, the number of men had dwindled back down to four. Besides the smart mouth black, Jocko had been forced to shoot two more reluctant recruits.

Jocko had refined the initiation somewhat. Not wanting dubious volunteers like Waterman, joining only to save the woman from Pussbag's bayonet, Jocko decided to accept a man strictly on his own eagerness to participate.

Two had declined the privilege.

As for Dolores Delgotto, one of the two women found wandering the base, she had had the misfortune to tick off George the Man at the high point of his evening and, following Jocko's earlier example, old Georgie Porgie had blown her brains out.

By the end of the evening's festivities, counting himself, the Army of the Dark Stranger now numbered nine men and two women. Not exactly a 'flowing multitude', but then again, great things come from small beginnings.

***
**Chapter 9** **: RARE BLOOD**

Hawthorn, Lake Champlain,

Upstate NY, June 24 (Day 4)

Josh and Doc sat out the back on the old vet's porch watching Jessie play with the two dogs. Princess, the mother, still favoring her back leg, ran with Jessie across the field. Her gangly pup raced around them in circles, his white tipped tail wagging frantically. Jessie had named him Og, the nick-name his father had called him since he was a child.

"The dogs have taken to the lad," Doc said. "It does my old heart good to see them run."

Josh nodded, his own heart warmed by the sight. He stiffened as Jessie and the dogs disappeared into the forest just beyond the field. The boy was seventeen and Josh had taken him hiking and canoeing since he was old enough to walk. The woods were like Jessie's second home. Josh however, now worried more about two legged beasts than four.

Doc put down his cup. "I've been thinking a lot about what you told the boy this morning. When you were teaching him to shoot that .22." His lined face creased into a frown. "That part about not being able to trust strangers right off; how most strangers you meet will still be good people, but probably scared, confused and likely to do some stupid things." Doc took his pipe out of his pocket, filled the bowl and struck a wooden match. Josh reached for the pipe Doc had 'loaned' him last night. He hadn't smoked in years, but after what they had all just been through, he thought, _'What the hell?'_

"And?", Josh said, filling his own bowl.

Doc coughed and spit, then sat back amidst a cloud of blue-white smoke. "And you're right. I don't much like it, but you're right. It's probably why that fool took a shot at you yesterday."

Josh shrugged, not sure just where the conversation was leading.

"So," Doc said, leaning forward through a grayish haze. "We've got to advertise. Let whoever is still out there know that we're around and that we're friendly."

Josh grinned. "And how do we do that? We can't exactly place an add in the paper."

Doc winked. "No, but we can make one bloody big sign."

Josh's grin spread from ear to ear. "Of course! Down by the Food Mart! And outside the Sear's store! Anyone left will probably go to one place or the other for supplies!"

Doc slapped his knee. "And we can tell them to meet at a central place, say, the town square. That's out in the open and should be less intimidating." The old man leaned closer. "Also, that way no one will know where we live, just in case the wrong sort shows up."

Josh smiled and stood, calling Jessie and the dogs. All three came out of the woods on the run, the pup, Og, bringing up the rear. Soon everyone was in the van and headed downtown. Doc brought several half used cans of paint from his garage. Josh brought his father's guns.

A little after noon they stood in the middle of Hawthorn's main street admiring their handiwork. On the brick wall of the Food Mart was printed in large, white letters:

TO ANY SURVIVORS!

GENERAL MEETING EVERY DAY

AT NOON IN THE TOWN SQUARE.

EVERYONE WELCOME!

Similar signs had already been painted outside the Sear's building and the hardware store.

All three were startled when Princess suddenly turned and growled. Behind them, an old woman and a girl of about fifteen stood staring at them. The woman, gray hair half covering her Asiatic features, held the girl's hand.

"Do you think many will come?", she asked casually. Her voice was heavily accented, with a pleasant, sing-song quality. The girl said nothing.

Josh found his own voice. "We hope so. I'm Josh Williams. Who are you?"

The old lady bowed. The girl kept her large dark eyes on the dogs. "I am Kay-Loon Wang. This is my granddaughter, Mai-Ling."

Doc made the rest of the introductions and offered the old lady a seat in the open side door of the van. She hesitated, smiled and then shuffled forward. Josh saw that she moved stiffly. Probably arthritis. The girl stayed by her side, silent and wide-eyed. She looked to be fourteen or fifteen. Her hair was long and black and glistened like a raven's wing.

Josh hunkered down beside her and asked it she'd like to play with the dogs. The pup Og came up and sniffed her, causing a bright smile to light up her pretty face.

"Mai-Ling is mute,", her grandmother said. "She can neither hear nor speak. She's been that way since birth. But she can read lips."

Josh was about to repeat his question, but saw there was no need; Og was already licking her face. After stocking up on supplies from the Food Mart, all five of them went back to Doc's for supper.

***

Later that night Doc joined Josh on the back porch. The old man had a bottle of brandy and two glasses. The stars were burning brightly in the summer sky.

"Peaceful out here, isn't it?", Doc said as he eased himself into a lawn chair. "My wife Martha and I used to sit and listen to the crickets. Too noisy in town she used to say."

Josh nodded and accepted a half filled glass. The amber liquid slid down his throat like rough velvet, igniting a small, fierce fire in his stomach that made him shudder.

"Hits the spot, don't it?", Doc grinned.

Josh managed a nod.

The old man took a sip, then reached his pipe. "I've been thinking again. Old coots like me do a lot of that."

"Keep it up," Josh smiled. "Your sign idea was brilliant. What's next?"

Doc leaned forward, his eyes bright. "What kind of blood type are you?"

Josh looked surprised. "Why?"

Doc grinned. "Humor me."

"AB negative. It caused a lot of problems when my wife was pregnant with Jess. She is --- was positive."

"And what about the boy?"

Josh stiffened. "Same as me, AB negative. Why?"

Doc sat back, filled his ancient Briar and smiled. "I'm AB negative too. Out of the five of us, we know three of us have the same rare kind of blood. Now, I'm just a country vet, and an old one at that, but that seems mighty strange to me. My bet is that Mrs. Wang and her granddaughter have it too. Come morning I intend to test them both and find out."

"Just how rare is it?"

Doc struck a match. "Here in the US it's somewhere between ten to fifteen percent of the population."

Josh sat perfectly still, his glass forgotten in his hand. "You think that's it? Whatever the hell they let loose passed us by because of our rare blood?!"

"Christ, Josh, I told you I was just a country vet. We'd need a bunch of those big-city doctors with their fancy microscopes and computers to be sure. But if I'm right, then we can look up the records at Crown Point Hospital and start phoning people who are AB negative. Most people have those thing-a-ma-jigs that leave a message. We can just call them up and see who's still home."

Josh suddenly stood up, his eyes wide. "Brad Westgate! He's my cousin. Lives over in North Conway, New Hampshire. The two of us practically grew up together!"

"This cousin of yours have AB negative blood?"

Josh's smile fairly lit up the night. "He sure as hell does! What's more, at least one of his kids do has as well! Kenneth, the oldest child, born three weeks before Jessie! There's a younger sister as well. One night a few years back we were hiking the Presidential Range up near Mount Washington. Brad had a beer or so too many and told me how worried he hadbeen about his wife having a baby because of it!" Still smiling, Josh rushed into the house. "I know it's late, but I'll give him a call anyway!"

***

The next morning, June 25th, four days after Sergeant David Henderson unwittingly unleashed the worst plague in the history of mankind, Josh Williams woke up to the smell of bacon and eggs.

He'd gone to bed late and taken a long time to fall asleep. There had been no answer at his cousin Brad's place in New Hampshire. He'd left a message on Brad's machine, but doubts had quickly crept in. Perhaps Doc was wrong about the AB negative blood? Perhaps it was the blood combined with something else? Perhaps now they'd never know.

When Josh made his way to the kitchen, Mrs. Wang met him with a smile and a bow. He returned the gestures, noticing the smell of hot bread mingled in with the bacon. Soon Doc's rambling kitchen was filled with eager eaters.

Mrs. Wang seemed delighted with the way the three men wolfed down her food, and refused to let them help her with the dishes. "Go on," she said in her musical voice. "You men have your work to do and I have mine. Mai-Ling can help me."

_'So much for Woman's Lib!'_ Josh thought to himself. He had a sneaking feeling that a lot of modern ideas would soon be going by the board. As though to confirm his thought, Jessie asked if he could have another target lesson. This time he wanted to try the shotgun. The refrain from an old Dylan song echoed in his head.

'Ya better start swimming',

Or you'll sink like a stone,

'Cause the Times they are a changing'!

Slowly, even a bit sadly, he called his son and carried the two guns out back. Once there he told Jessie to go get Mai-Ling. "No reason she shouldn't know how to shoot as well."

Jessie had gladly agreed.

***

About eleven o'clock Doc suggested they go down to the Town Square and see if their sign had worked. On the way there he told Josh he'd tested both Mrs. Wang and her granddaughter and that they were both AB negative. Not the most extensive of clinical surveys, but enough for the m to pin their hopes on.

By quarter to twelve Doc was sitting on a park bench feeding the pigeons. Josh and Jessie were watching from the shadows of the court house. They'd left the dogs at home and brought their guns instead.

Twelve o'clock came and the clock tower atop the court house tolled out the strokes. Nothing moved in the square except the pigeons. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Josh was just about to step out of the shadows when he saw the sun strike something shiny on the far side of the square. Backing up, he handed Jessie the 12 gage and took the .22. Inwardly he cursed himself for not getting a bigger rifle. Field glasses would have helped too.

"What's up, Dad?"

"Someone's watching from across the square. Too far for the shotgun."

Jessie looked at his father strangely, for the first time realizing that this wasn't just some weird video game or movie. This was REAL! The flash of light came again, only closer this time. whoever was over there was moving --- and probably armed. Jessie checked to make sure that the shotgun was loaded.

Then, on the far side of the square, a girl appeared. Josh could see she was in her late teens, dressed in cut-off jeans and a red halter top. She flipped her long, scraggly hair over her bare shoulders, looked back into the shadows, then moved nervously forward.

"Who's that?", Jessie asked.

Josh silenced him with a look, then turned back to the girl. The flash of steel came again from the shadows, only closer than before. "Cautious bugger," Josh muttered. "He using the girl as bait." He thumbed off the safety of the .22, wishing again that it was a bigger caliber and making a mental note to visit the local sporting goods store as soon as this was over.

"Hello there, little lady," Doc called out. "Come on over and help me feed the birds."

The girl hesitated, glancing back once again.

Doc's pleasant voice continued. "Might as well tell your friend back there to come on over too. There's a nice lady cooking fresh biscuits back at my place and you're both welcome to come along."

The girl kept glancing from Doc to the shadows, clearly waiting for instructions. They came, but they weren't for the girl.

"Stand up, old man, and walk over here!"

From his own position, Josh could see Doc cross his legs, take out his pipe and casually strike a match. Through the bluish haze, the old man's words were crisp and clear.

"No sir, I don't believe I will. I'm quite comfortable sitting here in the sun. You both can come on over, though."

"What's he doing, Dad?" Jessie asked. Josh ignored his son, his eyes fastened on the shadows on the far side of the square.

"Don't fuck with me, old man!", the male voice yelled.

Doc continued to puff away. "I have no intention to, son. However, that invitation for hot biscuits still holds. You and the little lady are welcome, but its your decision, not mine."

Silence, during which the girl began to shake like a deer caught in the headlights of an onrushing truck. Josh whispered in Jessie's ear and the boy slipped silently away to the right. Then the man's voice spoke again, harsh and cold.

"Gloria! Get your ass over there and check him out!"

The girl jerked forward. As she neared Doc, the voice came again. "Move to one side, bitch! You're blocking my shot!"

The girl moved, and so did Josh. Stepping out so that he was still partially in the shadows, he called out loudly.

"How's it going, Doc? The rest of the boys are getting a little restless back here!"

The girl froze a dozen steps from Doc, her eyes wide with fear.

"Don't move, old man!", the voice called out. The tone was higher now, scared.

Doc continued to puff away on his pipe.

"How many guns you got over there?!", the voice demanded.

Doc smiled. "More than enough, son. But why don't you come out and we can all shake hands. The young lady here looks a wee bit pale."

The voice yelled back, clearly frightened now. "If you don't shut the fuck up you're going to be a wee bit dead!"

Josh joined in again, praying his ruse would work. "Hey Doc! Bob's got the guy in his scope. You want him to take the shot or what?"

The girl began to whimper.

Doc's voice now held an edge of steel in it. "I want our bashful boy here to either walk out here real friendly like or to get the hell out of our town!"

Josh smiled in spite of the fear gripping his spine. "Well friend!", he yelled. "Which one is it going to be? Come out empty handed or take off?!"

The voice, almost a screech now, hollered back. "Eat shit and die, all of you!"

At the same time Josh yelled his son's name. Jessie, hidden in the shadows two buildings away, pulled both triggers on his grandfather's shotgun. The double recoil staggered him as the heavy number 4 pellets tore across the square, blowing a three foot hole in the leaves of the old maple just to the right of the person hidden in the ally. The large picture window on the second floor of the dentist's office shattered, sending jagged shards of glass falling to the sidewalk.

Josh ran forward, yelling as he went. "Get down, Doc!" With each step he expected to feel a bullet slam into him. None came. Doc had pulled the terrified girl down behind the bench and was covering her with his body when Josh flopped down beside them. All three kept their heads lowered.

"Quick thinking for a college man," Doc said, a wry smile on his lined face.

"Up yours, Doc."

The sound of the 12 gage boomed out again. This time the window to the right of the dentist office shattered.

Jessie called out from behind them. "I think he's gone, Dad! I heard a bike take off!"

"Stay down just in case!", Josh yelled.

"The boy's got sand!", Doc grinned.

Josh nodded and looked cautiously over the edge of the park bench. The only thing he saw was that he was kneeling in pigeon shit.

***

"He called himself The Dude," the skinny girl said between mouthfuls of a chocolate bar Doc had given her. "I met him two days ago. He seemed nice at first. Took me all over on his Harley --- but then he got drunk and wanted me to...to do things. At night he watched dirty movies."

Doc patted her hand. "Never mind, little lady. He's gone now, and that offer about hot biscuits still stands."

The girl looked at him suspiciously out of the corner of her eye. Doc smiled. "I doubt Mrs. Wang and her granddaughter --- they're the ones doing the baking --- care too much for dirty movies. Can't say I fancy them much myself."

A ghost of a smile flitted across her young face. She said her name was Gloria Ambrose. Four days ago she woke up to a house full of dead parents and siblings. She'd ran outside and found a dead word. After two days of wandering around she met 'The Dude'. Since then things had gone from bad to worse. Jessie, standing in the background, introduced himself and the others, then began telling her about his dogs.

Suddenly Josh stiffened. Cocking his head to one side, he listened. The sound of a motor was now clear for all to here.

"Someone's coming!"

Gloria's face went pale. "It's him! The Dude!"

Josh checked the loads in the shotgun and moved to the end of the van. "The rest of you stay down!"

Jessie, clutching the .22, moved up behind his father.

The sound of the motor came from the far down the road. Watching, all four saw a battered dark green pick-up round the corner. It stopped on the far side of the town square. Two men were inside.

Doc touched Josh's shoulder, making him jump. "I know that truck. Belongs to Willard Spinner." Doc squinted through the van's side window. "Will's the one driving. Can't see the other fellow."

Before Josh could stop him, Doc walked around the rear of the van and across the town square towards the truck. Swearing under his breath, Josh followed, both hammers of the old 12 gage cocked.

"Willard!", Doc called out, walking towards the battered pick-up. "Willard Spinner! How the hell are you?!"

The driver's door swung open and a large, heavy set man in his late fifty's stepped out. He was wearing dirty overalls and a baseball cap. The sleeves to his faded shirt were rolled up and one massive hand was held out in front of him.

"Doc Gruber!", the farmer beamed. "Just the man I was hoping to see! My best heifer is having one bastard of a time! Looks like a breach to me!"

"Same as the last time, eh Will? Due next month as I recall."

The big man nodded. "Ya, but she's off her feed and mighty feisty."

Josh couldn't believe his ears. The whole bloody world had gone to hell in a hand basket, and here were these two old farts talking about some cow having trouble giving birth! He gently uncocked the shotgun and walkedup and stood beside Doc. Willard Spinner took in both him and the gun at a glance.

"Hunting season open a bit early this year, friend?"

Doc smiled. "This is Josh Williams. He and his son have been staying with me for the past few days. He's a good man, just a might cautious."

Willard nodded. "I heard the shots."

Just then the passenger door opened and a young man, thin and sporting shoulder length blond hair, came round the truck. He waved shyly at Josh.

"Hi there, Mr. Williams. Remember me? Bobby Stewart. I was in your history class a few years back. Still got the old Volks camper, eh?"

The young man, looking to be in his late teens or early twenty's, held out his hand. Josh took it, feeling like he was seeing a ghost. Bobby Stewart had not been the brightest light in the class, and had quite school to pursue fame and fortune in rock band. Bobby and his guitar had made it as far as George Phillip's Texaco station on the edge of town. Josh wasn't too sure about Bobby's musical ability, but he knew first hand he was a damn fine mechanic. He's worked on Josh's camper several times.

"Good to see you, Bobby." The young man's smile widened. Doc's expression, however, became serious. "You do know what's happened, don't you Willard?"

The big farmer looked puzzled for a moment, then his brow uncreased. "You mean the plague? Course I do, Doc! You know I live alone, and my place is kind of out of the way, but I met Bobby two days ago and he filled me in. Can't get nothing but snow on the tube now. Radio's the same. Phone still works though. Got any idea who started it?"

"Not the slightest.", Doc said. "See anyone else out your way?"

The big farmer shook his head. "Yesterday Bobby and me went up to those big houses on the lake up in the park. You know my farm's alongside that wildlife sanctuary up there." He took off his grease covered cap and scrubbed his short, graying hair. "Gave me the creeping bajeezers walking around those rich fellow's houses. All dead and dried up like last year's leaves! The horses in the stables were fine, though. Bobby n' me watered them n' turned them out to pasture."

Bobby spoke up, looking glad to have something to say. "We came into town after leaving the park and saw your sign. It is your sign, ain't it, Mr. Williams?"

Josh nodded, not wanting to stop the flow of Bobby's thoughts.

"Well, me and ol' Willard here read it n' decided to come back in today at noon."

"But my best heifer started acting up and we're a might late," Willard put in. He offered a smile all round. "Glad you fellows waited."

Josh noticed Willard was missing a front tooth.

"We did see one guy," Bobby chuckled. "On the way in here. He was riding a chopper. Going like a bat out of hell too!"

'The Dude,' Josh said to himself, feeling his stomach knotting at the thought of what might have happened.

Doc invited Willard and Bobby back to his place. "After you meet Mrs. Wang and her granddaughter, Mai-Ling, I'll take a little ride back with you to your place. Can't let that heifer of yours bust down the barn."

Half an hour later they were all crowded round Doc's table eating the much discussed biscuits. The girl, Gloria Ambrose, was very pleased to see two other females. Mrs. Wang, in turn, seemed delighted to have another chick to tuck under her flour dusted wing.

***.
Chapter 10: 'THE RAT PACK'

June 25, Barstow, California,

50 miles south of China Lake

Naval Weapons Center.(Day 5)

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 Jocko 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 Jocko two days to find and 'recruit' the other survivors, load them and all the little toys he would need to implement Part B of his Grand Plan. The trucks, weapons, gear, food and manpower had been easy enough --- finding the proper APC , (Armored Personnel Carrier), had not. At first Jocko had wanted a tank, but Bobby-Joe Burlis, one of the nearly dozen survivors that had willingly joined Jocko's merry little band, had talked him out of it. Bobby-Joe had pointed out that what they needed was speed more that fire power.

"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, Jocko. I can drive just about anything with wheels, but I wouldn't trust one of those assholes near my daddy's old tractor, let alone a fucking tank!"

So Jocko 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!"

Rumbling away in neutral behind the APC, George the Man leaned out the window of the canvas covered Troop Transport. "Hey, Boss. Where do you want me to park this fucker?"

Jocko'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, Nathon Hight and Rege Shehe, the two other drivers Jocko 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 Big Die-Off, 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 gringos 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 AR-15, 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 AR-15 against her crotch and rotated the barrel in a slow circle. "I just thought three big pussy-eaters like you would 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 Waterman 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 Mexican 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 Jocko?"

"Here," answered a cool voice. Jocko 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 Jocko Wellington turned and surveyed his troops, his cold eyes coming to rest on Pussbag and the Mexican kid.

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

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

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

Jocko'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!"

Jocko 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."

Jocko'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 Jocko 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," Jocko 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 Jocko. Flipping open the chamber, Jocko 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. Jocko's voice, still that of a patient parent, continued.

"Twice."

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. Jocko 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, Jocko 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!"

Jocko 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 Waterman started to go with them, but Jocko called him back.

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

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

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

"Why then?"

Jocko nodded at Pam the Bitch. The butt of her AR-15 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. Jocko, 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.

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

Silence followed. The hot California sun baked down. As arranged, Pussbag and Tim Galt moved up on either side of the APC. Both carried assault rifles. Jocko 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!"

Jocko 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!"

Jocko's smile slipped slightly. "Then 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 Jocko's cold eyes. "It's too late, Father. He already has." Jocko 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 Jocko. "What will you do with them?"

Jocko'sgaze 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?"

Jocko 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 much since God cleansed the earth almost a week ago, he now existed in a permanent state of exhausted grace. Reality competed with Divine Revelation and the former was rapidly loosing ground to the latter.

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

***
**Chapter 11** **: 'BILLY'S BAIT & GUN SHOP**

Mount Hawthorn

Lake Champlain, NY

June 27 (Day 7)

By now their number had grown to nine, the latest being Eddy Hascomb, a shy, friendly carpenter from a little village called Moriah about ten miles west of Hawthorn. Eddy had been waiting for them the day after they found Gloria, Willard and Bobby. Apparently Eddy had been Moriah's only known survivor. With both the TV and radio no longer broadcasting, he'd simply picked out a brand new Chevy camper, stocked it with supplies and headed on down the road. Until he had seen the sign outside the Food Mart, he'd thought he was the only person left in the world. Needless to say, he was more than happy to find out he had been wrong.

Hearing Eddy's story made Josh think of his cousin Brad over in New Hampshire. The thought that Brad and some of his family might still be alive ate away at him. He had phoned twice more, always getting the same recorded message. On the seventh day after the Change, Josh decided he could wait no longer. He was going to see for himself.

"Well," Doc said, after Josh had told him of his plan. "If you must go, at least take one or two of the men along with you. New Hampshire is still two states away and God knows what trouble you may run into on your own."

"He won't be on his own, Doc," Jessie put in. "The dog's and I are going with him."

Doc scratched his bald head, searching for the right words. They were sitting on the back porch. From inside the house Mrs. Wang could be heard humming some Oriental ditty. It had a dreamy, almost sad sound to it.

"That's fine, Jess. You and the dogs will be good company for your Dad, but I've seen you drive, and even though I'm not expecting any letters, I was rather fond of that mailbox."

Jessie blushed, hearing again the crunching sound when he had flattened Doc's mailbox the day before. To cover his embarrassment, he tried a little humor of his own. "I can drive forward okay, Doc; it's just the backing up I need to work on. But I know what you mean. Dad would be too nervous to rest much with me behind the wheel. But what about Bobby? And he's a mechanic. Or that new guy, Eddy." Jess turned to his father." When you and Eddy were talking last night I heard him say he liked deer hunting. At least he can handle a gun."

Josh, who had been sitting quietly, suddenly felt a stab of fear. How casually the boy had mentioned the need for someone who could use a weapon. As though this was the Wild West! Then he sighed, remembering the bullet that nicked his ear and Gloria's friend, The Dude. As a teacher, he of all people should know that the young adapt much quicker than the old. After just a week Josh had already formed new ties, new bonds, new people and things to care about. Oh, the old ones would live on within him, but the human heart has an infinite capacity for love, and youth lives always in the present, while older people tend to dwell on the past. Especially History teachers.

"Let's go ask Bobby," Josh said. "He's down at the Texaco changing the oil in the Westfalia. I guess he's already getting a little bored."

"And the new guy, Eddy?"

"OK partner," Josh laughed. "I'll ask him too. Right now I think he's up at Willard's farm helping out with the animals. We'll see him at supper time."

***

"Count me in," Eddy said, passing a steaming plate of roast beef on down the table. "New Hampshire's a real pretty place. I went hunting there a few times with my brothers. Lot of moose over that way."

"Black bears too!", Bobby Stewart added. "Last summer me and some of the guys went camping there. You know, looking for chicks and stuff. Well, we were swimming in this river right inside the campground, and what do I see looking at me from the far bank? A big old momma bear and her cub!"

Jessie grinned, eager to join in. "Once we were in a campsite near Lake Placid. I was on my way take a cr ---" He saw Mai-Ling watching his lips and blushed. "To wash my hands, when I saw a big black bear sitting right in the middle of the path! My Mom got all excited, but we just slowly backed away. Dad says its the best thing to do."

"Your father's right, Jess," Eddy agreed. "Bears usually won't bother you if you don't bother them."

The talk continued for some time, stories swapped and stories stretched. Bobby was only twenty and Eddy, though somewhere in his early forties, had that little boyishness about him that kids take to. Soon the discussion swung round to the trip to New Hampshire.

Josh smiled to himself. This little expedition to North Conway might not be a bad idea after all. Everyone was excited about the project and he was beginning to feel a little like Lewis and Clark himself, with a good deal of Bilbo Baggins thrown in. Sitting there in Doc's crowded kitchen eating cakes, pouring over maps and talking about a 'grand adventure', he felt his own blood quicken. They might not meet any angry Wood Elves or ferocious dragons, but, like Bilbo, Josh knew that danger lay at every turn of the path.

Part of the old poem by Tolkien came back to him.

The Road goes ever on and on,

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow if I can.

Until it joins some larger way,

And whither then? I cannot say.

Just like it had to those fictional Hobbits, a shudder ran down his spine. Josh had often read that magical little tale to Jessie at bedtime. Of course, just about everyone in the world had seen the movies. He'd even found a way to include it in his English classes. It seemed strange now to be somehow living it.

"Dad? Dad! Are you OK?" Jessie's voice was tight with worry.

Josh smiled."I'm fine, Jess. Just thinking of what we'll need for the trip."

Jessie's eyes twinkled. "Well, Eddy was saying that if we're going to go as far as New Hampshire, why not make a big circle and see who else we can find? We might even go south into Main! You know, where you and Mom go every summer! The Yorks, where that big salt-water candy store is! And that gigantic camping place at Kittery! Lots of good gear there!"

Josh laughed. "Christmas in July, eh? I remember last summer how you wanted that hand crossbow."

"Ya,", Jessie grinned. "Mom thought it'd be too dangerous; but now ---" His excitement suddenly trailed off as the reality of the situation struck home. Now Mom would never again gently remind him to be careful. Never again would she be there to worry and fuss and do all those little things that silently show a mother's love for her child. Mom was gone, like every one else he had ever known. Suddenly he was running from the crowded table. Josh started to rise, but Doc shook his head.

"He's still in shock, Josh. The young push it aside; not like adults, who worry over it like an old hound with a bone. Talk to him later tonight. Tuck him in like you used to. He'll like that. But right now he needs to be alone."

Bobby Stewart, much closer to Jessie's age than Josh's, nodded agreement. "Doc's right, Mr. Williams. Jessie needs time to sort it all out." Bobby looked about the room, then continued, haltingly at first, but as the pent-up emotion poured out, so did the words. "Last week when I woke up and found my old man had turned into a pile of dirty gray ashes, I pushed the tears away. My mom's been gone for years now and me and my old man never got along too well. He never liked me playing in a band. Always after me to 'get a real job'." Bobby's voice sank to a whisper. "I hated him for that. Hated him for his drinking too."

Mrs. Wang, hovering in the background, came over and placed her small work-worn hand on Bobby's shoulder. Bobby squeezed it. Off to one side Gloria, her hands soapy with dish suds, wiped a tear from her own eye.

The young man quietly continued. "Today, when I was changing the oil on your van, I started crying. Crying like a baby!" His brimming eyes, his gaze sought Josh. "We'd argued again. My dad and me. The night before 'it' happened. I --- I told him I how I felt. It all just sort of came out, all the years of being frightened and ashamed. And then --- "

Bobby's voice cracked and he began to sob. Mrs. Wang held him tight. Gloria came and, kneeling down, placed her head on his shoulder. Eddy cleared his throat and quietly left the room. Josh turned towards the porch, seeking his son. With mild surprise he saw the mute girl Mai-Ling slide out the back door. She moved like a gentle shadow towards Jesse's darker one at the far end of the porch.

Slowly Josh sat back down.

***

The next day, on the morning of 29th of June, nine days after most the people in the world had suddenly dried up and blew away, Josh and his small group were ready to hit the road. Bobby and Eddy had tuned up the vans and made sure the motor and winches on the Texaco's tow-truck were in good working order. The tow-truck had been Doc's idea, in case they ran into cars blocking the road.

"Don't look for us before the end of July, maybe even well into August", Josh said.

They were all gathered in front of Doc's small house.

"We'll be fine," Doc smiled. "Just make it back well before the snow flies. The girls and Mrs. Wang will keep Willard and I well fed and hopping! Gloria's got a list of AB negative people from the clinic's files, and I'll get more from Crown Point General. Since we found out that both Eddy and Gloria are also A B negative, we could have a whole slew of people here when you get back!"

Josh smiled. "I hope to bring some back with us as well." A mental image of his Cousin Brad flashed in his mind. "This old place probably won't hold us all."

Doc scratched his bare head. "Willard and I've been thinking on that. Willard said we're all welcome up at his farm. I'm going to take Mrs. Wang up there this afternoon and see what she thinks. Hell, we might even all move into one or two of those fancy big estates up in the park! They're real close to Willard's and right on the two big lakes. Then I could go fishing every day and let these pretty young girls do all the work!"

Willard snorted. "Fat chance there, Doc. Besides, I need someone to help me swill the hogs!"

They all laughed and then climbed into their vehicles. Josh, Jessie and the two dogs in the old white van, Eddy in his new Chevy and Bobby in the tow-truck. Good-byes were said and horns honked and soon the little caravan was on its way. Just as they were pulling out of the drive Gloria ran up and squeezed Bobby's hand through the open window. Josh saw Jessie wave hesitantly to Mai-Ling. Pretty and silent, she shyly returned the wave, her long, glossy hair flowing about her like a dark waterfall.

***

Their first stop was Crown Point. Though they kept an eye out for other survivors, they saw none. Someone had passed through though, for the large grocery store had been broken into. Josh kept his father's shotgun close at hand as they loaded up with food and drinks. Eddy had his old deer rifle.

Their next stop was the Crown Point Mall. Since the doors were locked, they had to break in. Josh felt like a thief as he used the butt of his shotgun to shatter the heavy glass. The screaming of the alarm bell did nothing to ease his mind, and he waited anxiously for several long minutes while Eddy found the alarm switch. Once inside, they took a large shopping cart, went to Radio Shack and loaded up on flashlights, extra batteries and a few 'goodies' for the road.

Eddy got four long range walki-talkies. Jessie found the latest version of whatever video game player was popular and a dozen cartridges. Bobby headed for the music store. Josh told him to meet them at the Friar Tuck's Books in half an hour.

Once inside the book store, each of the three sought out their own special interests. Eddy leafed through fishing and hunting books. Jessie picked up several graphic novels, then turned his attention to Sports Illustrated's Swimsuit Calendar. Josh browsed alongside Eddy in the sports section, looking at books on canoeing and backpacking. He chose the Farmers Almanac and a Rand McNally Road Atlas, then wandered over to the Fantasy section. His eye caught a gold leaf , leather bound copy of _'Lord of the Rings'_. Though he'd ready it several times, he tucked the heavy under his arm anyway. By then Eddy was waiting for them at the door. When Josh called him, Jessie fumbled the glossy calendar back onto the shelf and joined them by the fountain. Bobby came along a moment later, a expensive looking guitar case in each hand and a smile a mile wide. He handed one to Jessie.

"You said you wanted to learn how to play. Well, I got us two of the best. A Gibson Special and a Rickenbacker 12 sting! Each one costs a couple of grand!"

Josh smiled. "No big amp, Bobby?"

Bobby's grin widened. "Hey, Mr. Williams. Give me a break. I'm no Einstein, but even I know that the power's not going to last for long. Maybe a few more weeks, maybe even a month or two, but sooner or later, with no-one around looking after them, the motors are going to burn out. I can't fix them. Nobody can." He held up the thick guitar case. "So from now on its acoustic all the way! You know; all those old guys you liked way back when you taught me --- Eric Clapton, Bob Dylan, Cat Stevens, maybe even a little Beatles!"

Josh chuckled. "Groovy."

Their last stop before leaving Crown Point was a small sporting goods store on the edge of town called Billy's Bait n' Guns. Josh wanted them to have the best in camping equipment, clothing, footgear --- and weapons available.

"I know this place," Bobby as they parked their vehicles in the gravel lot across from Lake Champlain. "Before the drink got to him, my old man used to bring me here a lot. We did some fishing, but he came mostly for the guns. He had a big collection there for a while --- though he sold most of them off no to buy booze."

"You father was a hunter?" Josh asked, trying to get Bobby talking of happier times.

"Not so much" Bobby said. "Mostly we'd just go to the dump and shoot bottles. Rats sometimes --- but I didn't like that."

"But your dad sold all his guns?" Jessie asked, unaware that his question was heading back into unpleasant memories.

"Ya --- all but two. He kept my grandfather's shotgun and the pistol he used in Viet-Nam. I brought them with me. They're in the truck. I guess now that were' here I should pick up some more amo for them."

As they walked up to _Billy's Bait n' Guns_ it was clear that someone had been there before them. The front door was shattered and broken glass lay on the sidewalk. After they entered, they saw that not only had someone had done a fair job of wrecking the place. Clothes, fishing gear, sleeping bags had been scattered about. Whole display cases had been tipped over. From the holes in various walls, a number of shots had been fired at random.

Then Bobby found the owner's body behind the counter. The top of the man's head blown off. There was no papery wasp's nest here, but real blood, bone and brains. From the look of the body it hadn't happened too long ago. A revolver was still in the man's stiff hand.

"Why?" The question came from Jessie.

Josh turned his son and walked him stiffly away while Eddy covered the remains. The four of them then stood in a tight circle. The small store had suddenly turned dark and sinister. _Ring Wraiths_ seemed to lurk in the shadows, their red eyes glowing!

Josh felt like a fool.

Here he was, the oldest, supposedly 'the leader', and what had he been doing? Treating this all like some bloody shopping spree! Toying with computers and leafing through books on fantasy while some poor soul had blown his bloody brains out! Either that or someone had done it for him! But whichever way Billy had died, danger was all around them was about time he started acting like it!

Josh pulled his son to him, feeling the young muscles quivering with strain, he spoke to them all. "I'm sorry, guys. I ve been careless. Letting us all walk around like there was nothing to fear! That man back there could have been waiting for us! Killed one or more of us before shooting himself!"

"Im not sure he did shoot himself, Mr. Williams," Bobby said. "Billy wasn'the kind of guy to do that. Besides, it looks like a robbery gone bad to me."

Jessie looked up, tears in his eyes. "It's not your fault, Dad, however he died. You can't blame yourself because the whole world's gone crazy!"

"The boy's right, Josh," Eddy put in quietly. "All of us have to learn to be more careful, not just you, and from now on we will."

Bobby nodded. "Eddy's taking straight, Mr. Williams! All of us have to pull our own weight, not just you!"

Josh sighed, attempting a smile. "Okay guys, but from now on we've all got to be a hell of a lot more careful."

***

From then on they were serious --- deadly serious. Finding the body had driven home the need for caution in a way that little else could. Josh and Jessie selected the camping gear and brought it to the door, while Bobby stowed it away and Eddy stood guard outside. No-one wanted any more little surprises. Even the weapons they chose in pairs, one group always outside with the vans.

Jessie checked out the bows and crossbows while Josh looked over the gun selection. Despite what he'd said earlier, Josh couldn't help but feel like he was acting out some B rated 'action' movie. With the rifles and shotguns he had little problem. Having hunted since early childhood, he knew what to look for; a 12 gage shotgun for himself and a smaller 410 for Jessie. Remembering the incident with Gloria and the Dude, he picked a bolt action rifle with a telescopic sight for long range shooting. Then he saw an old 1897 Winchester pump shotgun , just like they used in _'The Wild Bunch'_ and that Kevin Costner used when he played Elliot Ness in _'The Untouchables'_ \--- two films that were the benchmarks of his childhood. (So much for suppressing the 'little boy in a candy store' feeling!)

He got a half dozen box of shells for each of the long guns and placed them all in a large shopping cart.

The hand guns however, presented several problems.

Though the cases had been smashed, there were still plenty to choose from. To him they all looked like a bunch of dangerous toys, made for just one purpose: killing other human beings. He wasn't sure he wanted that for his son, living out his whole life with one of those obscenities strapped to his side. Josh was beginning to see that his Brave New World had a very dark side to it.

Another problem was he'd never actually fired a handgun before. Oh, he'd _seen_ hundreds used in movies and on TV. He even knew some of the names: Colt ,Glock, Smith & Wesson, but the thought of actually using one against another person made him shudder.

Then he caught sight of the body laying on the far side of the counter. In this frightening new reality they now lived in, that could just as easily be one of them. Might yet be them! Might be Jessie. A weapon --- especially a gun --- could save him.

"Bobby!" Josh called, none too softly. "I need your help!"

The young man came quickly. "What is it, sir?"

"You know handguns. Pick out what you think we'll need. Ammo as well and meet us at the van."

"Sure thing Mister Williams. You have any preference?"

Josh shook his head. "None at all. Let's go, Jess!"

Jessie heard the anger in his father's voice and hurried after him.

Soon the vehicles were loaded and they were once again on the road. Jessie was beaming."It's only fair, Dad. Bobby teaches me to play the guitar and I teach him to use a bow."

Twenty minutes later they crossed over the Chimney Point Bridge and entered Vermont. Only Josh took the time to glance back over his shoulder as they drove over the long, steel arch. There, nestled amongst the trees and jutting outcrops of shale, the crumbling remains of Fort Frederick lay patiently by the blue waters of Lake Champlain. Built by the French in the 1730's and destroyed by the British three decades later, the crumbling ruins silently called to him of a much more savage time, a time when redcoated British and haughty French fought over the very land they now lived on, both sides paying painted savages to bring back their enemy's scalps. A dangerous time: savage, deadly and cruel --- a time that seemed to be once again fast approaching!

***
**Chapter 12** **: OF MICE AND MEN**

North Conway

New Hampshire

June 29(Day 9)

Brad Westgate sat in the dark watching his sleeping son. Light from the full moon filtered in the open window, making the youth's brown hair shine softly. He reached out and gently touched the boy, an act of both love and reassurance. After so much death, he wanted to be sure life was still there.

Brad sat back and shivered. His son lived, yet part of him still expected his son to change, still feared that some horrible metamorphosis would take place and turn what was healthy and alive into the dried-up thing he had woken up beside nearly a week ago. That thing had been his wife. A smaller version had awaited him in his daughter's room. Brad had started screaming then.

For the first few days he had stumbled around in a trance, pushing the horror away, shoving it into some deep, dark corner of his mind and slamming the door. It had been a week now and he still couldn't get over the fact that the others were gone. His wife, his daughter, the town --- the whole bloody world!

But they weren't all gone. Most, but not all. Besides Kenneth and himself there were four others left in town. Over the past week they had gathered together at the Regis Inn, a small hotel in the center of town. Bert Laxtrom the town barber, a local farmer named Earl Swanson, Wilma Sawyer who's husband owned the Regis and a teenager named Tina Keller who'd had a summer job with the North Conway Parks Department.

Six people out of well over three thousand!

He'd heard about a few others. Bert Laxtrom had seen a car speeding through town. Earl Swanson had found his neighbor Albert Ruthle hanging by his neck in his barn. Tina had found a small child wandering around outside MacDonald's. By the time she'd come across Wilma at the Regis Inn, the child was running a high fever. Despite all that the two women did, the child was dead by morning. At least the body hadn't dried up and blown away. They'd buried it out back of the Regis. Tina hadn't talked much since.

No other townspeople had turned up. Six strangers, however, had. They came on five motorcycles the day before yesterday. Four men and two women. All of them appeared to be life-long bikers.

The leader had long stringy hair and a thick beard, with a dirty, black Harley Davidson T-shirt stretched over a beer gut. His sleeveless jean-jacket said Snake and he had the tattoos to prove it. He was in his early thirties but the eyes were old; as old as sin.

Rings, the woman who rode behind him, looked like an anorexic Madonna. Her blonde hair, (brown at the roots), was long on one side and shaved on the other. Every part of her emaciated body that wasn't encased in leather glittered with bracelets, rings, chains and other gaudy bobbles, including a diamond stud in her left nostril and enough rings in her pierced ears to burn out the motor on a metal detector.

The other woman had 'Flame' was emblazoned on the back of her leather vest and she rode her own bike. With her long red hair flowing out behind her, tight jeans and high boots, she looked like a sexy model turned hooker.

The fourth one was called Blade. Tall, lean and dressed all in black, he looked as deadly as his name.

The next biker was even bigger than Snake. His large head was shaved and the name Bull was tattooed on his massive biceps.

The last member they called Runt. Hardly five feet tall, he wore thick glasses and a leather jacket several sizes too large over a Hawaiian shirt that hurt the eyes.

Snake and his gang had ridden into town and taken what they wanted. With a large pistol thrust into his belt and a baseball bat in his hand, Snake and his grinning followers had looted up and down North Conway's main drag. Food, clothes, booze, whatever caught their eye. Runt seemed to know all about what goodies the local pharmacy could produce. When last seen they had been partying in the park and seemed in no great hurry to leave.

Brad wanted them gone. He'd seen the look of contempt Snake had shown Earl Swanson when the old farmer had asked him to stop destroying public property. He'd seen the way his son Kenneth had stiffened when they had laughed at their suggestion that they leave town. He'd seen too the way Snake had looked at the young girl Tina.

Trouble was brewing. Before long it would overflow into violence. More deaths would follow. Christ, hadn't there been enough?!

The problem was what to do about it?

As he sat watching his son sleep, Brad's numbed mind ticked off the possibilities. Ask them to leave \--- but they'd already tried that and been refused. Order them to leave? That meant being willing and able to back up their words with actions, and there was no police and no State Troopers to help them. You could still call 911 but no-one answered. And they were all armed.

A picture of the large gun thrust into Snake's belt flashed before him. Blade carried several knives and the woman Flame wore a shoulder holster. As for Bull, he looked like three hundred pounds of weapon all by himself!

Just then a soft knock came at his door. Each of them had taken a room at the Regis Inn. Glancing at his watch he saw that it was nearly dawn.

"Brad, it's me, Earl."

Cautiously Brad opened the door. Earl Swanson stood in the hall. Bert Laxtrom was with him. Bert's red hair, usually so meticulously combed, was all askew. Both men looked nervous.

"What is it?"

Earl came in and Bert followed. "We saw your light was on,", Bert whispered. "We've got to talk."

"About what?" Brad asked.

"What the hell do you think?", Earl snapped. "About that bag of shit Snake and the others, that's what!"

Brad glanced back at the bedroom. "Keep your voice down. I don't want to wake the boy."

Earl sighed. "Let's go down to the kitchen then. I could use some coffee."

Minutes later they were sitting around the inn's large table. Wilma was there with the coffee ready.

"Well, Earl," Brad said. "Let's hear it?"

"The way I see it, it comes down to one of two things,", the big farmer said, unconsciously strangling his battered hat with his massive hands. "We either put up with whatever shit they sling our way --- or we kill them."

"Kill them?!", Bert repeated. "Who said anything about killing?"

Earl shoved his hat on his head. "I don't like it any better than you, Bert, but I don't see no other way."

Wilma came and joined them, the overhead lights reflecting the streaks of gray in her hair. "It may not come to that," she said. "They may just move on."

Earl shook his head. "Wolves don't move on. Not while there's still easy pickings."

Brad looked at the solid farmer, his heart pounding in his chest. "Snake's the real threat. Without him the others might leave.

Earl took a long look at Brad. When he spoke his voice trembled ever so slightly. "Then we kill him first."

Bert suddenly stood up. "I don't want any part of it! There's been enough death! Wilma's right!They'll get bored soon and leave. All we have to do is wait."

Surprisingly it was Wilma who spoke up. "Wait for what, Bert? For that pig to take an interest in Tina? You all saw how he was looking at her. I'm no centerfold, but I guess his kind would get around to me as well. Then there's Kenneth."

Brad stiffened at that. "What about Kenneth?!"

Wilma reached over and took his hand. Her eyes were warm yet deadly serious. "I don't know, Brad. Maybe he'd just try and make the boy join him."

"Kenneth wouldn't ---"

Wilma nodded. "We all know that. But what would happen when he refused?"

"Wait a minute," Bert cut in. "We're all jumping at shadows here! So far all they've done is break a few windows and ignore us when we asked them to leave."

"I didn't hear you saying nothing to them," Earl growled. "It was me and Brad here that spoke up."

Bert, flushing as red as his hair, seemed about to reply when Tina stepped out from the shadows. Her large brown eyes and pretty features were drawn with worry. Though she had been hired by the Parks Department for her vigor and outgoing personality, she now looked like a frightened deer. Wilma believed Tina still blamed herself for the death of the child that she'd found just after the world went mad.

Tina began to speak, her voice an urgent whisper. "He'll never leave --- not till he gets what he wants. I've seen it in his eyes. The way he moves, the way he treats that girl Rings. We're all just _things_ to him, things to be used and tossed away!" Tina's voice then became deadly calm, which made what she said next all the more frightening. "He has to die --- and we have to do it."

Earl took a deep breath and stood up. "Well, I've got a couple of guns back at my farm. I'll leave now and be back before they wake up."

Both Wilma and Bert looked towards Brad, seeking reassurance. He couldn't give them what they wanted, yet he couldn't let Snake just have his way either. "Get them, Earl. I've got an old 16 gage at my place, though I haven't fired the damn thing in years."

Wilma attempted a smile. "Maybe you won't have to. Maybe when they see us armed they'll leave." No-one however, believed that, not even Wilma.

***

Snake woke up with one hell of a headache. He was in the Gazebo in the park. Rings was curled up beside him, her skinny ass hanging out of the sleeping bag. Whatever that little shit Rat had given him last night, it'd sent him clear into fucking orbit! He remembered going to MacDonalds. They'd gotten the burners going and cooked up a mess of half-frozen burgers. Rings had fucked up the fries and he'd hit her. Then they'd gone to the park and started drinking. He remembered making a fire. Flame had laughed and danced around it. Then the pills had kicked in and everything became a blur. He vaguely recalled making out with Rings, then the bitch had passed out. Stupid bitch. Snake looked down at the thin form beside him. Too damned skinny. He preferred his women with some meat on them. Like Flame, but that tough bitch wouldn't let him touch her. Saves it all for Blade. She'd pulled a knife on him when he tried a few days ago and threatened to cut his balls if he touched her again. Now his foggy brain turned to the blonde girl staying with the hayseeds back in town. Nice set of jugs there. Today he intended to get a closer look. A whole lot closer!

He turned and slapped Rings' bare buttocks. "Get the fuck up!"

The girl crawled to her feet, looking for her clothes. From the back she looked like something out of Biafra, all skin and bone. Snake got up and relieved himself out on the grass, all the while thinking of the blonde haired girl with the big eyes and bigger tits. By the time he was finished he'd made up his mind. Walking over to where Runt lay, he kicked him awake.

"Move your ass, Dick-Head!"

The bundle in the sleeping bag squirmed around, then was still. Snake kicked again, this time harder. The bundle groaned.

"Get the fuck up and wake the others! I got a score to settle with these country hicks!" Snake hadn't liked the way the two of them had told him to move on. The old bastard had done most of the talking, but the other one had stood there right by his side. Snake probably could have wasted them both, but something had held him back. Today however would be different. He'd take them out one at a time. _'Either the old farmer or the quiet guy, whoever came first. The little faggot with the red hair would be no trouble. That would leave the older woman, the kid and the girl'_. He smiled to himself, watching Rings squeeze into her jeans. He'd give the skinny bitch to Runt. The older woman could ride with Bull. _'That leaves the kid. Shit, who knows; he might even want to tag along.? With all the heavy shit that's gone down I could use someone to watch my back!'_

Snake didn't like to think too much about that. Someone or something had caused a major fuck-up. The mother of all fuck-ups! Pigs, civvies, brothers; everyone wasted. Last week he'd been at a Bikers Rally up at St. Johnsbury, Vermont. Over five hundred brothers. When he woke up they were all fucking dead. All except Rings, and Bull. They'd come across Blade and that mean bitch Flame a day later. They'd all gotten stoned and stayed stoned for several days, then headed south on I-93. He'd picked up Runt in a shit-horse town called Littleton, then took the 302 through Crawford's Notch and ended up in this little burg. He planned to continue on down to the Big Apple, picking up any other brothers he found along the way. Then head south to Florida, maybe even LA.

But first he had a few things to do around here. He pulled out his heavy Colt Python. He'd had the .357 Magnum for a couple of years now. Used it for two hits. It had a long barrel that kicked like a bastard and made one fucking big hole on the way out --- as the Farmer and the Quiet Man were about to discover first hand.

Shoving the gun back in his belt, he made a mental note to pick something up for Runt. The others were already armed. The hardware at the edge of town might have a shotgun or something. Snake doubted Runt could use a widow-maker like his, but a scattergun should do the trick. Maybe he'd get himself one as well. Saw off the stock and barrel. You never could tell about these fucking hayseeds.

The others were moving now. Rings was up and digging in a packsack for something to eat. It amazed him how such a skinny bitch could always be so fucking hungry. He yelled at her to go round them all up some food. She sighed heavily. Life for her had always been a bitch and the end of the bloody world certainly hadn't helped any.

***

By nine o'clock all six survivors were gathered in the large kitchen of the Regis Inn. On the table were four guns; Brad's single shot 16 gage, a double barreled 12 gage and a .303 deer rifle Earl had brought from his farm. In a wooden cigar box lay a five shot .22 pistol Wilma's husband had kept around for protection. Four guns against a possible six. Brad tried to tell himself that they were really only after one man, but it didn't help.

All six of them stood there in silence, each one lost in their own thoughts. Kenneth kept glancing at his father. Brad had explained earlier that they intended to force Snake and the others to leave.

"But what if they don't leave?", the boy had asked.

Brad had sighed and placed a hand on his son's shoulders. "Then we make them."

Kenneth had remained silent.

Now, standing around the table, Earl picked up the .303 and began sliding long copper bullets into a slot. After three he worked the bolt, checked that the safety was on, then slid in one more. "I'll use this. It pulls a might to the left." His eyes when he looked up were like blue chips of ice.

The barber, Bert Laxtrom, his red hair once again brushed and neat, looked from Brad to Wilma. "You know this is wrong. Someone's going to get seriously hurt."

Wilma took the small pistol out of the box. "I never liked guns. I told my husband to get rid of it. Now I'm glad he didn't." She looked at Earl. "How do you work this damn thing?"

Bert let out a little moan.

After Earl had showed Wilma, he turned to Brad. "You want to use your own or mine?"

Brad picked up the double barrel. "Yours. I might need two shots." He broke open the heavy gun, put two shells in and closed it with a snap. Checking that the safety was on, he cradled the weapon in his arm and shoved more shells in his pocket.

Earl held out the single shot to Bert. "You want this or should I give it to the boy?"

Slowly, like he was handling a live cobra, Bert took the weapon. His voice was little more than a whisper. "I've never shot a gun before. You'll have to \---"

"Christ!", Earl grumbled. "What the hell am I, North Conway's Militia Instructor? Give me that bloody thing!"

Ten minutes later they heard the sound of approaching motorcycles.

"Remember," Earl said. "Don't bunch up. Snake's the one we want, and if we stay far apart we'll be smaller targets. Wilma, you stay here with the young'ns. Us three will step out and tell him to get his ugly ass out of town."

Brad nodded to his son, who stood close to Tina. Both had found rather large kitchen knives. The three men went outside.

As planned, Brad crossed over to the far side of the street, Bert stayed close to the inn and Earl waited in the middle of the two lanes. The five cycles had stopped about two hundred yards up the road, their angry motors roaring out a warning. Suddenly North Conway had turned into Dodge City, with Earl looking like a balding Marshal Dillon come out of retirement for one last showdown.

Shoot out at the O.K. Corral and all that shit! Brad half expected to see Wyatt Earp swagger out, tossing the tail of his black frock coat clear of his Buntline Special. Westerns had been very big back when he was a kid. Gunsmoke, Maverick, Have Gun Will Travel. Right now, however, he himself felt about a hundred years old. Thumbing off the safety, Brad glanced over at the inn. Bert was fidgeting around looking for a place to hide, while Earl stood like an unmovable mountain in the center of main street. A curtain moved in one of the inn's front windows.

Then the roaring reached his ears. Looking up Brad saw the motorcycles racing towards Earl. Time seemed to slow down as the bikes sped up. All five riders seemed to have their weapons drawn. Apparently Snake wasn't in a very talkative mood, for he began firing from way over a hundred yards away. Too far for even his large pistol, but then Snake didn't really seem like the patient type.

Out of the corner of his eye Brad saw Earl raise his .303 and fire back. The bikes raced on. One or two of the other riders were shooting as well. The air seemed alive with the gunfire. Suddenly Bull's chopper swerved out of control. Clearing the sidewalk, Bull and his bike smashed through the large plate glass of The Gap's display window. Blade and Flame continued to returned fire. Fifty yards now and closing. As Earl calmly worked the bolt on his rifle, Brad saw him suddenly spin around and go down on one knee.

It was then that Brad raised his own gun. Less than thirty yards now separated him from the speeding bikes. The sight between the double barrels centered on Snake. Runt's cycle was almost alongside. Sweat trickled into Brad's eye. He willed it away and squeezed both triggers. The double explosion rocked him back. He caught himself in time to see Runt knocked off his bike. The bleeding body rolled on the pavement as the motorcycle tore off to the right and slammed into a parked car. A spark must have touched off the gastank, for first the bike, then the car, exploded. Twin fireballs erupted, sending jagged pieces of hot metal flying through the air. One of them nicked Brad's thigh, but he hardly noticed it. Fumbling shells into his gun, he watched as Snake and the other two bore down on Earl.

***

Snake had two more rounds in his revolver. At a distance of twenty feet he pumped both of them into the kneeling farmer. Earl's body was punched backwards. Spread-eagle on the center line, there was a crunching sound as first the front wheel, then the back, passed over the body. Snake continued on another fifty yards before bringing his bike to a screeching halt. Blade and Flame followed. In the middle of the road Snake slowly began to reload his gun , a triumphant smile on his cruel face.

Brad felt as though he was caught up in a dream, some terrible nightmare that just wouldn't give up. Dodge City had turned into Little Big Horn, and the Indians were still coming over the hill on motorcycles!

"Dad!", a far way voice called. "Run Dad! Run!!"

Looking up Brad saw Kenneth on the front porch of the inn. Wilma and Tina stood beside him. The older woman was yelling something at Bert, who stood trembling like a poplar in the wind. Then Tina ran out into the street. Kneeling by Earl's shattered body, she picked up his rifle and, after fumbling with the bolt, fired at Snake's distant form. The bullet went wide, but the sound of heavy gun was enough to get Brad moving. Racing across the street, he pulled Tina with him and they both ran for the inn. Behind them they heard the roar of Snake's motor. A bullet smashed the glass of the inn door. Another splintered the railing as they climbed the porch steps.

Then Wilma was beside him. Her small .22 coughed several times. Brad pushed Kenneth through the open doorway, then shoved Tina after him. Snake roared by, his Python spitting out death. Blade and Flame were right behind him. Bert, trying to crowd through, shoved Wilma towards the street. A bullet struck her in the forehead, spraying blood and brains all over the frightened barber. Both fell through the open doorway, Wilma's dead weight pinning Bert to the floor. Brad fired his shotgun from the bottom step just as Snake swerved behind a parked Toyota. One blast shattered the side window, the other blew out the Toyota's rear tire. The three bikes continued on out of sight.

"Bastards!", Brad hissed as he fumbled two more shells into the 12 gage. Still clutching Earl's rifle, Tina came up beside him. Brad saw blood trickling down her cheek. "You're shot!", he heard himself say.

Tina looked surprised, then pressed a trembling hand to the side of her head. It came away red. "That's funny. I don't feel a thing." Then she saw blood on Brad's thigh. "Your leg!"

"What? Oh, it's nothing." He motioned towards the inn. They had to step over Wilma's body to get in the door. Bert was nowhere to be seen. Kenneth met them holding Brad's old shotgun.

"Have --- have they gone, Dad?", Kenneth asked, his voice trembling as much as his hands.

"It looks that way, son," Brad said. "For now at least."

"Maybe --- maybe their gone for good \--- ", Kenneth whispered.

"They'll be back," Tina added quietly, still holding the dead farmer's rifle. "Scum like that always comes back."

She was right of course

***
**Chapter 13** **: IN THE NICK OF TIME**

Lincoln New Hampshire

June 28(Day 8)

The sun was setting when the strange little three vehicle caravan pulled into the town of Lincoln, New Hampshire. It had taken them nearly two days to cover the two hundred miles from Mount Hawthorn. Under normal conditions it could have been done in less than four hours. Conditions, however, were anything but normal.

The biggest problem was the highways. Traffic jams and car crashes made the larger roads all but impassable. Forced to take the back roads, they had wound their way across Vermont's Green Mountains and into New Hampshire's White's. Even on these little used roads they had been forced a number of times times to either turn around or use the tow-truck to haul wrecks out of the way.

Then there had been the road block. South of Montpelier, near the little village of Trow Hill, they had come across what looked like another jumble of wrecks. A Winnebago was angled in between two smashed cars. Leaving the two dogs in the van, Josh and Jessie had gotten out to look things over. As they approached, two men with rifles had stepped out from behind the wrecks. One seemed no older than Jessie.

"Freeze, assholes!", the younger man had yelled. He wore a leather jacket over a pink neon T-shirt that hurt the eyes. Tight jeans, fancy cowboy boots and slicked back hair completed the picture. An image of his teen-age hero, the 'Fonz', flashed through Josh's mind, though Arthur Fonzerelli had never had to resort to using semi-automatic weapons.

"Tell those shitheads with ya to stay put!", the Fonz ordered.

Part of Josh was waiting for the Fonz's famous _'Yo!'_ ; part of him wanted to give the snot-nosed little punk a detention!

The other man, a older, seedier, meaner looking version of the kindly the star of 'Mister Roger's Neighborhood', took a long pull on a nearly empty bottle of Popov Vodka. He followed that up with a belch and a none too steady step forward. "Gat'ny fee-males widjya?"

Jessie looked at his father and shrugged. Josh shook his head. "We're just four men who want to move on, friend. We don't want any trouble."

The Fonz giggled, raising his semi-automatic. "But ya got it, aint ya Pops? Just like that stupid bastard over there. He tried to hold out on us too!" The barrel of Fonzie's weapon pointed at the side of the road.

That was when Josh saw the body. It had been dragged off the road and partially hidden behind some bushes.

Cursing himself for being caught off guard, Josh glanced back at the others. The tow-truck was several yards behind the Westfalia. Josh could see Bobby sitting white-knuckled behind the wheel. Eddy's van was out of view somewhere further back.

Fonzie called out to the Winnebago. "Hank! Get yer lazy ass out here!"

The door opened and a woman was pushed out. She wore a spiked dog collar around her neck and nothing else. A long leash trailed back to the door of the RV. Another man stood there, the leash in one hand, a large pistol in the other.

"Tie the bitch up 'n search their vans!", Fonzie ordered. His cold smile turned back towards Josh. "It could be these fellas are tryin' to hold out on us!"

Hank looped the leash around the front bumper and strolled over to Josh's Westfalia. As he passed, he gave Jessie a shove. Grinning, he pulled open the side door --- and was met by two growling dogs. Princess lunged at him and Hank jumped back. The handgun began to rise. Just then Eddy's shot took him in the left leg. The powerful deer rifle struck the kneecap, tearing half the bone off as it exited. Hank screamed and spun around, the gun flying from his hand.

Suddenly the tow-truck pulled out of line and began speeding directly towards the two riflemen. At the same time Eddy, laying on the ground at the rear of his camper, fired again. The bullet whizzed by Fonzie's ear and exploded Mister Roger's bottle of Popov, taking a finger or two with it's passing. The two men, their well laid plans having suddenly gone awry, broke and ran. Within seconds they had vanished in the greenery. Sounds of their flight quickly faded. As Bobby slammed on the brakes, the tow-truck fishtailed around and clipped the end of a smashed Datson. Dust and bits of shattered tail-light flew though the air.

As quickly as it had begun, the violence was over. The challenge, the dogs, Eddy's shots, all of it. Josh found himself holding his breath. Another close call! How many more before one of them was hurt or killed?

"What do we do with this guy?", Eddy asked. He was standing beside the downed man. Princess was leaning over Hank, still growling. The pup, Og, excited by the smell of blood, was running around its mother.

Josh came over and looked down at the wreathing form. "See if you can stop the bleeding. I'll check on the woman." Walking over to the naked form cowering by the road, Josh set Jessie and Bobby to watch that the other two didn't return. Both young men took their rifles and placed themselves at both ends of their little caravan. Josh found a blanket just inside the Winnebago and handed it to the woman.

She shrank back, her dark rimmed eyes wide with fear. Clearly Hank and his two partners had abused her terribly. There were bruises and scratches all over her body, a purple bruise on her cheek and her lip was bleeding. Josh untied the leash and stepped back. The woman, her glance darting from him to the still groaning Hank, snatched the blanket and bolted for the trees. Josh called for her to stop, but she ran like a frightened deer. Within seconds she too was gone.

"Jesus Christ!", Eddy swore. "What do we do now? Go after her?"

Josh sighed. "It's too dangerous. Those others could be waiting out there."

Eddy frowned, but said nothing. They both walked back to the wounded man. Several yards away his heavy pistol lay on the ground. Josh picked it up and pointed it at Hank.

"Why?"

Sitting in the dirt, pressing a rag against the large hole in his leg, Hank spoke through clenched teeth.

"Why the fuck not? We just wanted a little fun." His expression changed slightly. "You gunna shoot me now?"

Josh looked at the revolver, unaware he was still holding it. He tossed it aside and called the boys. They came quickly. Jessie looked down at Hank, then turned away. By now Hank was sitting in a puddle of his own blood.

"We're leaving," Josh announced.

Bobby's eyes widened. "But, Mr. Williams; what about him? And the woman might come back."

Josh turned towards his former student. "So might those other two. We can't risk it."

"Dad," Jessie said, nodding towards Hank. "If we leave him --- he'll die."

Josh turned back to his son, but when he spoke it was to all of them. Jessie hardly recognized his father's voice. "He's as good as dead already. Look at him. He's bleeding to death. We can't help him. I'm not sure I would if I could. He and his friends have killed that man over there and probably would have killed us. As for the woman, she's beyond anyone's help. Now let's go."

As they moved away, Eddy touched Josh's arm. Their eyes met. "You want me to put him down? End it?"

Josh frowned. "You could do that?"

Eddy shrugged. "I started it. I should finish it."

Josh shook his head. "You saved our lives, Eddy, but you didn't start this. They did. Leave him."

Eddy sighed. "Old Doc was right again."

"What does that mean?"

Eddy attempted a smile. "Doc said that down deep you had a tough streak in you. Not mean, but tough."

"Did the good doctor have any other sage advice?" There was more than a touch of sarcasm in Josh's voice.

"Ya,", Eddy grinned. "When you used your 'teacher's voice' like you just did, I should watch my ass."

"Shit!", Hank growled. "When you two ladies have finished, how about putting a bullet in my brain! I'm dead anyway, and the pain's a real fucker!"

Josh's smile vanished. He pointed at the revolver lying several yards away. "You want to end it, friend? Do us all a favor. Crawl over and do it yourself."

As they drove away, Hank's curses followed them.

***

All that had happened yesterday afternoon. They spent that night in the Woodsville United Church's parkinglot. There had been little conversation. Josh had heard a car race by in the middle of the night, but decided not to mention it. In the morning they continued eastward on Highway112. Someone took a shot at them when they stopped for gas in North Woodstock. The bullet went wide, ricocheting off the brick wall. They didn't hang around to investigate but continued on to Lincoln, arriving just as the sun was setting.

"Not much sense in going further now," Eddy had said as they filled up at a gas station that also had food. Jess and Bobby were inside turning on the pumps and stocking up on supplies. "Be better to arrive in daylight anyway."

Though he was anxious to push on, Josh had agreed. North Conway was still fifty some miles away, and to get there they had to drive the Kancamagus Highway. The 'Kank' as the locals called it, was a winding, steep road that crossed the Pemegrass Wilderness, one of the most breathtaking and remote places in the White Mountains. Josh had traveled it many times, but never at night. With possible wrecks waiting round every twist and turn, Josh knew it was more prudent to wait until daylight.

Jess came out with a bag full of Cokes and a six-pack of beer. It still seemed strange to Josh to just help yourself to things. Both Jess and Bobby obviously had no such compunctions. Josh noticed that Bobby had a Playboy tucked under his arm. Eddy met his stare and grinned.

"Boys will be boys, Josh."

"Ya. Let's get moving. We can spend the night in a campground just up the road. There's a cold stream running through it. The 'boys' can cool off a bit."

***

"Come on in, Dad!" Jessie, water dripping from his lean body, waved through the golden morning sunlight and plunged into the rushing water. Bobby was thrashing about, joyously fighting the current. Josh and Eddy watched from the far bank. Bobby let the current carry him back into the green pool nature had sculptured from the earth's crust.

"Well," Eddy said. "How about it? It's still early."

Josh smiled. "What the hell? I could use a bath. But one of us stays here with a rifle --- I'll not be caught off guard again. I'll take your place in a couple of minutes."

Less than an hour later, bathed and dressed in clean clothes, they were on their way across the Kank. A little before noon on the 29th of June, on the 9th day since the 'Ending of the Modern World', they entered North Conway --- greeted by the sound of gunfire.

***

Brad Westgate looked around the inn. Wilma's body, now covered with a blanket, lay on the floor near the old piano. A large red stain was slowly spreading out from one end. Tina, crouched by a front window, was trying to get a clear shot at Snake and the others with Earl's deer rifle. Earl's body still lay out in the middle of the street.

Brad turned to his son. Kenneth, clutching the old single shot 16 gage, crouched beside him, his back pressed to the wall. The boy's eyes were frightened and wild. Brad placed his hand on the boy's shoulder and moved his gaze to Bert, huddled into a far corner of the dining area. Looking at the nervous, rumpled wreck of a man, Brad was hard pressed to remember the fastidious, prissy barber he had known for years. Brad had never really liked Bert, but until today had never known why.

Suddenly another shot smashed through one of the inn's front windows and into the back wall. What glass was left tinkled to the carpet. A second shot slammed into the heavy door. Blade and Flame had apparently found themselves rifles, probably from the hardware store. Those and the heavy .357 bullets from Snake's massive Python were taking their toll; the inside of the thick door was splintered in over a dozen places. The four people still alive inside nervously hunkered down.

***

It was nearly noon. For almost an hour now Snake and the others had been sitting in the pub across the street, occasionally firing at the inn between their own shots of booze. Earlier Brad had tried slipping out the back door, but had found Rings and a very battered and bloody Bull waiting out there. Bull had a shotgun that he'd fire at the door back whenever the urge struck him --- which seemed quite often.

Brad was toying with the idea of waiting for dark, then slipping out a window, but the thought of playing hero with a real-life killers turned his blood to water. All they could do for now was wait. Perhaps Tina would get a clear shot from her perch at the upstairs window.

"Someone's coming!", the girl called down.

Cautiously looking out one of the front windows, Brad couldn't believe his eyes. There, coming down the main street, were two vans and a tow-truck! And the leading van, a white Westfalia, looked exactly like his cousin's! _'No! It couldn't be! Impossible!'_

"Holy Christ! It IS Josh!" Snatching up Earl's shotgun, he ran for the front door. "Tina! Ken! Start shooting at the pub! Keep them pinned down! I've got to warn Josh!"

Charging out the door, he ran for the cover of a parked Toyota. Behind him came the crack of Tina's .303. The boom of the old 16 gage followed. Brad cut loose with the 12 gage; first the right barrel, then he second. Few of the pub's windows were left intact. Up ahead the vans slowed, then pulled to one side. The tow-truck followed. Men were getting out. Armed men. Brad recognized his cousin. Joy mixed with fear coursed through him.

"Get down, Josh!", he bellowed. "For Christ sake get down!"

Behind him Tina and Kenneth continued to blast away at the pub. Despite this, the front door opened and Snake ran out; a bottle in one hand and his gun in the other. He took one look at the four armed men, fired three quick shots, then ran back in. Tina's shot clipped him in the ear.

Brad darted across the street, calling as he went. "Josh! Thank God you're alive!"

Josh grabbed his cousin and pulled him back behind the vans. "What's going on?!"

As Brad was telling them about Snake, the sound of motorcycles reached them.

"It's coming from behind the pub!", Bobby said. "You want us to take a look?"

"No!", Josh said. "Just stay ready. They might come this way."

But Snake wasn't that drunk. He and the other two emerged a hundred yards up the street. Flame's red hair could be seen as her streaked across the road, apparently on her way to get Rings and Bull. From behind the cover of parked cars, Snake and Blade laid down a continuous fire. Eddy and Bobby shot back, but neither side did any real damage. Then Flame was back. Bull had Rings behind him on his own bike. Snake appeared astride his Harley, fired a few parting shots, then roared off. The rest followed.

Moments later Kenneth, Tina and a sheepish looking Bert came over to join the newcomers. Introductions were made and the cousins, both young and old, were soon eagerly swapping adventures. Tina, however, kept watching for Snake's return, Earl's deer rifle at the ready.

A little later they buried Earl and Wilma in the garden out behind the inn and began making plans for the future.

***
**Chapter 14** **: 'TROUBLE AT THE TRAILHEAD'**

Franconia Notch

_New Hampshire, June 31_ st _(Day 11)  
_

They left North Conway that afternoon. Josh took Brad and Tina in his Westfalia; Jessie, Kenneth and the dogs climbed in Eddy's van and Bert went with Bobby in the tow-truck. All were glad to leave, especially since Snake and his group might return at any moment.

The violent deaths of Wilma and Earl had shaken them all. Brad's son, Kenneth, seemed the most upset. Young as he was, Jesse saw this and looked for a way to get his cousin's mind off the killings. On the way back over the Kank he asked his father to stop for a swim in the rapids. Though all were anxious to put as much distance between Snake and his bikers as they could, the swim had relieved the tension and the rushing water had renewed more than their bodies. While Jessie and Kenneth splashed about with the dogs, Bobby had hovered around Tina, playing his guitar and trying to make her smile. Eddy had done his best to draw Bert into a conversation, but the fastidious little barber remained sullen and withdrawn. Josh and Brad, sitting on the bank, had quietly shared a beer along with their sorrows, hopes and fears. After a while they shared the silence, which, when done between old friends, can be the best sharing of all.

Suddenly Josh reached for the old lever action Winchester he'd picked up at Billy's Gun N' Bait Shop. The rifle had become his constant companion for what seemed strangely like forever.

"What's the matter?", Brad demanded.

"I thought I saw something over in those trees."

Brad picked up Earl's 12 gage and began scanning the woods along the side of the road. Josh worked the lever on his 30.30 and moved behind a large boulder.

"It's probably nothing, Brad, but let's get everyone back to the vans."

Within minutes the three vehicles were again winding their way westward over the Kank. They passed several campsites on the way; The Covered Bridge, Jigger Johnsons, Five Rocks, finally stopping by late afternoon at the one they'd stayed in the night before.

Hancock's Campground was just three miles east of Lincoln. The long entrance led them down to another rushing river far from the road; this one however ran westward through the White Mountains to distant Lake Champlain. While supper simmered on the camp stove, Josh surprised everyone by proposing a hike for the next day up 5,000 foot plus Mount Lafayette. He realized they all needed something to take their minds of the horror and death all around them. Pushing their bodies to the limit, Josh knew from experience, could do that far better than silent brooding on the long drive back to Hawthorn. All but Bert were enthusiastic. What with the excited talk, the distance from the road and the fast flowing river, none of them heard sound of motorcycles racing by.

The next morning they stopped at Lincoln, stocked up on supplies and hiking gear and headed north up I-93 to Franconia Notch State Park. The 'Notch', famous for its profile of 'The Old Man', a strange natural rock formation that had collapsed just after the turn of the century, though still immortalized on the state's license plates, was a four mile long winding gash in the White Mountains. Steep, 4,000 foot plus cliffs dropped down to the narrow, tree-covered valley. Now, a day after leaving North Conway, they were settled in at the large Ranger Station at the entrance to Lafayette Campground, anxiously planning the next day's adventure.

Not that it needed much planning, for Josh, Brad and the two boys had been up it over a half dozen times. It was a long loop, going up one trail, along the narrow, windswept Franconia Ridge for two miles, then down another trail to the place they started. Nearly ten miles altogether. Doable in eight hours if they pushed it and days if they took their time. No one seemed in a rush. Tina and the boys said they were ready to stay out a week.

Josh, Brad and Eddy now sat in front of the large stone fireplace pouring over trail maps. The four younger members of the group were outside with the dogs. Bert sat off by himself, chain-smoking and nursing a beer.

Eddy seemed fascinated by the White Mountain's Hut System. "You mean that they've got sleeping cabins all along these ridges?"

Josh and Brad smiled at each other, recognizing _'Ridgewalker Mania'_ when they saw it. Once up above the treeline, the ridges all connected. Huts, or cabins, equipped with propane kitchens, solar heaters and row upon row of bunk beds, linked the ridges every eight to ten miles. A person could walk for weeks on end and never drop below 4000 feet. Or, if they wanted, they could take a side trail down to a three-sided lean-to nestled in the pines beside a clear tarn or a tumbling waterfall.

"Christ!", Eddy said, pointing at a notation on the back of a map. "There's a trail that goes from Canada to damn near Florida!"

Josh nudged Brad and smiled. "That's the Long Trail. It goes from Georgia to Vermont, branching off a hundred miles south of here to the even higher Appalachian Trail, which goes north-east way up into Main. We'll be walking part of that tomorrow. One of the highest parts."

Eddy grinned like a kid. Bert, sitting off by himself, grunted. Brad turned to face the sour little man. "I've told you, Bert, you don't have to come. You can stay right here. We'll be back in two or three days."

"And what if you aren't?", Bert replied, his voice high and petulant. "What if you decide to stay up in these bloody mountains for a week? Maybe two. What about me?! Sitting down here all alone! What if those bikers come back?!"

"Come with us then," Eddy joined in. Bert was proving to be a real pain in the ass, but Eddy had decided to give the guy one more chance. He walked over and placed a hand on Bert's skinny shoulder. "It'll be great, Bert. All that fresh air. Dipping in the streams, fishing for trout. _'Living off the land'_ and all that shit! Come on; what do you say?"

Bert shrugged Eddy's hand away. "I say it's stupid. Brad's cousin says there's a whole lot of people back where he came from. I say we head there and stop screwing around in these bloody mountains. I never did like them, anyway!"

Eddy smiled. "Why the hell were you living in a place like North Conway then? Jesus, man, there's not much there BUT mountains!"

Bert looked surly. "It was my wife's idea. She grew up there. Liked the 'simple life'. Me, I think it sucks!"

When spoke up Eddy noticed that he was using what Doc had called his 'teacher's voice'. "You have three choices, Bert. Come with us; wait for us here; or go on ahead to Hawthorn on your own."

Bert looked shocked. "Me? Go off alone? But what about the wrecks in the road and those men who stopped you?"

Josh shrugged. "I'm just making your options clear. The five of us are looking forward to this little adventure. Obviously you aren't. Fine. The people of Hawthorn will be glad to see you."

Now Bert looked hurt. "Are you trying get rid of me?"

Josh slowly stood up. He made no move toward Bert, but still the man stepped back. "Because you're Brad's friend you're welcome to stay with us."

A sly expression suddenly came over Bert. " _And if I wasn't 'Brad's friend'?_ "

Josh smiled. "Then I'd kick your wining ass out the door."

***

"Hey, Snake," Flame said. "What the fuck are they doing now?"

Snake ignored her and continued to watch the cabin through his powerful binoculars. He had plans for each and every one of them. Big plans. Especially for the blonde haired bitch that shot off a piece of his ear!

Yesterday he'd watched from afar as they headed south out of North Conway. Following at a safe distance, he'd caught sight of the tow-truck turning east on the Kank. Again he and his group had followed. They'd nearly road right past them where the smart-assed pricks had stopped for a swim! Snake and the other three had quietly moved up on foot. The sight of two men sitting on the bank with rifles however, had changed his mind. Cursing, he'd backed off, planning to catch them later that night when they were sleeping.

But the crafty buggers had slipped away a second time. Again Snake had followed, but by the time they reached the town of Lincoln they had lost them.

"Shit, Snake!", Bull had exclaimed. "They got three ways to go! Up or down 93 or back east on 116! We aint never gunna catch 'em now!"

Snake had shoved his long barreled Python in Bull's face. "Shut the fuck up! I'll find those goddamnedbastards if I have to drive all over these fucking mountains to do it! No one --- NO ONE makes a fool out of me!"

"Ya," Flame had whispered to Blade. "He does just fine all by himself."

They'd then broken into a fancy hotel that catered to skiers. Snake had ordered the two women to find something to eat while Bull played bartender. The food had been cold, but the whiskey had gone down like fire. Soon all were more than half in the bag. Snake, aided by his secret stash of pills graciously supplied by the late but far from great, Runt, was not only 'in the bag', but well on his way to blowing the end out of it, not to mention a few more quad-zillion brain cells. Blade had fired up the bar's sound system and Rings and Flame started dancing. Snake sat back and observed through a growing chemically induced haze. "No fucking contest!", he muttered. "Rings is titless!"

"Ya!", Bull had grinned from behind the bar. "But Flame's got 'nough for 'em both!"

Flame had danced her way over to Blade. Her green eyes flashing, her long hair a fiery halo, the tall biker grabbed her and kissed her roughly. Flame responded in kind.

His cold eyes still on Flame, Snake had yelled at Rings to follow him into the back room.

***

Late next morning, his head pounding along in time with the powerful 650 engine, Snake sat astride his Harley at the edge of Lincoln. _'Which fucking way,_ he asked himself? _West to Vermont? South to the Lakes District? North towards Canad or back east over the mountains?'_

Decisions, decisions. Snake had never been very good at making them. Too much bloody effort. Always before he just sort of let things happen --- and beat the shit out of anyone that got in his way. Now, since his bike was already facing north, he mouthed the ever-popular witticism for which his brethren were so famous. 'Fuck it!' This done, Snake gleefully kicked his Harley into gear and tore off up I-93. Blade, Flame and Bull had followed, with Rings holding on to Bull like a skinny primate clinging to mama's broad, hairy back.

Now, an hour after casting his fate to the wind, Snake lay on a hill grinning as he watched the shit-for-brains hillbillies. He was feeling quite proud of himself. The stupid hayseeds were playing house right below him! Their two vans and tow-truck were parked on the far side of a large log cabin. Smoke was coming from the chimney. Off to the side two kids were farting around with bows and arrows. Pair of dogs were with them. Up on the front porch some guy with long hair was playing a guitar. The blonde chick that had shot him was sitting close the asshole with the guitar.

'Too fucking close!', Snake cursed to himself, jealousy mixing with anger. _'He'll be singing a different fucking tune when I'm finished with him! I'll shove that guitar so far up the little shit's ass he'll have to open his mouth for the sound to come out!'_ Pleased with his great wit, Snake settled in to watch his prey. He didn't want the fuckers slipping away a third time!

He'd already sent Bull and Rings back to the little peckerwood town for food, beer and camping shit. He'd also told Bull to boost some wheels so Rings could follow him back with the gear. Rings couldn't handle a hog, but she could manage a car or truck as long as it wasn't a standard.

_'Stupid bitch can't fuck that!'_ , Snake reasoned. Then doubt began to creep in. Rings had been fucking up a lot lately. Suddenly Flame was standing over him. Wearing skin-tight tank top and an open leather vest, the sexy bitch was enough to break any man's concentration! She had wanted to go for a swim in the creek where they parked their bikes. As usual, Blade had stayed with her. From his vantage-point on the hill, Snake had watched through his binoculars as she and Blade had gone at it on the grassy bank.

"Well?", Flame demanded. "You going to take them out or what?"

Blade was standing right behind her, silent and deadly as ever, and Blade was one bugger Snake didn't want on his bad side. Especially not now with the asshole hayseeds right below him!

He handed her the glasses. As she lifted them to her eyes the vest parted and Snake sucked in his breath. Flame smiled knowingly.

"Great view, eh?"

"Ya, real nice!", Snake growled, his eyes devouring her. "Now, get your ass back down to the bikes and see what's keeping Bull." Flame turned sauntered down the hill, the movement doing wonders for her old Levies.

***

The morning dawned bright and clear. By the time Josh and the rest were ready, the sun was already burning off the mist from the mountain tops. Packs on and boots tied, they left the Ranger's cabin. As a precaution, all now went well armed, including a surly, grumbling Bert.

Since the incident at the roadblock back in Vermont, Josh had been forced to change his mind about handguns. He now carried a Glock 9 mm. in a shoulder holster and a .22 Backup strapped to the inside of his ankle. The Backup held five shots and weighed almost nothing. Made mostly of space-age polymers, the Glock was just over two pounds with its fifteen round clip. Two extra clips for the Glock were on his belt and several others in his pack --- along with two boxes of shells for both the handgun and the rifle. Josh didn't like the carrying the weight, but liked a whole lot less the idea of facing another Fonzie or Snake empty handed.

Billy and Eddy both carried 9 mm. automatics. The day after leaving North Conway, Josh had asked Brad and Bert to choose a handgun from the box full they'd picked up back in Crown Point. Both had chosen the smallest guns there. Brad took a Glock 9 mm. Compact with a seventeen round clip. Reluctantly Bert had picked up a stubby little Mustang 9 mm. Pocketlite.

If the handguns felt strange for the adults, it felt even stranger for the fathers to see their young sons with .22 Browning target pistols on their belts; but as the song said: _'The times they are a changing'_. The boys had their bows with them as well. Tina had taken a small 9 mm. like Brad's. She still had Earl's old .303 and all the men except Bert also carried a rifle.

Feeling like an extra for an old western movie, Josh cradled his Winchester 30-30 and led the other six hikers outside. He had asked the two boys and lead the group up the well marked Falling Water's Trail, but as sooner had they stated off Snake and his group opened up on them from the hill overlooking the parking lot.

***

Snake had planned to be up with the sun so that they could move up close to the Ranger's cabin and blast the hayseeds when they stepped outside. That had been the plan. What had happened however, was that Rings had brought back booze instead of beer, and the rest, as they say, is history. Now, his head pounding, his stomach and bowels rumbling, he found it hard to keep the rifle from shaking. The rest of his merry band hadn't fared much better. Bull was still in his sleeping bag and Blade was having one hell of a time getting his boots on.

Flame, however, standing there in the early morning light clad only a tight tank top and pink panties, she began firing her pearl handled Smith & Wesson. Her long legs spread, the heavy .357 held in the classic two-handed grip, she looked like Dirty Harry's idea of a wet dream. The distance, however, proved too great even for that famed weapon and the eight tiny targets soon disappeared into the woods. She emptied the heavy gun anyway.

"After them!", Snake roared. "Get the fuck after them!"

Blade, his boots now on, walked over to Snake.

"They got no wheels, Snake. They're not going nowhere. Besides, aint you heard? What goes up, must come down. All we got to do is sit on the front porch and pick them off whenever they come back down."

"Listen, Shit-For-Brains!", Snake bellowed. "They were all carrying packs, right? Just what the fuck do you think was in them? Your used condoms? _Food_ , that's what! Tents, stoves, mother-fucking _sleeping bags!_ They can probably stay up in these fucking mountains for weeks!"

Blade shrugged, unperturbed by Snake's ravings. "So let them. Who gives a shit anyway?"

Snake smiled warmly and moved closer. "I do." He then kneed Blade in the groin. His legs crossed in agony, Blade fell to the ground. Snake laughed and drew his long barreled Colt, Python. Off to the right, Flame raised her Smith & Wesson.

"Back off Snake! Now!"

Snake turned his shaggy head. "And if I don't?"

Without blinking an eye, she squeezed the trigger. Snake's eyes widened, then turned hard. The metallic click of Flame's gun dry-firing against spent cartridges was sweet music to his ears.

"Learn to count, bitch,", he growled. "You already shot your loads just like Blady-boy here shot his last night." A cruel smile spread across his bearded face. "Though by the looks of it, Blady-boy won't be up to any more shooting for some time." He thumbed back the hammer on his massive gun, the long barrel pressing against the back of Blade's head.

"Don't," Flame said. Her voice was surprisingly soft, almost a plea. "We'll catch them. With those heavy packs it'll be easy. Then the blonde bitch will be all yours. That's what you want, right? I'll get her for you. Just don't kill him."

Off to one side Rings and a wide-eyed Bull watched in strained silence. Rings, a vacant smile on her thin face, was absently rubbing her crotch.

"Oh?", Snake asked, his voice mockingly polite. "And if I let him live, who's going to stop Blady-boy here from shoving one of those fucking knives of his into my back. You?!"

"Yes."

Snake's voice hardened. "How?"

Flame drew a deep breath. The gesture almost broke Snake's concentration. Almost; but not quite.

"He loves me. He'll do whatever I say."

Keeping his gun on Blade, Snake stepped back. Blade attempted to get to his knees but failed. "What's in it for me?", Snake demanded.

Flame drew another deep breath. "If you kill him, sooner or later I'll kill you. Let him live and we're cool."

Snake frowned. "Why do you give a shit? Do you love him?" This time there was no mockery in his voice.

Flame held his gaze. "I owe him. Back before you found us, when the whole fucking world suddenly went bat-shit crazy, he pulled me through."

Snake's small eyes searched her's for any sign of a lie. When he didn't find any, he turned both his attention and his gun on Blade.

"You willing to go along with that? To be cool with all this shit?"

Blade managed to stand, though none too smoothly. His eyes were as dark and cold as ever. At last he spoke. "What I said yesterday still goes. You leave her alone and I'm cool. Touch her and I'll cut your heart out."

Snake's smile suddenly spread from ear to ear. "So we got us a deal, right, man?! Live and let live. But right now we go after those hayseeds! Now, let's get the fuck going!"

***
**Chapter 15** **: 'THE CLIMB'**

Franconia Notch

New Hampshire, July 2nd (Day 12)

When the shots started they were more than halfway to where the trail entered the forest. Caught out in the open, everyone began running --- no easy feat with heavily loaded packs! As the trees closed in around them, the shooting ceased. Josh kept them going for another hundred yards. When the trail became steeper, following alongside a fast flowing stream, they stopped to catch their breath. Clutching his side, Bert fell to his knees.

"You hit?", Eddy asked, kneeling down beside him.

"I --- don't --- think so ---", Bert gasped. "Just --- winded."

Josh called Brad over to him. "Take them up to the bridge. Cross over to the Falling Waters Trail and find cover off the path at the top of the first waterfall. I'll catch up once I've seen who is following and what they intend."

Brad swore. "Bloody hell, Josh, we all know it's Snake! Who else could it be? And what he intends is to kill us and take Tina. He's a cold-blooded psycho!"

"Probably. But he's no hiker," Josh added. "Not with that beer gut. None of them are. If they do come after us, we'll have the advantage."

Brad frowned. "Are you nuts? He's a killer! This isn't some damn game!"

Josh's eyes held his cousin's. "I know that, Brad. But I have to see what we're up against."

"Then I'm staying too," Brad said. "Ken and Jessie both know this trail. They can..."

"No! I want you with them." Josh stepped closer and lowered his voice. "They're just kids, Brad. You can count on Eddy; Bobby too, but he and Tina are only kids themselves. As for Bert, well --- " He left the rest unsaid.

Brad sighed, then nodded. "Okay! But for Christ sake, don't do anything stupid!"

"I'll just fire a few warning shots to slow them down --- maybe even discourage them from following."

"Sounds bloody dangerous to me!", Brad said. "At least give me your pack; that way you can move faster."

Moments later Brad was leading the others up the root-strewn trail. Jessie looked back at his father, fear mixed with pride in his blue eyes. Josh gave him the thumbs up sign. Eddy, bringing up the rear, motioned for Jessie to catch up with the others.

Josh watched them vanish around a bend, then turned and started back down the trail.

***

The three bikes raced down from the hill and into the parking lot, screeching to a halt near the vans. Rings, riding behind Bull, giggled as Snake shot a tire on each of the parked vehicles. The booming of the big Python echoed down the valley.

"Just in case they try something smart," he grinned. Then, revving his Harley, Snake tore off across the field. Grinning, Flame raced after him. Blade and Bull followed.

Josh hadn't gone a hundred yards when he heard the shots from the parking lot. Leaping off the well used trail, he made his way through the trees to a large boulder the size of a small room. He'd just reached the glacial litter when the sound of racing engines grew louder. Through the trees he saw Snake tearing up the wide, flat trail at breakneck speed! And three other bikes were right behind him!

He hadn't counted on them actually riding their bikes up the trail! It was wide and clear for about a quarter mile, but once it crossed the bridge it became narrow, rocky and steep. They'd have to leave their bikes there, but if they got passed him they could reach the others before Hessie and the others got over the bridge! Somehow he had to stop them. He levered a shell into his 30-30 and tried to sight on Snake's broad chest, but the ups and downs on the trail, along with the numerous trees in between, made it an impossible shot.

Josh fired anyway and bark flew from a large oak halfway between himself and the trail. The sound of the shot was completely drowned out by the roaring motors. He fired twice more. More bark flew. Then the rifle jammed. Tossing it down, he brew his Glock, but by now the roaring machines were past and racing round a distant bend. He pulled the trigger twice just the same, sending the 9 mm. slugs wining off rocks and tree trunks.

Snake and the others weren't even aware he had fired.

Seconds later the sound of the bikes began to fade, swallowed up by the dense forest. The smoking gun hung impotently in his trembling hand, while frustration and fear weighed down his heart. Cursing under his breathe, Brad snatched up his rifle and began to run up the trail.

***

Just below the narrow wooden bridge, the trail climbed steeply. Hands as well as feet were needed to negotiate the moss-covered rocks. Water trickled under exposed roots. At the top, two signs were nailed to a tree. Straight ahead for the Old Bridal Path, across the bridge for the Falling Waters Trail. Both led up to the bare, windswept Franconia Ridge.

Brad waited under the signs while the others scrambled up to him. Over the roar of the cascading water he thought he could hear the faint but growing distant drone of motors.

Tina joined him, her head cocked to one side.

"You hear them too?", Brad asked.

"Ya," was her only answer. Her eyes were busy searching the far bank. She pointed to a cluster of rocks a hundred feet up the stream.

Brad nodded. "Take the boys with you. I'll find a position down here."

Tina led Jessie, Kenneth and Billy over the bridge and up the steep trail. The dogs ran ahead of them. Brad waited by the sign as Eddy scrambled up to him. Bert was struggling along in the rear. The sound of the motors was clearer now.

"Company's coming,", Eddy said.

Brad faced him. "Josh says I can trust you. I believe he's right. I'd like you to take Bert and go up this side of the stream. Find some cover but make sure you can see the bridge. I'll do the same from the other side. Okay?"

Eddy hesitated. "What about Josh? Shouldn't we --- ?"

"No!", Brad said, louder than he'd meant to. "He'll be along when he can. But now I need you to cover this side of the stream!"

Eddy nodded and led Bert up the left bank trail.

As Brad jogged across the bridge, he thought about his cousin. He hoped Josh had hid and let them ride right past him, but deep in his heart he knew better. Josh would have tried to stop them. Tried, but obviously failed. So where the hell was he? The answer made him groan. Dead or wounded. And if wounded, as good as dead, for they couldn't go back for him, not Snake and the others were taken care of.

Cursing, Brad climbed behind a slab of rock just as Snake rounded the bend below the bridge.

***

"Shit!", Snake yelled as the big Harley's front wheel came out of a dip and bounced off a boulder. The jolt propelled him forward and he came down hard on the gas cap. Pain lanced through his testicles. He fought the heavy bike around a steep, sharp curve and saw a wall of rock in front of him. Slamming on the breaks, both wheels ripped up decades of leaf mould and mud. Fishtailing around, the big Harley's back wheel hit another rock and stopped. Snake, however, did not. Momentum carried him forward while gravity pulled him down. The combination produced one hell of a lot of pain.

Flame was more fortunate. Seeing Snake's tail-lights flash, she braked early --- a bit too early. Blade had to swerve to miss her and in so doing went off the trail. The rushing stream lay directly in front of him. A stump sent him over the handlebars. Luckily, the stream had formed a small, deep pool. Blade emerged dripping wet and holding his sprained left wrist.

Bull, with Rings clinging to his broad back, had time to stop. He sat there opened mouthed while Rings giggled behind him.

Snake got shakily to his feet. Blood was running down his face from a long cut on his forehead. His left knee was also bleeding. The stock of the rifle he'd slung over his shoulder was cracked. Looking around, he cursed in a way that would have made a Marine sergeant blush.

Blade, dripping wet and still holding his wrist, came and stood beside Flame. His words to Snake were as cold as the water he had fallen into. "Well, great white leader, what the fuck do we do now?"

Snake's cruel gaze washed over him, then turned toward the steep rock wall. The blue blazes of paint showed him the trail. Snake whipped blood out of his eyes and drew his revolver.

"We follow them, asshole!", he growled, reaching for a handhold. "They can't be far ahead!"

Blade flexed his wrist, grimacing in pain.

"Bad?", Flame asked.

Blade grunted, then began to climb, his left hand held tightly against his stomach. Flame drew her Smith & Wesson and followed. Bull came next, a 12 gage carried across his massive chest. Rings trailed along behind, a six-pack and a bottle of Rye weighing down her large handbag

***

Tina laid Earl's old .303 on top of the large rock she and the boys had hid behind and pulled out the small pistol she carried in her pack. She'd never fired a handgun before and until a few days ago in North Conway, she'd never shot a rifle either. But she was a fast learner and, remembering the way Snake had looked at her, she intended to be one hell of a lot faster.

Jessie and Ken crouched beside her, holding the dogs. Og wined nervously at their feet. Princess stood beside her pup, growling faintly. Both boys had arrows fitted to their bows. Billy had found a shelf of rock below them and closer to the stream.

Time stretched away like dripping honey, every second sticking to the next, reluctant to move on. All eyes watched the trail at the base of the two signs. Finally, a shaggy head could be seen poking over the ancient grey rock. A massive chest followed, then a protruding beer belly. Snake had made the climb! Crouching, he moved cautiously up the rocky trail. Flame came next, her long red hair flowing about her like fire. Dressed all in leather, she looked like a Valkary out of Viking legend, only instead of a sword, she carried a heavy, black Smith & Wesson.

Snake motioned for her to move past him. She flowed up the trail like water, stopping at the bridge, a hundred feet below where Eddy and Bert crouched behind a large boulder. Blade came next, favoring his left hand. Bull followed, half carrying Rings.

From her vantage point, Tina could see Flame moving across the bridge, but it wasn't the large red-head that Tina feared, but the fat, greasy bastard with the piggish eyes. She sighted down the barrel of Earl's .303 and grinned. "Shove this up your ass, woman-killer!", she muttered, squeezing the trigger.

Earl hadn't been lying when he said that his rifle pulled to the left. Tina's shot went wide, chipping off a piece of granite six inches from where Snake crouched. Instantly everyone started shooting. No-one had a clear target, but that didn't stop the urge to fire. The woods echoed with the booming of heavy caliber weapons.

Flame, squatting on the bridge, shot at the puff of smoke she'd seen further up the stream. Suddenly an arrow thudded into the handrail only inches from her head. The triangular blade glittered in the sunlight.

"What the fuck?!" Unnerved by the arrow far more than by the heavy gunfire, she sprinted across the bridge. Reaching the end, she jumped over a fallen log and scrambled up toward a large slab of rock. As she crawled around the moss covered boulder, Brad moved out of the shadows and slammed the butt of his rifle down on the back of her neck. Pain caused her to black out, the Smith & Wesson falling from her limp hand. Brad kicked it aside, then quickly tied her hands behind her with his belt.

'One down, Josh', he thought. 'But a hell of a lot still to go!'

Back on the other side, Blade and Bull had taken cover off the trail. Rings crouched behind them, hugging her handbag, a crazed look in her wide eyes. There was no sign of Snake.

Suddenly the scream of a distraught Blue Jay cut through the smoke-laden air. Blade, worried about Flame, cautiously peered around the large tree that sheltered him. "Where the fuck is she?", he hissed. "And where's Snake?"

The answer came from further up the trail; three shots from Snake's heavy .357. Someone yelled. Other weapons were fired. One of them sounded like a cap-gun. Then Snake's distinctive Colt Python boomed twice more, followed by a scream. Blade raced up the trail towards the sound. Several bullets wined around him. He fired his .38 Special at a form on the far bank, then dove behind a tree. Bark flew as an arrow thudded into the trunk.

"Snake!", he bellowed. "Where the Christ are you?!"

"I got one!" Snake's voice floated down from further up the trail. "Nailed the motherfucker good!"

"Where's Flame?!", Blade yelled back.

"Somewhere back there over the bridge! Now, get the fuck up here!"

Blade looked back at the bridge but saw no sign of his lady-love. He thought about going back down and crossing, but discretion got the better part of valor. Flame was a special woman, the best he'd ever had, and just yesterday she'd talked Snake out of blowing his brains out, but a man has to know his limits. The goddamned bridge was way down the trail and just too fucking open! He checked the stream instead. Slick, moss-covered rocks and rushing water. Not much better than the fucking bridge!

Then another arrow slammed into the tree close by his head.

"Shit!", he cursed, half jumping, half falling into the rushing water. Below him, Bull was firing into the trees. Even Rings was shooting, having found a small .22 in the bottom of her large bag.

The water was both deeper and faster than Blade had thought. The current pulled him down a slide and into a pool. His sprained wrist struck something and he cried out. Half blinded by the pain and the water, he was floundering toward the far bank when Billy jumped on him from above. Landing feet first on Blade's shoulders, the biker was driven to the bottom. Something grabbed his hair and yanked him to the surface. Sputtering, Blade saw the gleaming barrel of Billy's heavy Colt swing down and connect with the side of his head. There was more bright light than pain --- then nothing at all.

Billy shoved the motionless body back into the pool and scrambled out the far side. Blade's unconscious body was carried over yet another small falls where it lay half in, half out of the water just above the bridge.

Bull, seeing Blade's body tumble over the rocky lip, tossed aside his rifle and leapt down the bank. Slipping and sliding, he managed to reach the unconscious form and pull it behind a fallen log. He then drew his handgun and fired at Billy climbing up the far bank. His third shot struck Billy in the right shoulder. The bullet just nicked the skin, but it was enough to make Billy loose his grip. With a splash, he fell back into the pool. Grinning, Bull stood and took careful aim at the thrashing body. An arrow smacking into the log beside him caused Bull to look down. Then another magically appeared in his left thigh. When the pain reached his brain he screamed, jerking the trigger of his gun. The shot went wild and he slumped down in agony beside the still unconscious Blade.

Rings, seeing what had happened, turned to run; in so doing she came face to face with the muzzle of Josh's Winchester. Her large eyes opened even wider.

"Drop the gun!", Josh hissed.

The tiny .22 fell to the ground and her along with it. Josh yanked her to her feet and, holding her in front of him, walked to the edge of the bridge.

Snake's voice floated down from further up the stream. "Blade! Bull! Where the fuck are ya?!"

"They're down here with me, Snake!", Josh yelled back. "So is your girlfriend!

Silence.

Jessie, hearing his father's voice, started to stand, but Tina pulled him back. The pup, Og, began to bark.

Josh continued. "Snake! Did you hear me? I've got the girl with me and your two men in my sights! Toss your gun out or I start shooting!"

More silence, this time followed by laughter. "Go ahead, farm-boy! Shoot them if you can --- but I doubt you've got the balls!"

Just upstream from the bridge, Blade was slowly coming round. He coughed up water, then attempted to sit. Josh put a round into the fallen tree by Blade's side. Rings screamed, while Bull, still holding his leg with Jessie's arrow in it, called out to Snake.

"Christ, Snake! This guy means business! Don't let him hurt Rings!"

Snake's reply was swift and cold. "Forget her, Bull! Shoot the fucker!"

"Can't!", Bull yelled back. "Dropped my gun n' got an arrow in my leg!"

"Well, big man?", Josh called out to Snake. "Who gets killed first? I've got plenty to choose from!"

No answer, only the cawing of the Jays and the gurgle of the water. Then Brad appeared on the bank above the bridge. He held Flame by her hair. Josh nodded to his cousin, then yelled out once again.

"We've got the red-head as well, Snake! It's all up to you! Who dies first?!"

Brad, standing just behind Flame, wasn't really sure if Josh was bluffing or not. He knew himself to be incapable of killing in cold blood, and until today would have sworn the same about his cousin. But now he wasn't so sure.

Suddenly Snake appeared at the far end of the bridge. Somehow he'd crossed the stream and doubled back down the trail. Blood ran freely down his face, all but covering his eyes. The two hands holding the massive revolver trembled.

"You die first, shit-head!"

Upstream, Brad raised his rifle, only to have it knocked aside by Flame as she drove her shoulder into him. Brad fell one way, Flame the other.

And Snake began to fire.

One bullet whizzed by Josh's head. Another tore a five inch groove out of the handrail. With less than thirty feet separating them, Josh began to back away, pulling Rings with him. Snake's third bullet struck her in the left side of the chest. The heavy slug pierced her heart and exited out the back, grazing Josh's ribs as it passed. Rings coughed blood and died.

Josh, still holding the dead girl, brought his rifle up and pulled the trigger --- but nothing happened. He hadn't levered in another shell after shooting into the log. Snake, grinning through his gore-soaked beard, slowly turned sideways. Dropping one hand, he extended the one holding the gun. The hammer clicked back. The long barrel looked like the accusing finger of God.

"Miller time, bro!"

Suddenly Josh shoved the dead girl directly at Snake and leapt over the railing. Propelled forward, Rings looked like a puppet with cut stings. Snake pulled the trigger and Rings' head, shaven on one side, dyed blonde on the other, exploded. Blood, bone and brain scattered to the four winds. Screaming like a banshee, Snake kept firing.

***

Wet, winded, his side on fire from where Snake's bullet nicked him on its way through Rings, Josh met up with Brad just above the bridge. Snake could still be heard cursing as he kicked Rings' remains into the stream. Silently the two cousins slipped away and joined the others a few hundred yards up the trail.

"Dad!", Jessie yelled, running to meet them. "You're alive!" Kenneth ran beside him. Both dogs jumped up as the fathers and sons embraced.

"We're fine, Jessie", Josh said, glancing quickly around. Eddy stood just above them, his gaze fixed on the path down to the bridge. Snake had vanished. Tina was trying to bandage the scrape on Billy's shoulder.

"Bert?", Josh asked.

Eddy shook his head. "Snake killed him. I got away."

Josh nodded and turned to Billy.

"I'm okay, Mr. Williams. Did you get him?"

"No, but he damned near got me! Now, let's get moving!"

Kenneth, white with shock, stepped forward. He was still clutching his bow. "Uncle Josh, you think they're still coming? Jeeze! Jessie got one in the leg and Billy nearly drowned that other guy!"

"He'll come, Kenneth", Josh said. "Now more than ever. Only next time we'll be ready for him."

***
**Chapter 16: 'THE SPINE OF GOD'**

Franconia Ridge

_New Hampshire, July 3_ rd _(day 13)_

"Now get the fuck moving!"

Snake had just finished passing the Rye bottle back to Flame, who shoved it into Rings' large handbag. They were nearly a mile up the trail from the bridge and everyone was hurting bad. Bull's leg throbbed where Jessie's arrow had hit him in the thigh. The arrow had come out easily enough, but the wound had bled like a stuck pig. Blade had a large goose-egg on the side of his head and his wrist still ached. Flame's neck was sore and her feet hurt from walking in her cowboy boots. A mixture of Rings' blood and his own still matted Snake's hair and beard.

Surprisingly, he had had little trouble getting the others to continue the hunt. Bull blamed Josh for Rings' death and Flame had made it quite clear that nobody 'suckered her' and got away with it! Blade simply wouldn't leave her.

But if getting them going had been easy, keeping them going proved something else again. They had no gear, no food and no extra clothes. Tired, hurting, hungry and footsore, they staggered through the twilight. The growing darkness finally stopped them just one bend short of Cloudland Falls.

They managed to get a fire going, but since there was nothing to eat, they passed the Rye around and crawled off to sleep. Snake, still sipping from the half empty bottle, saw Flame slip away to answer Nature's call. Grinning, he checked to see if Snake was moving, then silently followed. The waxing moon was dappling the trail with its silver light when Flame came back onto the trail. She was still buttoning her faded jeans when Snake, looking like a fat gargoyle come to life, rose up from the fallen log he had been sitting on.

"Why bother?", he leered. "You'll just have to take them off again."

Suddenly the cold barrel of her Smith & Wesson found its way into his crotch, freezing his fingers in mid-fondle.

Snake jumped back as though they'd been burnt.

"A smart move," she said, still holding the gun ready. "Another smart one would be to wash that shit off you. Me, I'm going back to the fire."

Snake, torn between rage and relief, watched her saunter away through the moonlight.

***

Unknown to Snake's group, Josh and his party were camped only a half mile up the trail. They'd made camp early just above Cloudland Falls, one of the highest cataracts in the White Mountains. Springs from the various slopes combined to form a rushing torrent that tumbled over a hundred feet into a rocky gorge. The spray from the falls gave it its name. All the shooting, violence and sudden death had shaken them all and, with the falls being a natural fortress, Josh and Brad had agreed a hot meal and rest was needed.

Now, as the sun was setting, Josh sat at the lip of the falls watching the valley below. Ten miles away Mount Moosilauke thrust its ancient head up above the skyline, ablaze with the timeless fire. Below him the trail the twisted back down into the twilight. That Snake was coming Josh now had no doubt. Over an hour ago they had spotted all four of them wending their weary way up the narrow path far below them.

Since it was nearly dark, Josh knew the maniac would be forced to stop for the night. As a precaution he had tied a fishing line across the trail at the base of the falls. The end of the line led up to a couple of empty Zoodles cans beside him. Anyone tripping the line would drag the cans across the rocks where he sat. Josh intended to spend the night sleeping beside the cans.

Suddenly Og was beside him, licking his face, then turning his attention and his tongue to the Zoodles.

"Here, stop that! You can't eat my alarm system!"

"You really think that he'll come?" Brad was little more than a shadow among shadows. Stepping into the dying sunlight, he handed Josh a mug of tea.

Josh took a sip, then set it down. "Not tonight, but he'll come."

Og, loosing interest in the empty cans, went off to chase a squirrel. Both men smiled, then Brad's eyes narrowed. "Why? What does he want?"

"He wants a lot of things," Josh said. "Tina for one; revenge, to keep face. Maybe even to prove something to himself? I doubt even he knows all the reasons --- but he will come."

"The guy's a psycho!"

Josh nodded agreement. "There's always been Snakes, Brad, you know that. History, both ancient and modern, are filled with them. Now though, with the world the way it is, I'm afraid we'll see a whole lot more of them."

"You don't paint a very pretty future, cousin!"

Josh looked at his lifetime friend. "No, but its the only one we've got. And those of us left will have to adapt to it if we want to survive."

Og was back and Brad absently scratched the pup's neck. "Well, if that's how it's gotta be, then let's deal with this Snake problem once and for all, okay? We take the bastard out for good! Those with him as well!"

Josh looked at his cousin. He'd known him all his life. They grew up together in Lake Placid, NY. They had been like brothers till Brad married and moved to New Hampshire \--- yet it somehow seemed that he was seeing his cousin for the first time. "Fine by me, but first we tire them out, make them slow and sloppy --- then we take them."

Brad nodded grimly and got to his feet. "Okay. Now, how about we check on supper? The boys and Tina are taking care of that and Eddy and Billy are setting up the tents. You coming?"

"Not right now. Send Jessie down with a plate and some more tea."

Brad shook his head. "I know, and a sleeping bag. I'll relieve you in a few of hours."

Joshed grinned and turned his attention back to the trail at the base of the falls.

***

"Look at this shit!", Blade said, pointing at the fishing line stretched across the path. The early morning light glistened off the heavy coating of spray that clung to the line. They could clearly see it going up the steep rocks towards the lip of the falls.

"Careful!", Blade cautioned as Snake approached. "You remember that old Rambo movie, First Blood? One of those fuckers might have been in Nam or Iraq or something."

"Ya? Nam this!", Snake said, shooting Blade the finger, then kicking at the line. "Rambo my ass. Get the fuck going!"

Flame laughed. "We better catch these guys soon. I could use some of the food they're carrying."

They carefully climbed the steep trail leading up to the falls, at the top finding two cans tired to the end of the fish line but little else. Swearing as he wheezed forward, Snake followed the trail over the stream up into the woods. Already the trees were smaller, the maples and oaks giving way to the hardier spruces and pines. The trail zig-zagged up a steep rocky shoulder and left the stream behind.

As the sun rose and the day grew hotter, thirst set in. Sweating through their leathers and heavy jeans, they began to overheat. Three beers remained and a third of the Rye. None of it helped. Flame managed to fill two empty cans from a trickle of water running down a rock face. Blade filled the near empty Rye bottle. Leather jackets came off. Flame, her pants and jacket stuffed into Rings' bag, tied back her long hair and hiked clad only in cowboy boots, pink panties and tank top.

A little after noon they left the treeline behind, climbing into a world they'd only seen in films.

They'd been scrambling up a deeply eroded trail that twisted through the dwarf pines, when suddenly the trees were gone. Gray rock and blue sky hovered above them. The wind, absent for so long now, now caressed their sweating bodies.

"Holy shit, would you look at this!", Flame cried in wonder. She's been in the lead for some time now, drawn on by a sudden urge to reach the top. The sight of her tight buttocks grinding away through her sweat-stained panties had been the focus of Snake's gaze for what seemed an eternity. His heart pounding, his beer gut bouncing, he had forced himself to stay as close to her as he could, following her like a dog after a bitch in heat. Yet lust had not been his only motive. Flame's sexuality was but the lifeline he clung to for the moment. What he truly coveted was revenge.

Blade and Bull were still far back down the trail. Bull's wounded leg had proved too much for even his tremendous strength. The large biker had been forced to use a stick as a crutch, and needed Blade's help up the steeper rocks.

Flame, out in the open now, dropped her bag and gazed in wonder at the panoramic view. She had reached the Franconia Ridge, that long, winding, narrow, open backbone of the White Mountains that hikers reverently called The Spine of God; and though she knew not the name, deep in her soul she suddenly felt awed by something vastly bigger than her own petty little wants and needs.

Mountains stretched away to the horizon in all directions. Every shade of green imaginable filled the eye. A sky so blue it looked freshly made as on the day of Creation; silence so profound it rang in her ears like a silver bell. Billowing clouds, whiter than new fallen snow, drifted below her in the valleys. Eagles soared overhead, hanging like silent angels on the thermal updrafts. Flame spread her arms and embraced the sky --- and her heart took wing.

A strange feeling rushed through her, like a long ago memory of a young girl's Christmas morning combined with the jolt from a line of coke. Though she could never have explained it, Flame was having a mystical experience. She had climbed out of the darkness, and now stood as one newborn in the sun. Dreamlike, she watched her old self slip away. Though extremely erotic, there was a feeling of rightness about it. She seemed to blend with the very earth itself. Her entire body tingled. Her nipples hardened at the wind's gentle caress. The sun's rays felt like warm hands on her thighs. No longer just a biker's whore, but Mother Nature blending with the Creator. Clean, pure, even virginal.

And it felt so damn good!

Snake's course voice broke the spell, bringing her crashing back to reality. "Hey, Sweet Cheeks! Haul your ass over here!" Snake, his heavy gun once again in his hand, motioned at a cluster of large boulders just in front of them. Flame reluctantly drew her revolver, wincing where the shoulder holster had rubbed against her breast. Her empty belly rumbled. Licking her dry lips, the two of them silently converged on the pile of rocks.

All they found was a weathered signpost, information etched into the blasted board. They were apparently standing on the summit of Little Haystack; 4,659 feet above sea level, 3.2 miles from the parking lot. To the right the open ridge led to Mt. Liberty and on up to Mt. Flume. To the left, a mile away and several hundred feet above them, was Mt. Lincoln. A mile beyond that, unseen from where they stood, Mt. Lafayette waited majestically, its 5,260 foot summit lost in the clouds.

"There's nobody here,", Flame said, an odd feeling of relief flooding through her. The trail, marked by stone cairns, stretched away on both sides. The beauty of it all struck her again as she gazed wide-eyed at the majestic vista. Suddenly she felt very small and frail. The heavy gun in her hand seemed like an obscenity.

"Well, great white hunter, which way now?" Blade's voice was as sharp as his name, his cold eyes boring into Snake. Behind him stood Bull, looking like a giant sucker drowning in a stagnant pool.

Snake glanced about. The ridge seemed to stretch away to infinity. Gently down in both directions; though to the left it merely dipped into a boulder strewn gully before rising steeply again. He pointed up at Mt. Lincoln with the long barrel of his Colt Python.

"That way. These bastards think there real tough. They'll go up till their fucking noses bleed! Well, we'll show them who's tough, right Bull?"

Bull, however, looked anything but tough. Sitting massaging his leg, he sucked in air like a leaky bellows. The grey rock beneath the wound was splattered red. Snake strode over to him.

"They killed Runt, Bull. Killed Rings too! Tossed her at me like a piece of meat! They hurt Blade and they hurt Flame. And they hurt you! Now we're going to hurt them!"

The big man's head lifted, making him look like a hound scenting the wind.

"Ya, Snake! I want to hurt them real bad!"

Snake slapped him on the shoulder. "I knew I could count on you, Bull. Once we get them, we'll fix up your leg. They'll have bandages and shit. Food too! What do ya say?"

Bull grinned and heaved himself to his feet. More blood dripped onto the rocks. Blade swore and Flame turned away.

"As for you two," Snake said, again drawing his heavy revolver; "move out, now! Blade, you lead. I want you where I can see you. Me and Bull will bring up the rear."

Blade glared back at the bearded madman, then stalked off towards Mt. Lincoln. Flame picked up her bag and started down the gentle slope. She felt lightheaded. Snake grabbed her arm. "You stay just in front of me. Your ass is still the best view up here."

"Pig", she muttered, walking behind the rocks by the signpost to put on her pants and shirt.

Watching her walk away, Snake laughed. Bull joined in, though he had no idea why. But Snake did, and for Snake, that was all that really mattered

***
**Chapter 17** **: 'SHOWDOWN AT WITCH'S HEAD'**

Franconia Ridge Trail

_New Hampshire, July 4_ th _(Day 14)  
_

"Hey, Mr. Williams!", Billy called. "They're coming!"

Josh waved back at the young man, signaling him to climb down. Billy had been sitting up on the huge chunk of bare granite called _'The Witch's Head'_. Over the slow passing of the millennia, the wind and rain had shaped the giant slab into the form of an old woman's face, hooked nose and all.

The rest of them were in the jumble of weathered boulders below Witch's Head, half way between Little Haystack and Mt. Lincoln. This was the narrowest part of the ridge; a place where the trail shrank to a twisting footpath marked with splashes of paint. A thousand foot drop fell away on both sides. A perfect place for an ambush.

Josh sat on a slab of granite overlooking Chimney Rock, a sixty foot finger of stone thrusting up out of the steep slope just below The Witch's Head. How many thousands of years had it stood there? How many thousands of hikers had sat were he now sat, gazing in wonder at tons of rock seemingly defying gravity?

And how many were left to see it now?

His mind cast itself back to the last time he had passed this way. The summer before this. Jessie had been away at camp and for two weeks Josh and his wife had roamed New England in their camper. The beauty of Acadia Park in Main; the noisy, frantic hustle of Old Orchard; the slower, quieter charm of The Yorks. His wife's face hovered before him. Romantic walks on the beach; lobsters, clams and wine at their campsites; making gentle love in their camper. And all the time she knew where he a large part of him longed to be --- back here hiking the White Mountains.

Baking on a crowded beach was not his style, and so they had spent one week at the ocean and one week in the mountains. Swimming in the sun-warmed lakes and the cold, rushing streams, and hiking the numerous, winding trails and open ridges.

Fighting vertigo all the way, she had followed. He was so very proud of her for that. Each time they had passed this place she had trembled and he had lovingly held her hand. Above the treeline brought her closer to her own personal view of God, but as with all things, there was a price to pay. She paid it willingly and he had loved her all the more for it. He still did.

"I can see them, Dad! Halfway down the slope!"

Jessie's excited voice brought Josh out of his reverie. Looking back down the trail, he saw the four tiny figures. He raised his binoculars for a better look.

Blade was way out in front, just dipping down into the scrub filled hollow a quarter mile below them. The others followed a hundred yards behind. Flame leading, her hair a red flag blowing in the breeze. Snake and the big one, Bull, followed close behind. Josh saw that Bull was limping badly.

He looked at the anxious faces all around him and tried to smile. Og licked his face. Princess stood by Jessie's side. "You all know the plan. Blade will get here first. When he's halfway through, Brad and I will jump him. Those behind won't see or hear a thing. Billy will help us tie and gag him and drag him off the trail."

"What if he fights back or something?", Kenneth asked.

"He won't have time, son,", Brad said. "We'll be fine."

Josh continued. "Once Blade's down, we stay hidden till the others reach the narrow ledge below us. I'll fire a shot in the air and order them to surrender. Tina, you watch Flame. Billy, you get Bull. Brad and I will handle Snake and the boys will cover us from up here."

Jessie scratched Og's ears. "And if they don't surrender?"

Josh's answer was swift and slightly forced. "They will, Jess. Caught in the open like that, they'll have no choice."

He turned to Eddy, forcing a smile he didn't feel. "You've got the tricky part. Hide in the scrub down below till they've walked by you, then cover their escape."

Eddy looked at everyone, then winked at Jessie and Ken. "You guys make sure the dogs are quiet. Any barking will give us away."

Jessie nodded and both boys leashed the dogs and took them behind the large boulders under The Witch's Head. Keeping low, Eddy trotted back down the trail and vanished into the thick, low scrub.

The rear guard was set. Now the waiting began.

***

Blade felt like shit. His feet hurt, his head 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 low 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 of the others. "Fuck it!", he muttered. Slipping the strap of his rifle over his shoulder, 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, sandy gully.

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 started up the trail. Snake and Bull shuffled along behind.

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

Then another thought intruded, stabbing her mind like an icicle through the eye. _'What if I find him dead? His neck broken from a fall! What then? Do I even care?'_ She knew the answer --- she cared for him, but she didn't love him. Suddenly 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!" she hissed. 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 danced around her head.

'Good old God-fearing Daddy \--- may the belt-swinging bastard burn in hell!'

"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 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 rattler.

_'Strange'_ she thought, for 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. The muzzle of a black handgun shoved in her face.

"Don't make a sound," a voice said. A cool voice; nervous but in control. A leader's voice. She'd heard enough frightened assholes to know the difference.

The voice was speaking again. Telling her to nod if she understood. She did and 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; forty something 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.

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 were standing above her --- they helped her climb up and walked her behind a large boulder.

Blade was there, bound ,gagged and glaring hatred.

***

"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 slowly 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 beer gut bouncing with each labored step

***

Eddy had watched from his hiding place in the scrub as Blade, had gone past him. Then a period of waiting had followed. Then he'd heard Snake cursing and a single shot. Soon after Flame had gone by. 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!'_

Then Bull had suffled by. The big man was dragging his wounded leg and talking to himself. Eddy clearly heard the word 'Rings'. Snake came along a minute or two later, 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 what was happening with Josh and the others.

The seconds dragged by like hours. Then the another shot came. A rifle shot, 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 father's old deer rifle held ready across his chest.

Rounding a bend, Eddy saw Bull and Snake less than thirty yards away standing in a dip in the trail. Their guns were raised, seeking something to shoot. Rocks rose up steeply all around them. Snake glanced back down the path and saw Eddy. The Colt Python 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 clear 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, watched as Blade moving towards her. Something was wrong! He was supposed to be tied. Then an object glittered in his hand and her wrists were suddenly free! Her gag vanished and Blade 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 dog watching her. A beagle, its brown eyes puzzled. Was it real? Everything seemed fuzzy, dreamlike. In a daze, her head pounding, she walked over to the dog. A rough, wet tongue licked her hand. A tail wagged.

Then she heard a shot. It sounded like Snake's big Python. 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 the world take on an otherworldly like stillness. Then Snake's arrogant voice shattered it all.

"Well now, Hayseed! It looks to me 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 just back off, eh? Give things a chance to cool down."

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

"Eddy! You have Snake in your sights?"

"Sure thing, Josh!" Eddy yelled back from his prone position back down the trail. "He's lined up right in the cross-hairs!"

"I'm going to count to five, Eddy," Josh replied; "If any of these bastards are still holding a weapon when I get to five, you put one in Snake's chest! Front or back, it doesn't maker --- just bring the bugger 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 yelled, 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 of her father best left undisturbed.

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

"Two!", Josh said.

Snake glared around him, the heavy Python 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 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 Snake's spine.

"You can run the group, Blade!", Snake yelled. "I swear it, man! You can be the boss! 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 .44 Ruger was almost as big as Snake's Colt Python. 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 towards Flame, pulling Tina with him. 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 small Glock Lightweight 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 whole in the back of his head, however, was much larger. Punched back by the impact, his dead arms released both the knife and Tina as he stumbled backwards off into empty space. The body b fell like a stone, bouncing twice before it finally came to rest far below Witch's Head. A trick of light as the sun went behind a cloud cause the old stone crone to look like she was smiling.

Snake was still alive, but he had a very large hole in his shoulder and Bull's two hundred plus body laying across his legs. 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 towards Flame. She had slumped down and was gazing over the long fall that had claimed her lover. Tina's pistol lay at her feet. The pup Og ran forward and licked her hand.

Billy had gone over to Tina and now sat with his arm around her. Brad and the two boys went to stand by Josh and Eddy soon joined them. Brad pointed at the gully. Out of sight twenty feet below them they could hear Snake's heavy breathing.

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

A mental picture of the man Eddy had leg shot back at the barricade less than a week ago came to Josh's mind. _'Christ_!', he thought. _'How many times am I going to have to do this?!'_

'As many times as you need to,' the answer from somewhere inside his head. The silent voice sounded a lot like old Doc Gruber's.

"Look out!", Billy suddenly screamed, groping for his pistol. 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 long barrel of the .357 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 18** **: 'A LEOPARD'S SPOTS'**

Green Leaf Hut

The White Mountains

_New Hampshire July 8_ th _(Day 18)  
_

Brad sat in a rocking chair on the front porch of the hut reading a well thumbed Western. Something by Max Brand called 'Blood Red Spurs'. The gunslinger-hero had just saved the beautiful and very well endowed dance hall queen from the usual 'fate worse than death'. Scarface Calhoon's men had just tried to pork her on the bar. Old Max had put it a little more delicately than that but Brad had always liked to call a spade a spade. Naturally our hero had saved the day. Old Max had thrown in a well-used twist to the humdrum plot however; the hero had taken a slug in the arm. Naturally the buxom beauty was nursing him back to health.

Closing the book, Brad went inside to check on his cousin. Josh's head was wrapped in torn sheets. Dried blood had stained his left temple again all the way around to his ear. The face, usually so intense and tanned, now looked pale and drawn. But he was still breathing, which was one hell of a lot more than Brad expected three days ago.

Snake's bullet had struck the side of Josh's head just a split second before his own exploded. Both Billy and Tina had fired at the same time. It was impossible to say which one had killed him. Maybe they both had. Anyway, the bastard was dead and Josh was alive and that was what counted.

It had taken them till well past dark to reach Greenleaf Hut. Carrying Josh's unconscious, bleeding body on a litter made from packs, they had struggled the rest of the way up Mt. Lafayette and then the long mile down to the hut. Thank God for flashlights! Josh had lain there for nearly three days now and hadn't woken yet.

Brad got up and went inside to check on his sleeping cousin. Seeing no change from the last three days, he sat down beside the bed and went back to his reading.

Most books rarely had bugger all to do with real life, but 'Blood Red Spurs' did have an odd kind of parallel to their own situation. His mind began mentally ticking off the similarities between the novel's plot and their present plight. There were quite a few.

Asshole Gulch, or wherever the story had taken place, was a long, hard ride from the bunkhouse they now found themselves in; yet, perched on a bare knob of rock some 4,000 plus feet above their vehicles at the Ranger's Cabin, they were as cut off from the rest of the world as you could get! (Not that there was a hell of a lot of the world left to be 'cut off' from!)

Brad pushed THAT little tit-bit away and returned to his book.

Asshole Gulch had a drunken piano player. Out in the main room he could hear Billy plinking away on an old guitar he'd found. One of the dead kitchen crew must have been a music lover, though Billy swore the instrument wasn't worth shit.

Asshole Gulch had a dewy-eyed 'perty y'ung thang' that slaved away cooking ten-pound steaks for the hungry cowboys. Brad could smell flap-jacks cooking in the kitchen. Jessie, Kenneth and the two dogs were eagerly waiting to gobble up anything and everything Tina placed before them. Tina had spent two summers working in these huts and was as much at home making bread and making home-made beans as she was carrying a fifty pound sack of flour up a trail.

Every Western also has its 'nice guy', someone to hold things together while the hero was off doing whatever it is heroes do when they're not saving the day. 'Blood Red Spurs' had been no different. Phinious T. Potter had run the local newspaper. Brad, being the only business man in the bunch, supposed he qualified for the role. Eddy seemed typecast for the role of the hero's sidekick; honest, brave and loyal.

But when it came to the dance hall queen with the heart of gold beating beneath a magnificent chest, they had a problem. Flame, though she did have a magnificent chest, didn't quite fit the bill.

First off she'd ridden with the bad guys. Secondly, she'd been ridden _by_ the bad guys! And in most cases willingly! Brad thought that even old Max-the-Brand himself would have one hell of a time with THAT little plot twist!

Sitting there looking out at the rugged moonscape of Mt. Lafayette, Brad let his mind continue to drift. After the fight, Flame seemed to have been in a kind of trance. True, two days of struggling up a mountain with no food and very little water water and then shooting your lover in the head, might tend to put anyone's mood off somewhat; yet right after Josh had been shot, she seemed to snap out of it and want to help. She said she had some 'first hand knowledge of gunshot wounds' and did a damn good job of stopping the bleeding!

Later, between swigging water and chewing on pepperoni, she'd gladly taken her turn with the litter. Once they reached the hut, she'd help dress his wounds again. She had even sat up with Tina for the last two nights taking turns watching over him.

Yesterday, when Brad had shooed them all outside so he could give Josh a sponge bath and change his sheets, Flame had raced the boys up to the top of Lafayette. And won! Later he'd seen Jessie showing her how to use his bow. Kenneth, Jessie and her had 'gone hunting' after that and damned if they didn't come back with a rabbit! Kenneth had hit it with his .22 target pistol. The three of them had come whooping and hollering back up the trail like a band of Indians, though even Brad had to admit, in her cut-off jeans and sweat-stained t-shirt, Flame looked like one sexy Pocahontas!

The implications of that last thought shocked him. Bloody Hell! His cousin had been shot by a maniac, his wife and daughter had been turned to ashes not two weeks ago, the whole fucking world had gone to hell, and here he was ogling a motorcycle whore who had shot her lover in the head!

He didn't think of Tina that way, and she was young and cute!

Cautiously he examined that thought a little more, worrying over it like a sore tooth. Shock, he reasoned. They were all still in a state of shock. Jesus H. Christ! They'd just gone through the end of the world and topped that off with a shoot-out with a psychopath and his biker gang! Little wonder he looked around longingly for a little love and kindness! Being drawn to Flame's sexuality could be nothing more than his reaffirmation of life, a way of convincing himself that he was still alive!

_'Christ!'_ he swore to himself. _'Now I sound like a bloody Doctor Phil rerun!'_

Yet the problem of Flame would not go away. Nor, he noted wryly, was he the _only_ male she was having an effect on.

This morning he had been watching Eddy and Billy target practicing. While the two of them had been blasting away, Flame had wandered over. After a while Billy had let her try. The young idiot had actually handed her his gun! Brad had held his breath as she took the weapon. Slowly she had aimed and fired, hitting four of the six cans the men had set up. Brad had only started breathing again when she handed the large gun back to a wide-eyed Billy. Next he'd watched dumbfounded as the young fool dug her Smith & Wesson out of his pack, complete with shoulder holster and all, and actually given it to her! Eddy had looked uneasy about the decision, but Billy had insisted.

Checking to see the gun was loaded, she had fired twice, hitting the two remaining cans. Then she had done something strange. She handed the smoking gun to Eddy and ran off to set the cans up again. Billy had stood in open awe of both her ability as well as the way she moved as she went to set up the cans

Even Tina seemed to accept her. Yet why not? By shooting Blade, hadn't Flame saved the girl's life? Only Eddy seemed unchanged by the amazing Amazon that had deigned to wander amongst them. Eddy, Brad realized, didn't trust her --- That made Brad feel somewhat better, and somewhat guilty.

He got up and trickled a little water into his cousin's mouth. He then wiped his chin, checked his breathing, and went into the main room. The boys were at the table, waiting for Tina to pronounce her muffins ready for consumption. Billy was trying to tune a guitar with only five strings.

"How's Dad?", Jessie asked.

"Still sleeping. He took some water."

Jessie got up and went silently into his father.

Brad ruffled his own son's hair. "Where's Eddy?"

"Outside somewhere," Kenneth smiled, then turned towards the kitchen. "Hey, Tina, those muffins ready yet?"

Brad found Eddy on the steps running an oily rag through the barrel of Josh's Winchester. His own Remington lay in pieces, the long scope carefully wrapped in a clean Green Leaf t-shirt. Eddy's eyes sought Brad's. The question didn't need to be spoken.

"Still the same," Brad sighed, sitting down heavily. Only with Eddy could he show his fear. Only with Eddy.

And Eddy didn't trust her.

They sat there in silence for a time, like two old friends soaking up the summer sun. Only with Eddy --- and with Josh.

But Josh might die.

"No!" Brad hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud.

Eddy ignored it, working the overlarge lever on Josh's short, powerful rifle. "The Duke's gun." There was more than a touch of reverence in his voice. "You know, I've seen just about every movie John Wayne ever made. A few of them were shit, but most of them were pure gold: Red River, Rio Grand, Fort Apache. My favorite two were The Searchers and True Grit. I saw that one a half dozen times. He was slowing down a bit near the end, but he could still kick ass!"

Suddenly he stood and did a passable impression of The Duke, then worked the lever with the famous 'flip'. "Josh does it better."

Both men smiled, then Brad asked where Flame was. Eddy handed him the long rifle scope and nodded at the rocky summit. Brad's smile vanished as he scanned the bare, rocky cone. The rugged peak leapt closer. A quarter of a mile from the top he saw a figure coming down at a fast pace, red hair flowing out behind. Setting the scope down, Brad met Eddy's gaze.

"What do we do about her?"

Eddy began assembling his Remington. "I've already talked to Tina about her. She thinks we should accept her. She says Flame's not like the others, that she just fell in with a bad crowd."

"You buy that?"

Eddy shrugged. "Could be. I think she likes excitement. The bikers gave her that. Now they're gone and we're here."

"What about when we meet a more 'exciting' group?"

Eddy shrugged again.

Jessie's high-pitched yell made them jump. "He's awake! Dad's awake!"

***

Two more days of rest, limited exercise and Tina's home cooking soon restored Josh's health. Except for a long scar on the left side of his head, he seemed almost as good as new. As for the 'Flame problem', Josh accepted her right from the start. He listened to Brad's doubts but pointed out that she had clearly made her choice by shooting Blade and saving Tina. Reluctantly Brad pushed his own doubts aside, along with his 'other' feelings.

The next day they began the three mile trek down to the road. Due to Josh's head wound they went slowly, reaching the Ranger Station by mid afternoon. Billy and the boys soon had the flats changed and early the next morning they were on their way towards Mt. Washington. By 9:30 AM they were in a wooded parking lot of the Cog Railway, at the base of the highest mountain in the east. A small, turn-of-the-century train sat in the bright sunlight, waiting patiently for the next load of tourists that would never come.

"You sure you're up to this?", Brad had asked his cousin. Josh had winked and shouldered his pack, though both Eddy and Billy had already shared out his heavy gear. Josh carried his rain gear, a sweater and a canteen. Tina, in the lead, kept the pace to an easy stroll.

Soon they were headed up the Ammonoosuc Ravine Trail to Lakes of the Clouds Hut. Built on a windswept plateau, with Mt. Washington's 6,288 foot peak towering another thousand feet above it, the hut was the highest in the entire system. Tina called it her favorite trail in all the White Mountains. A bitter-sweet memory flooded back to Josh as he remembered how much his wife had loved it as well.

Half way up they came to Jem Pool, a crystal clear basin of greenish-blue water at the bottom of a long series of falls and slides. All pulled out bathing suits and went off searching for a private place to change. When they returned, they found Flame and Og already in the pool. The water was crystal clear. Like the pup, Flame wore only the suit she was born with.

Grinning, Josh herded all the males further up to swim in the falls, leaving the pool for the females.

An hour later, on the steep trail above the pool, Brad, bringing up the rear, suddenly came across Flame sitting on a log drinking from a water bottle. The day had turned very hot and Flame's white t-shirt was soaked with sweat. Brad tried his damnedest to keep his eyes averted.

She patted the log beside her.

"Take a load off, Brad. I've been waiting to talk to you."

Brad sat down, not bothering to take off his pack.

"You don't trust me much, do you?"

Before he could respond, she continued. "Oh, I know you like what you see, but you still don't trust me." She turned to face him, her left breast brushing his arm. He suddenly felt like he'd been burned. Looking up into her green eyes, he saw both frankness and a hint of laughter. "I just wanted to let you know it's cool. I don't blame you for not trusting me. As for the other, well, I'm used to it. Most the time I even enjoy it."

Brad held her mocking gaze. "Why are you telling me this?"

She smiled, a real smile this time, with a hint of something else. "All my life I've been looking for something. I guess you'd call it freedom. That's why I hung out with bikers. I tried the surfer shit, but they're just brainless kids. For a while I hung around with rock bands, but all they wanted was drugs and endless sex. Bikers are much the same, but at least they _do_ things, _go_ places. They even have their own kind of honor. I like that about them best." She turned away, her voice dropping. "They're not all like that pig Snake."

Not knowing what else to say, Brad asked her about Blade. She smiled, yet there was a lingering sadness in her eyes. "He was up front. A nice guy. Under all the macho shit, he actually cared about me. It was him that saved me after the world went belly-up. Those first couple of days --- without him I wouldn't have made it."

"And yet you shot him." Brd said, the words out before being considered.

Her green eyes went the color of steel. "He was going to kill Tina. At first I thought it was just a bluff to get us away from Snake and you guys. But then I saw in his it was no bluff. He would have done her for sure if I hadn't \---."

She fumbled the top off her water bottle and took a sip. Brad thought she was either telling the truth or giving a damned good performance. A picture flashed in his mind of her accepting an Oscar for her part in the hit film 'Biker Sluts From Hell'. In his mind her dress was cut all the way to her navel.

When she turned back to face him, her Smith & Wesson was in her hand. Brad's heart skipped several beats. It was only after she reversed her grip and handed him the gun that he noticed there were tears in her eyes.

"I know you and Eddy don't trust me. The rest do, even Josh to a point, but you and Eddy don't. If I give you this, maybe you will."

Brad frowned down at the heavy gun as she continued.

"I don't want to be alone. Never have. And now that the world has changed ---" Her hands went to the hem of her sweat-stained t-shirt. Slowly it began to rise. "I've seen how you look at me. It's okay. Like I said, I like it." Brad suddenly found the sun very warm indeed. Her voice purred on, though he wasn't watching her lips. "I just thought that maybe we could be --- friends."

His hand slowly reached out. His fingers touched hers --- gently pulling the shirt back down. Then his eyes sought hers. They looked as deep and clear as the beautiful Gem Pool. His voice sounded lower than usual.

"I'd like to be your friend. And to be honest, I'd like the other as well --- but not this way."

"Why not?", she asked. "I can tell you want to."

Brad smiled warmly. "Friends don't take advantage of friends."

She sat looking at him for some time, then leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "You're one of the 'good guys', aren't you? Just like Josh." Then she hefted her pack and started up the trail. After a few strides she stopped and looked back. There was a hint of mischief now in those green eyes. "I hoped things would turn out this way --- that you'd turn down my offer --- I just didn't think you would."

With that she was gone up the trail, leaving Brad to ponder the double meaning to her words.

***
**Chapter 19** **: 'THE SILENT BARD'**

San Bernardino

_California July 8_ th _(Day 18)_

Jocko Wellington was not in a good mood, and when that happened, more than shit hit the fan. Bobby-Joe Burlis glanced nervously at George the Man. Both had been given field promotions over a week ago. Now, as senior officers in the Army of the Dark Stranger, Jocko held them accountable for any and all screw-ups.

They'd been in San Bernardino for three days now. Every few hours one of Jocko's Sweep Crews, led by an original recruit from China Lake, brought in new applicants. These were quickly processed. Name, age and a brief background were noted, along with any special skills or abilities. Then the applicant was 'tested'. Those that passed were issued army fatigues and given the rank of private; those that failed were taken out back and shot. The pile of bodies at the rear of the plush hotel was growing, but not nearly as quickly as the 'army' itself was. It seemed that a large number of the survivors, especially the younger males , had a 'Mad Max' fantasy that they were eager to play out.

Still, Jocko was far from satisfied. For one thing, the goddamned power was off! Not just here, but everywhere! It happened the day after they arrived. Power meant not only that the lights didn't work, but the elevators, stoves, fridges, everything electrical had all suddenly gone the way of the fucking dinosaur!

Then there was the goddamned traffic! Stalled, wrecked and abandoned cars everywhere! It had been bad enough coming down I-15 from Barstow, but the closer they had gotten to San Bernardino, the worse it had become. The centre of town was a bloody nightmare!

Surprisingly it was Lt. Walter _'Piss-In-His-Pants'_ Pinkton who had come to Jocko's rescue. The timid little faggot was a fucking genius when it came to organization! The Sweep Crews had been Walter's idea, as had the Road Crews who cleared the area around the hotel and the Cook Crews who found propane stoves and supplies and kept Jocko's growing army eating as well as moving. Even the Test Crews had been Pinkton's brainchild!

No longer was the 'initiation' one long drawn-out drunken gang-rape. No way Hoe-Say! 'Wicked Walter' had suggested that each candidate be told very clearly exactly what was expected of him, then taken to one of the hotel's testing rooms. Inside he'd find an armed guard at the door and a woman sitting on a bed. If the candidate was eager to participate, he passed. No actual rape was needed, just the willingness was enough. If he didn't , well, the Sweep Crews were bringing in a constant line of new candidates and Walter's Burial Crews were there to take care of those who failed. That dubious duty, the Burial Crews, fell to the newly recruited members of Jocko's merry men. After that they moved up to the Latrine Crews. As newly made Lieutenant Georgie-Porgie laughingly reminded them: "It may be a 'shitty job' boys, but it beats the hell out of shoveling bodies into shallow graves!"

Jocko had set Pinkton the up in the room down the hall from his. There the little prick was told to write down any and all ideas that came into his perverted but very fertile mind. Jocko had been so pleased with the little shit's twisted plans that he had given him his pick of the women. Walter had chosen the skinny blonde they had found hiding in the church at Barstow. Though he hadn't seen it himself, Bobby-Joe had told him that Walter kept her chained to the bed and higher than a kite on pills Rat supplied him.

Jocko reasoned that it never hut to know a man's weaknesses.

"What is it, gentlemen?", He quietly asked the two men suddenly standing before him. Jocko's voice, coming from behind the manager's large desk in the Plaza Hotel, was soft, cold and very dangerous.

Bobby-Joe glanced at George, then spoke up. "It's the fucking traffic, Jocko! The road to the airport is jammed with wrecks!"

"Then clear them, Lieutenant. By tomorrow."

"I'll need more men and more tow-trucks."

Jocko looked down at the duty roster Walter had drawn up. "Use the Road Crew working outside. Take Corporal Shehe and his Weapons Crew as well. But get it done!"

Bobby-Joe scrubbed the stubble on his chin. He was tired, filthy and in need of a hot shower and a cold drink. He was also pissed off and about to step out on some very thin ice. "Shit, Jocko, what's the fucking rush? I mean, we're stretched out as it is! Half the men are out on Sweeps, the other half are working there asses off 'round here!"

Jocko smiled, all the while fixing him with that cold stare . Bobby-Joe suddenly felt the already thin ice get one hell of a lot thinner. His stomach did a half-gainer while his scrotum headed northwards.

"By tomorrow, Lieutenant." The moment stretched away into eternity, then was gone as Jocko turned that cold smile from Bobby-Joe to George. "How are the Tests coming along?"

George the Man fumbled a small notebook from his pocket. "Pam the Bitch says another seven men passed. That makes a total of twenty-one in three days. Pretty good, eh?"

"How many women found?"

George didn't need to refer to his notes for that one. "Five today, but two of them were old scags. I assigned them to the Cook Crew. The three younger ones went to the Test Crew."

"Well done, Lieutenant. If you wish, you may choose one for the rest of your shift."

George the Man's expression lit up. Since they'd reached town they'd been working eighteen hour shifts. "Fucking-A!"

"Dismissed, gentlemen."

Bobby-Joe was hastily following an ecstatic George out the door when Jocko softly called him back. Walking around to meet him, Jocko placed a hand on the shorter, heavier man's shoulder.

"We're moving blind here, Bobby-Joe. As you yourself pointed out, ground travel is hampered by the traffic, yet I need to see what's out there. A blind army is easily defeated. I need to reach that airport."

Bobby-Joe nodded, willing himself not to sweat. "Okay, Jocko. I'll do my best."

Jocko clapped him on the shoulder; his voice had that velvet edge to it that sent shivers down Bobby-Joe's spine. "I know you will. Oh, and Bobby-Joe, when you get the road cleared, tell George to pass on his new distraction to you when he's finished. Just as failure should not go unpunished, I believe hard work should not go unrewarded."

Bobby-Joe nodded and left quickly, glad to have escaped the room alive. It didn't do to disappoint Jocko. It didn't do at all!

***

Four doors down from where Bobby-Joe stood sweating in the hall, Lt. Walter J. Pinkton stood looking down at the naked girl on the bed. As her eyes widened with fear, a little shiver of his own ran down his spine. The pretty blonde pulled on the handcuffs chaining her to the brass bed. Stepping forward, he grabbed her long hair.

Lovely. Soft. _His!_

The act itself didn't take very long. When it was over he walked on trembling knees into the bathroom. Ten minutes later, having showered and put on clean fatigues, he was once again sitting at his desk, pen in hand. The blonde on the bed now forgotten.

He wrote on the thick, leather bound journal, his letters neat and precise.

1]Data base needed. Get tablet or lap-top computer.

2]Portable gas generators needed.

3]Look into heating hot water for officers.

4]Burial Crew changed to Flame Crew.

5]Topographical maps of area needed.

6]Double number of Testing Teams.

7]Double number of Weapons Training Crews.

The blonde let out a little whimper. He frowned at her, then turned back to his list.

8]Get more pills from Rat.

9]Set up Transportation Crew. Buses trucks use CB's.

10]Set up Communications Crew. Check local radio stations.

He paused for a moment, a cold smile crossing his pinched features.

11]Set up Punishment Crew.

12]Public execution for all offenders.

13]Crucifixions or beheadings?

14]Heads on poles sends better message

15]plus bodies can be burned.

16]Check with Jocko!!!

Satisfied, Walter put his gold pen down and poured himself a glass of wine. All in all, it had been a very successful morning. In fact, these last two weeks had been the best in his career! _'Where, he mused as he sipped his wine, 'had it all started? Ah, yes. With the death of God. Well, not God really, but with the_ idea _of God._

_But then, wasn't that the same thing?_ '

A song from the long ago prayer meetings Ma and Pa Pinkton had dragged him to sprang unbidden into his head. The tune was familiar, but the words, like the world itself, had changed.

'Jocko loves me this I know,

My Baptist background tells me so.'

God has turned away His face.

Now Jocko sits in His high place.'

What had that stupid priest called him? 'The Antichrist'?

Fool! Jocko had saved the idiot from a useless life of bland ignorance! Just as he had saved Walter J. Pinkton from the same fate!

Walter reached again for the wine bottle. As he did so his eye fell on a book he had picked up in the Barstow Public Library _. The Complete Works of William Shakespeare._ Walter had always wanted to be an actor, a fact that would have sent both his parents to their guilt-ridden knees frantically begging their deaf God just where the holy-fuck they had they gone wrong!

But young, wayward Walter hadn't wanted to be just _any_ actor. Lord Almighty no! Foolish, impractical Walter had dreamt of becoming a Shakespearean actor --- a thespian to the great Bard himself! Deep in his soul Walter believed that already was, knowing so many of the great one-liners by heart.

'Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!'

_'Out, out damned spot!'_ or the ever popular:

'To be, or not to be --- that is the question.'

At Military Collage he had plucked up his courage and nervously tried out for the school's production of Henry V. All his 'great skill' had won him was a nonspeaking part, but at least he had been involved! It had been the highlight to his otherwise uneventful life. The costumes, the color, the pageantry, while all around him the great Bard's words rang in his ears! Almost breathless with stage-fright, he had been the one to help the young King Harry up onto the cart when he gave his famous pep-talk just before the Battle of Agincourt. Even back then Walter could recite the monologue at ease --- as long as he was alone in front of a locked bathroom mirror. Put another living being in front of him and his traitorous tongue did a swan dive into the crapper. Still, the golden words lingered in his twisted brain.

'He that has no stomach for this fight, let him depart!

We would not die in that man's company

That fears his fellowship to die with us!'

Walter liked that! A 'fellowship of soldiers', a 'band of brothers', all sworn to win together --- or die together.

As a child Walter had been lonely. Growing up on a poor excuse for a farm with even poorer excuse for parents, young Walter had retreated into fantasy. Comics first; moving quickly through sci-fi and romantic adventures, on to poetry, the classics; then, finally, the Bard himself. But grass-root Fundamental Baptists would have no truck with any of the Devil's Playthings! Gambling, dancing, rock music --- or acting! All of them were very high up on the very long and often quoted 'Though Shalt Not' List.

When a skinny, bispeckled Walter had nervously announced that he was going into the army, his mother had literally fallen on her knees. What followed was a great deal of wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth. Walter's father however, secretly fearing that his puny offspring was a sodomite-in-the-making, agreed, saying that maybe, with God's help, the army could make a man out of him.

Walter left that very next day and never went back.

Military College, however, turned out to be somewhat of a disappointment for both Walter and his father. Though his grades were good, his social skills were in the toilet. His classmates found him a geek. His instructors found him weak. Later, his fellow officers at China Beach found him a weak geek. Walter firmly believed that his own father also found him a weak geek as well, with a side-order of closet-queen thrown in.

Walter himself had been tempted to agree with them. Only when he let his mind roam through the glorious tragedies of Shakespeare did his life seem to take on meaning. Hamlet's famous soliloquy of self-doubt: _"To be or not to be",_ fit him like a glove.

Then Great Plague had happened and everything changed!

At first he had been terribly afraid. He awoke feeling like the mad King Lear left alone on the wild and tempestuous heath. Demons beset him on all sides. Waving bayonets and AR-15's instead of swords, but demons none-the-less! Killings, rapes, and a host of casual cruelties. And Jocko had led them. A character bigger than life itself! Wicked Richard the Third and bloody Macbeth all rolled into one! The Prince of Darkness strutting boldly across the stage, gathering his demonic hoard!

'And at His heels, leashed in like hounds,

Famine, Fire and Sword, crouched for employment!

The revelation shook him to the very roots of his being.

But then something _else_ very strange had happened to him. A type of inner awakening or mental metamorphosis began to take place inside him. With the killing of the priest in Bakersfield, Walter had suddenly realized that not only was the World dead, but that God Himself was dead as well --- if indeed He had ever lived at all!

Right after that Walter had plucked up his courage and gone to Jocko; had 'auditioned' for him in such a way that he won not only a part in the macabre drama, but a major role! A part that called for him to do more than act, but to _create_ as well! To dip into the dark well-spring of his mind and draw forth all the gloriously pagan fantasies he had kept locked away since childhood!

Sitting there in his room with a naked love-slave chained to his bed, he sipped from a glass that in his mind's eye had become a jewel-encrusted goblet, and all the while the Bard's words thundered across the dream-scape that was his demented mind.

'Tis now the very witching hour of the night.

Now could I drink hot blood!

And do such bitter business

As the day would quake to look apon!'

Grinning like Yorik's skull, Walter turned towards the bed. A golden cascade of hair moved on the silken sheets. A wanton slut encased in a virgin's flawless shell. His. To do with as he so chose. The mere thought of such power made his head spin!

The wine glass slipped from his hand, spilling its redness into the plush hotel carpet. Hot blood turning swiftly cool. The warmth in his groin suddenly cooling as well. Lust having flown, there remained the lasting residue of love. Not for the thing on the bed, but for the one that had put her there.

Jocko.

The Savior.

The Antichrist.

The Dark Stranger.

To Walter he was all these things and more!

The boy-king Harry spoke again in Walter's ear, only this time with Jocko's voice.

'We few, we happy few. We band of brothers!

When Walter had first read those words he had openly wept. Even now they moved him to tears. Getting drunkenly to his feet, he staggered over to the bed. The creature waiting there for her Lord, cowered back, but the Lord marked it not. Instead, the master of all he surveyed, laid down on the bed, curled up into a ball and slept the sleep of fallen angels.

***
**Chapter 20** **: 'THE LOST BOYS'**

Los Angeles

_California July 10_ th _(Day 20)  
_

Jocko did indeed reach Rialto Municipal Airport the next day, and he brought with him most of the original China Beach crew. He'd left Bobby-Joe in charge of the new recruits. Walter was also left behind. Flight Lieutenant Sam Waterman, however, was not. Indeed, being the only one who could fly, Sam was the key to the whole operation. The nurse, Shirley Bates, was also there to make sure Sammy-boy did as he was told. As a precaution, Jocko also brought two of the newer females as well. If push came to shove, he could always off one of them and still have the nurse to bargain with. The second one was just in case Sammy-boy got a little testy. Clearly Jocko was a man who believed in planning ahead.

After some searching, they found a twin-engine twenty seater all gassed up and ready to go. After clearing one runway, Sixteen heavily armed 'vets', including Pam the Bitch and Pussbag, climbed on board.

By 8:30 AM they were airborne.

The flight plan was simple. Fly west ninety miles and circle over L.A. If things looked kosher, they could then land at Santa Monica Municipal Airport. Beverly Hills was only a dozen miles north-west. It had always been Jocko's life-long dream to live there. Not because of the actors. He knew instinctively he'd have nothing in common with those stuck-up assholes. Something else besides the 'big names' drew him; the pools, the maids, the chauffeurs, the fucking 'works'. But most of all, the _power!_

Now it seemed his dream would soon be coming true.

Half an hour later, Lt. Sam Waterman banked the plain sharply to the left. A thousand feet below them, the tangled metropolis spread out in all directions. Jocko, sitting in the co-pilot's seat, looked eagerly down on his kingdom-to-be.

A vast network of concrete veins crisscrossed the area. L.A., after all, was a city in which the car was not only a status symbol, but a necessity. Without wheels in L.A., you got nowhere. Now, looking down at the endless wrecks and mile-long pile-us, Jocko realized the centre city was lost to him. A wasteland of rusting metal, accessible only on foot. He told Sam to fly north toward West Hollywood. Beverly Hills lay just beyond that. As they flew over the less populated area, they left the clogged freeways behind. To the left the parched, brown hills gave way to the greens of the much higher Santa Monica Mountains. In the far distance the snowy peaks of the Sierra Madres thrust up above the horizon.

Jocko consulted a detailed map of the area. The tall buildings behind them, he had Sam drop down to three hundred feet and cut his speed. His heart gave a little jump as they passed over the seemingly endless lots of Twentieth Century Fox Studios. Wilshire Golf Course lay spread out beneath him. Off to the right the Hollywood Bowl gleamed like a diamond in the sun. Then they were over Sunset Blvd. Coldwater Canyon led up to the homes of the once fabulously rich and famous and now the very fabulously dead and forgotten. Jocko, heir to the suddenly vacant throne, was about to claim the crown.

Then he saw them. A yellow jeep and a dark van winding their way down Laurel Canyon Drive. The jeep had three or four people in it. Grabbing his binoculars, Jocko had Sam bank around for a closer look. What he saw did not make him a happy camper.

The jeep did indeed hold four people. All of them looked like teenagers and all of them were loaded for bear. The van had a section of the top cut away and what looked like a machine gun mounted on the top. A quarter mile in front of the jeep were two motorcycles. Two more brought up the rear.

"Shit!", Jocko swore.

Sam turned his way and grinned for the first time in three weeks. "Looks like you're not the only one who wants to take a dip in Madonna's pool."

Jocko smiled coldly. "Take us down, fly-boy."

***

Ten minutes later they had landed at Santa Monica Airport. Half an hour after that they were driving up the boulevard with the same name. Their vehicles were two large cargo trucks and a monstrous thing best described as a bulldozer on wheels. Roy Heller led in a small red pick-up with Rat riding shotgun in the back. Jocko was heading for the promised land and he had no intention of going empty handed.

Pam Gliss, affectionately known as Sergeant Bitch, sat in the back as the open bulldozer wound its way up into Beverly Hills. Her AR-15 rested across her lap; the long, 30 round magazine nestled between her thighs. Looking on in wonder at the mansions all round her, Pam tuned to Tim Galt.

"Look at that one, Timmy! Sheee-yit! We could have landed the fucking plain on the front lawn!"

Tim, grinning like a fool, nodded. Jocko and his driver, Nathan Height, road up front. Pussbag sat like a living gargoyle on the hood, just behind the dozers triangular scoop. Up ahead, Roy's red pick-up led the way. Rat stood in the back, a rope holding him upright, his Defender shotgun clutched in both hands.

They'd been winding through the hills for over an hour now and hadn't spotted anyone. Wrecks were few and far between. A Rolls here, a Jag there. A little while ago they'd passed a Porsche smashed into a stone wall, but for the most part the going was easy.

Then they rounded a bend and saw the yellow jeep parked by a large wrought-iron fence. Two teenagers sat drinking and smoking in the shade. Loud rock music blasted from their vehicle so neither one heard a thing until Jocko's dozer plowed into the rear of the jeep.

As the sound of grinding metal reached their foggy brains, they both jumped up and grabbed for their guns. Both were dead before the weapons were half way out.

The front gates were unlocked. A nudge from the Toyota made them swing wide. Rat, reloading his smoking Defender, looked back at Jocko for orders. Getting the go ahead, he banged on the pick-up's roof.

"Floor it, Reg. It's fucking Miller Time!"

The red Toyota roared up the tree-lined drive, the dozer and the two cargo trucks following.

***

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 was already in orbit. Her large, vacant eyes gazed dreamily off into space. The uppers Chad had taken on the way back from the Farmers Market 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 something still felt wrong. That little voice in the back of his 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. Reality was the worm inside 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 still sitting on his lap. 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.

Jocko 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 Jocko 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.

Jocko 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. Jocko asked several more questions, then told someone to give Chad a towel. He took it gratefully.

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

Chad nodded.

Jocko 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," Jocko beamed.

"But you can't ---!"

The cannon boomed, taking with it Chad's objections, half his hearing and a tiny chunk of his left ear.

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

The gun lowered. "I thought you'd see the light." Jocko 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.

Jocko's soldiers formed a circle around them. The two women among them, Pam Gliss and a relative newcomer named Eva Madeau, both brandished AR-15'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. Jocko 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 Jocko 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 Plague--- 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 Jocko 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 Jocko would see to all that. Bad Chad was still leader of the Lost Boys, but now they weren't lost any more. Jocko 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 Jocko 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!"

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

"Yes, Sir!"

Jocko 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 AR-15 into the open mouth. The brunette ceased her struggling.

Still smiling, Jocko 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! Jocko 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 fucking 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 21** **: 'THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA'**

Acadia National Park

_Maine July 20_ th _(Day 30)  
_

Flame's new Harley led the way over the low bridge. Behind her came the two vans. The tow-truck brought up the rear. Several bullet holes on the passenger's side showed that it had been a rough couple of weeks in more ways than one.

On either side of them the sea sparkled like diamonds in the afternoon sun. Ahead lay Acadia National Park, a mountainous kidney shaped chunk of the Maine coast that thrust itself a dozen miles out into the cold, blue Atlantic.

They had just come down from Bangor, where they had spent a few days with Maybelle Smith and her group. Maybelle was the new Mayor of Bangor, elected unanimously by the seventeen survivors of that fair city. Maybelle, in Josh's words, was a real pistol!

Grey haired and portly, she had almost singlehandedly gathered all the remnants of humanity she could find and was well on her way to forging a new community. A month after the old world had died, Maybelle Smith was already building a new one!

Josh and his group had been well received. With the lights and power and now all the phones being off, news of any kind was welcome. A week or so earlier another group had passed through. A man and a woman from Halifax, Canada. They had a four year old with them and were heading for Florida. Like Josh's party, they had stayed for a few days, wished Mayor Maybelle well, and left.

***

Twice on the way from Mt. Washington to Bar Harbor they had met other communities. Unlike the good folks at Bangor however, these other groups had not rolled out the welcome mat. In Augusta the I-95 off ramp had been guarded by armed men. They wanted no trouble, but they also wanted no outsiders. South of Bangor, in a little village called Green Lake, they had been shot at. Thegood people of Green Lake it seemed, were very leery of strangers.

Just over the heavy wooden bridge at the entrance to Acadia National Park they stopped at the Information Station for a detailed map of the park. The main reason they had come here was that Billy had an uncle in a little fishing village called Bass Harbour that he used to visit as a young teenager during the summer. Though he hadn't been back for five years, he still had fond memories of working on his Uncle Jim's lobster boat.

So far they had looked up several other relatives of the group at various locations on their way to the ocean. None had been found. No-one, not even Billy, expected to find Uncle Jim alive and well and still lobster fishing, but they had to at least go through the motions.

Passing through the quaint little village of Somersville, they were surprised to see two men coming out of a hardware store. Both men dropped their bundles and ran down a back alley. Shouting for them to stop only made them run all the faster.

Flame sat on her Harley in the middle of the street, a look of disgust on her tanned face. "Not large in the balls department, were they?"

"At least they didn't shoot at us," Eddy remarked.

Bass Harbor turned out to be deserted. Uncle Jim's house, tired and worn by the constant wind and winter gales, looked like it hadn't been lived in for years.

"Uncle Jim never was too tidy," Billy said. "I guess when Aunt Elie died a few years back he sort of let things go even more."

Brad nodded and they left the little village and continued along the coast. West Tremont was equally empty. Five miles further they came to Seal Cove. Driving over the little bridge that led to the fishing village, both boys were amazed to see what looked like water running up hill. The tide was high and working its way up river, causing ripples and waves in the fresh water stream.

As they drove through their third deserted village of the day, Ken suddenly pointed at some smoke. It came from an outdoor chimney, the kind set up to cook lobsters and clams for the tourists. Josh stopped opposite the weathered building. A faded sign hung over the door. _Lobster Bar & Grill_. Flame, fearless as usual, had driven into the sandy yard used for a parking lot. Eddy pulled his van up behind Josh's and reached for his rifle.

Brad turned to the boys. "You know the drill. Stay with the van and keep Og in the van. Tina will stay by Eddy's van. Don't move unless we call."

Ken nodded, clearly unhappy to be treated like a kid. Jessie shut the pup in the van and grabbed his bow. Og's mother, Princess, would go with Josh. She was getting very good at sniffing out strangers, and would freeze like a Pointer when she picked up a new sent. The pup, Og, had yet to learn his mother's tricks.

The four men cautiously approached the building. Flame was already poking around the outdoor fireplace. A large pot of lobsters boiled merrily away. All had their weapons ready.

"Hello inside!", Josh yelled.

No answer.

Josh called again, getting the same no response. Billy moved around one side while Eddy took the other. Flame watched Josh for the nod. When it came, she kicked in the door and flattened against the outside wall. Princess moved to the open door and froze, her neck hair up, a deep growl rumbling in her throat.

"We mean you no harm," Josh yelled, "but come out NOW!"

An old man appeared at the door, one hand held a wooden mallet, the other held up his pants. A look of startled indignation worked on his weathered features. The fact that he was nearly toothless made him look even more comical.

"Jesuth H. Chritht! Who ta hell 'er you lot?! Can't a man take a dump wi'out bein' scared shitless?!"

The guns were lowered and Josh offered his hand.

"Pleased to meet you, old fella. We didn't mean to frighten you."

The ancient mariner shuffled forward. Flame stepped up behind him. Turning, he saw the tall beauty, then the large gun in her hand. Startled for the second time in as many minutes, the old fisherman instinctively raised his hands. His baggy trousers fell about his skinny knees. Flame smiled and patted his bald head.

"You don't waist any time, do you, Curly?"

Yanking up his pants, the old man's reply was as fast as her own. "At my age, Red, I aint got a whole lot left ta waist!" He winked at the tall woman, then turned to Josh. "You ta skipper o' this here crew?"

Josh introduced himself and the others, then called Tina and the boys over. The old man's eyes lit up when he saw Jessie and Ken.

"I'm Gus Kenner." He walked over to the cauldron and stirred it with a broken oar, then turned to the boys. "You boys fancy Sheddas?"

Ken peeked inside. "Looks like lobsters to me."

"That's 'cause they _are_ lobsters, lad. Best damned soft shelled lobsters in Maine! Why, ta President Clinton himself stood right there were you stand now! Ate three o' my Sheddas he did, n' took a case back with him!"

"How long ago was that, Mr. Kenner?" Tina had moved up and was looking in the pot.

"Oh, long 'for my Suzie died, n' she's been gone over twenty year now." He peered at Tina for a moment. "You look a lot like my Suzie, way back when."

Tina smiled and Gus frowned and turned to Josh. "You boys come from the mainland. How bad isit over there?"

Josh shrugged. "Bad enough."

Gus scratched his scruff, grey beard. "Figured as much. Everyone in Seal Cove just up 'n blew away. 'Cept for Mat 'n Heather. Nothing left but dried kelp, 'ceptin' it weren't kelp."

Josh looked at Brad. Both had caught the mention of the other names. Josh asked about them.

"Matthew Bridger n' his daughter Heather," Gus answered. "Mat's a retired banker or some such from down Portland way. Has a big place just up ta coast. Loads o' money. Loves boats. Has a 40 footer. Not a bad sailor either --- for a mainlander."

"Where is this Mat now?"

Gus waved his hand towards the ocean. "Sailed off ta Portsmouth a day or two after things changed. Said he'd be back, but I aint so sure." A distant look moved swiftly across the old man's face. For a fleeting moment Josh thought he saw sadness; then it was gone and Gus the frown returned. "Enough talkin'. Ta Sheddas 're ready."

***

After the meal all of them were sitting on Gus' raised veranda overlooking the bay, the stilts supporting the rickety structure were at least as old as their owner. The dark waves of the Atlantic rolled beneath them as the sun turned the western sky the color of molten lava.

It turned out that Gus knew Billy's uncle; not well, but enough to know he had been a good lobsterman. It also turned out that Gus knew about the two men they had seen back in Somersville.

"They came through here over a week ago. Two men and a woman." Gus had put his false teeth in, making his Maine accent easier to follow. "Said they were searching for other survivors, but I didn't like their looks. Both men had rifles 'n one had a pistol stuck in his belt. They didn't stay long 'n that was just fine by me." He reached down and began scratching the pup's ears. "I aint seem them since."

Josh nodded. Off to one side Billy was quietly playing his guitar. Tina sat close by. Og was basking in the attention his new friend was giving him.

"Always liked dogs," Gus said to Jessie. "My last one died a few years back. You wouldn't be interested in selling this one?"

Jessie smiled and shook his head.

"Thought not," Gus said. "A boy needs a dog. Besides, money aint worth shit now, is it? Pardon my French."

"Did those men say where they were from?", Josh asked.

"Aye-ya," Gus replied, lighting an old pipe. "Over Bar Harbour way. Where all the city-folk gather. Too much noise 'n bustling about over there for me."

Josh leaned forward. "What bothered you about those men, besides the fact that they were armed?"

Gus looked at Josh for a long moment, then put his pipe aside. "You don't miss a hell of a lot, do you son? No, it were more than the guns. For one thing they said they worked for Chisholm Cannery, and that means John Chisholm. Me and Chisholm never did exactly see eye to eye."

"And why is that?, if you don't mind me asking."

"I don't mind at all, Josh. I've been telling anyone who'll listen for the last dozen years that John Chisholm is a shark! A no-good, back-stabbing, net-cutting bastard that would use his own mamma for bait! He cornered the market here abouts n' bought our catch for a third of what it was worth! When someone tried to sell someplace else, an 'accident' happened!"

"What kind of accident?", Eddy asked.

Gus frowned. "A sudden fire, a boat sank, in a few cases some nasty beatin's."

Flame snorted. "Sounds like this Chisholm plays rough!"

Brad stood up. "But that was before everything changed. Frozen lobster tails aren't exactly in great demand these days."

Joshsighed. When he did speak, his words created a silence that hurt the ears. "But slaves are. Especially female ones."

Gus looked at Josh with wonder in his eyes. "How did you know?"

"You said two men and a woman were in the truck, but only the men were armed. Sadly, we've seen the same sort of thing before."

"On a road-block up in Vermont.", Eddy put in. "Some guys had a girl chained in their camper."

Gus glanced from Tina to Flame and back to Tina, a look of worry on his weathered face. "That girl they had with them. I saw her hands through the windshield."

"What was wrong with them?", Tina asked.

Gus reached out and gently patted her arm. "They were tied, little lady. Tied to the wheel."

***

Beneath the waxing moon, the three men watched the two boys and Billy running with the dogs along the beach. Gus was bustling about inside heating water on his woodstove. He had a large tub he used for lobsters and both Tina and Flame were inside getting ready for their first hot bath in two weeks.

"Doesn't sound too good," Brad said, shaking his head and pouring another cup of coffee. Gus had produced a bottle of rum to sweeten the brew and Brad helped himself to that as well. Eddy nodded, holding out his mug for a refill. He skipped the coffee. "It didn't take long for everything to hit the fan, did it? I mean, its been just over a month and people are already keeping slaves!"

Brad shook his head. "I can't believe that. A few sadistic bastards maybe, but not everyone!"

"What do you think Snake was after?", Eddy put in. "Tina, that's what. Just like those guys back in Vermont. Christ, Brad, with civilization down the tubes, who's to stop a gang of assholes from doing whatever they like? Before long things could look like a bloody Mad Max movie!"

Brad turned to Josh. "You're the history teacher. What do you think?!"

Josh sighed. "It's happened before, many times, but never on such a large scale. When the Roman Empire fell nearly two thousand years ago, all of Europe went with it. It's a sad but well documented fact that when law and order go, people quickly revert back to barbarism. Not everyone, and not right away, but it only takes a few to start things sliding backwards." Josh took a sip, then continued. "Think about what happens when the police go on strike, or there's a major power-outage. It doesn't take long, either. Look at us. We are all armed to the teeth; we all expect the worst of any strangers we meet. Others will do the same. In the end it all depends on the personality of the group."

"The good guys against the bad," Eddy said.

Josh smiled. "Its a bit more complicated than that. When it comes right down to it, most people are somewhere in between. Myself included. Circumstances influence each of us."

Brad shook his head. "Okay, I agree, but only up to a point. We carry guns to defend ourselves. Most people will do that from now on. But that doesn't mean most people will accept slavery!

"You're right, Brad, most wont. But as time goes by that will probably change too."

"Why?"

Josh scratched his ear. "Because the market for slaves will expand. Right now its limited to a few sadistic bastards, but soon there will be other reasons besides sex."

"Like what? To pick cotton?"

Josh shook his head. "Maybe not cotton, but something pretty close. Remember, we now live in a world without power. No lights, no electricity. I don't know how to fix it, do you? Soon the only food available will come from cans or what we grow or hunt ourselves. For now we've got plenty of machines and the gas to make them run, but who is going to fix them when they break? Who is going to make more when they're all used up?"

He pointed at the oil lamp casting its warm glow over the deck. Summer moths flitted around it, drawn by its light. "As time goes on, hands will replace machines. Some will be willing to do the work themselves and some won't. As in the past, the powerful will control the weak, and the shit jobs will be done by poor servants or slaves."

"Not everyone will be like that!" Brad all but shouted There was anger in boy's voice. "Would _you_ keep a slave, Uncle JoshBrad, ?!"

"No, I wouldn't, but then I'm not living alone. I've family and friends around me. But what about some lonely survivor living on a farm or in a shack by the sea. Along comes a fella with two or three women tied up in his truck. That nice, kind, right-thinking farmer would be sorely tempted to buy or trade for an extra pair of hands, if only to have someone to share the loneliness with. In time they might even come to love each other, but the 'market' for slaves, especially females, will continue to grow."

"Shit," Brad whispered, pouring himself a straight shot of rum. "When you put it that way, I might buy one myself --- if only to free her!"

Josh nodded. "And the market won't only be limited to female slaves. What about a community with more women than men? A young male slave might find a willing buyer there too."

"Christ, Josh!", Eddy put in. "You make it all sound so bloody natural!"

Josh drew a deep breath, warming to the subject despite its cruel contents. "Two hundred years ago, Eddy, it _was_ natural. It wasn't fair and it wasn't nice, but it was done just the same. Remember, brains thought up civilization, but slaves built it. Egypt, Greece, Rome were all built with the blood and sweat of conquered nations. Even here in America. The Civil War was fought over slavery and that was less than two hundred years ago. In the early twentieth century, machines replaced slaves, making slavery unnecessary. Now all the machines are slowly failing with no way to repair them or make new ones. Soon, in a generation or two, they will be gone."

Flame, standing in the doorway with a towel wrapped about her, smiled at Josh. "You give one hell of a lecture, professor. Makes me almost wish I'd stayed in school." Still dripping from her bath, the thin flannel clung to her body.

Josh smiled. "Sorry about that. I didn't mean to make a speech."

"Oh, I liked it," she said, pulling the towel tighter. "Especially that part about the lonely farmer. After all, nobody likes to sleep alone." Then she was gone back inside, leaving the three men staring after her.

Eddy winked at Brad. "She's playing the both of you like a couple of game fish." Brad reddened and picked up his coffee cup. Josh did his best to ignore the whole thing. Neither one was very successful.

In the days that followed however it became clear to all that Flame had set her cap on Josh, not Brad. She went out of her way to be nice to him, flirting openly. Brad was also relieved to find that he wasn't the least bit jealous. He and Flame had become good friends and that was enough for him. In this 'Brave New World', what developed between Josh and the beautiful red-head was none of his business. That said, he found himself watching her walk away with hungry eyes. So much for rationalization.

***

Og suddenly bounded up the rickety steps. Billy and the two boys followed. Princess brought up the rear, her nose constantly testing the wind for strangers. "Hey, dad," Jessie called. "Billy says he's got a cousin living in Bar Harbor. Says she's married with two kids."

"That so, Billy?"

"Sure is, Mr. Williams. Beth, Uncle Jim's daughter. I only met her a couple of times. But she seemed nice. I guess now --- "

"I guess now we'd better have a look at Bar Harbour." Josh put a hand on his former student's arm. "Don't give up hope, Billy.We never know what tomorrow might bring."

Billy smiled. "I won't, Mr. Williams."

Josh held the young man's arm. "And Billy, call me Josh."

***
**Chapter 22** **: 'THE HALL OF THE FISHER KING'**

Seal Cove

Maine July 21th (Day 31)

"You really mean to go to Bar Harbor?", Gus asked.

Josh looked at the weathered little man. "After what you told us about this Chisholm, I was hoping to avoid it. Now we have no choice. One of our own may still have family there."

"Then I'd better come with you. Chisholm is a slimy bastard, but I know the way he moves."

Josh smiled. "You're more than welcome to come along, Gus, all the way back to Crown Point if you want."

Gus looked surprised. "Me, leave the sea and go traipsing off to the mountains? I'd be like a fish out of water!"

Josh placed a hand on the old man's shoulder. "Lake Champlain is a hundred miles long, Gus, but let's take it one step at a time. First, we'll have a look around Bar Harbor, then you can decide."

A half hour later they all piled into the vans. Gus was carrying an old bolt-action Enfield that looked like it had been made decades before World War I.

"My great grand daddy's!", Gus beamed. "Kept it on my boat in case sharks came around. Aint fired the damned thing in years. Still, since we're going to see John Chisholm, seems like the right thing to bring along."

"Mind if I have a look?", Brad said.

Gus handed him the ancient carbine. Brad shook his head as he saw the pitted metal. When he forced open the stiff bolt, it came apart in his hand. After giving the rifle back, he opened a small cabinet in the Westfalia and took out a stubby little handgun. It was the Mustang 9 mm Pocketlite that had belonged to Bert. "Here you go, Gus. Shove this in your pants and try not to shoot off anything important."

Gus chuckled, "It'd take something bigger than this popgun!"

Brad then reached under the seat and pulled out the heavy Overland Coach gun Josh had picked up back in New York. Its chrome-plated twin barrels and open hammers gleamed in the sunlight. He broke it open and shoved in two 12 gage shells loaded with #2 shot. "This do? We've got two of them."

Gus grinned, his seldom used store-bought teeth dazzling. "Shee-yit! Chisholm better watch his ass now!"

***

The drive to Bar Harbor was spectacular. The road followed the rugged coast, then cut over the small granite mountains dotted with dark, twisted pines and outcroppings of white and pink quartz. Winding their way down to the east side of the peninsula, they stopped at a lookout above the bay. The picturesque sea-town lay before them like a scene out of Melville's Moby Dick. Josh almost expected to see a Yankee Clipper anchored in the harbor. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps John Chisholm would have a leg carved out of whalebone and look a lot like Captain Ahab.

What he did see was a fancy looking yacht tied up near a large rectangular building built on the edge of the sea. Beyond that a gorgeous teak decked sloop rested at anchor in the harbor.

"That's Matthew Bridger'sloop! The big white one", Gus said excitedly, pointing at the large sailboat. "What the hell's he doing back here?"

"Let's go ask him," Josh replied.

They moved slowly into town. By now everyone knew the drill by heart. Flame was out front on her Harley. Josh followed close behind, with Brad (and now Gus), riding shotgun. Eddy's van with the boys and dogs came next. Hanging back in the rear was Billy and Tina in the tow-truck. If the ones up front ran into any trouble, the heavy truck was to be their 'Cavalry Charge'.

Billy's welding skills had come in handy. Tina, a pistol-grip shotgun in her hand, sat in a deep swivel office chair Billyy had welded behind the cab. A similar shotgun and Earl's old deer rifle were in a bracket beside her chair. She was protected on the front and the sides by thick sheet metal. Cut into these were what looked like overlong open mail-slots; _gun ports_ for Tina to shoot through. The high backed chair was steel plated on the rear and had a seat belt. The small group had learned the hard way to be prepared for unfriendly surprises.

***

Bar Harbor was a tourist town. Built on a slope leading down to the water, its main street was lined with quaint little shops and boutiques designed to draw the female of the species like a moth to a flame. Carved benches and church pews were stationed outside for the following males to wait while the age-old ritual of 'Shop Till You Drop' took place. If the trailing mates were lucky, a bikini-clad sprite may wander by, giving them something to ponder besides the pigeons in the park.

There were no shoppers now, however, and the quaint little stores had taken on the look of pretty flies encased in amber. A lone dog sniffed at the quaint waist baskets. (No such crass a thing as an ugly, plastic 'garbage can' was allowed to mar the ritual!) Og, riding in Eddy's van, sniffed at the strange dog as they passed. Princess growled quietly.

At the bottom of the street they came to the docks. Turning right, they passed the restaurants and boat rentals and moved on to the working section of the town. Here quaintness quickly faded away. The ritual played out here was an even older one: men had gone to sea in ships, braved wind and wave and brought back their catch. If they got back at all.

Now the nets hung limp on the racks. Lobster traps by the dozens were stacked against weathered shacks and boathouses, waiting patiently for the hands that would never come again. At the end of the street was a long, low building. The dirty white sign on top read: **J.W. Chisholm and Sons, Processing Plant**. A shiny new pick-up was parked out front.

Flame pulled off the road opposite the plant. Josh and Eddy followed. Everyone got out and stood behind their vehicles. Flame joined them. The tow-truck stopped two hundred feet back, crouched in the middle of the road like a wary, rumbling beast.

"Don't see anyone," Flame said. "We going in?"

Josh nodded. Taking the second Coach Gun and slinging a belt of shells across his chest, he turned to Gus. "That the same pick-up that stopped by your place?"

"Aye-ya, that's her."

"Brad, you cover us from here. Eddy and the boys will do the same. Flame and I will go see who's home. Gus, you still want to come along?"

Gus hefted his new weapon. "Hell, yes!"

Josh grinned. "But we go easy. All we want is a friendly chat with Mr. Chisholm."

Flame grunted. Like Josh, a belt of shotgun shells crossed her chest. Her Smith & Wesson hung from her shoulder holster. Dressed in boots, army fatigues and a flac-vest, she looked like something out of the Terminator. Pumping a shell into the short Riot gun she'd brought from her bike, she smiled at Gus. "Just in case they don't feel like chatting."

"Aye-ya." Gus had probably never heard of Arnold Swartzinager, and he certainly had no idea who Sarah Connor was, but he knew _Death_ when he saw it --- and it was standing there right beside him in the form of this beautiful young woman.

The three of them walked over to the processing plant. Josh called Princess and the hound came running. They were half way across the street when the door to the office opened and a man dressed in bib overalls stepped out. He had a beer in one hand and a revolver in the other. By the look of him he was three sheets to the wind and working hard on the fourth. Squinting into the sun, he raised the hand with the beer to shade his eyes. If he'd have raised the other hand he would have been a dead man. As it was, what he saw was enough to make him drop the beer.

"Who ta hell 're you?"

"Neighbors come calling,", Josh replied casually, keeping his eye on the revolver. Both hammers of the Coach Gun were already cocked.

"Neighbors?", Bibs replied, looking more confused than ever. "Neighbors from where?"

Josh kept his tone light. "From down the coast a bit. We came to see Chisholm. He around?"

Bibs seemed to take some time to process this complicated question. At last he shook his head. "He aint here." He took an unsteady step forward, peering at Gus. "Say, aint you that old fart from ov'r Seal Cove way?"

"That's right, Sony. N' I've come to have a word with Chisholm. Now, go fetch him out here."

Bibs leaned on the railing for support. The revolver in his hand all but forgotten. "I already done told ya. He aint here. Now bugger off!"

Flame moved forward, swaying her hips and smiling. "How about asking a girl in for a drink, handsome?"

Bibs didn't take nearly as long to process this bit of data. A crooked smile gleamed through a week old beard. "Shore thang, Missy. Come on in. Those others 'll have ta wait here. Mister Chisholm don't want no strangers inside."

"No problem," she purred. "They don't mind waiting." She moved up to Bibs and gently stoked his stubbled chin, then kneed him hard in the groin. Bibs' eyes crossed and he sank to his knees. The butt of Flame's Riot gun slammed into the back of his neck. Casually she kicked the revolver into the sand.

"Shee-yit!", Gus whispered.

Josh was already moving forward, Princess at his heels. He stepped over the unconscious form, checked quickly for a pulse, then signaled for Brad to come. Eddy stayed back with the boys while Billy moved the tow-truck up. Flame and Princess were already inside.

"Damn her!", Josh hissed. "She takes too many chances!"

Brad grinned. "She likes it that way."

Josh grunted and followed her into the building.

***

Terry Hobbs was even drunker than Bibs had been. He had a vague notion that something was going on outside, but if the truth be known, he really didn't give a shit. Sitting in his underwear in the middle of the processing plant, he was working his way through a bottle of vodka and a tattered Playboy magazine. The issue was several years old, but Terry wasn't overly interested in the articles. The way Terry looked at it, boobs were boobs.

Chained to the rows of filleting tables were seven people; three men and four women. Though alive, they seemed lifeless, like muppets patiently waiting for the return of Jim Henson's ghost. Two lay on the filthy tables, the others were sprawled on the cluttered floor. To the right of Terry's chair was a mattress. Sitting on it was a girl wearing the remains of a torn dress. A chain went from her ankle to the leg of a big desk. Sipping from another bottle of Russia's finest, she seemed nearly as drunk as Terry. On the other side of the plant was a glassed in office. Inside a young woman paced nervously back and forth while an older man seemed to be trying to calm her down.

Terry himself was taking a little break. This wasn't the toughest job he'd ever had, but it had its down side just the same. Sitting here all day watching a bunch of drugged up zombies was a major downer. So was the fact that he couldn't get it up. That was where the Playboy came in. The skag on the bed was sure as hell no centerfold. No way Ho-Say! Not like the fresh piece of tail pacing back and forth in the office! But Mr. Chisholm had made it perfectly clear:'Leave Bridger's daughter alone!', he'd said.

Terry considered himself a real righteous dude, able to stand his own with the toughest of them. But he hadn't the slightest desire to go up against Old Man Chisholm! That old bastard had been a real hard-ass before the world went tits up. Now that his sons had gone the way of just about everyone else, J.W. Chisholm had taken a major walk on the wild side. Even now he was out with that big black bastard looking for other survivors. Terry wasn't even too sure what the hell the old man planned to do with the people he had chained up now, but Terry sure as hell knew what he'd like to do to that rich-bitch in the office! Yes in-deedy!

He took another slug of Vodka, fumbled out the centerfold and concentrated on getting ol' Peter Pecker to salute. The blonde with the staple in her belly looked nothing like the skag on the bed, but hey, like his daddy used to say, 'all cats are grey in the dark'.

Terrible Terry had worked himself up enough to shuffle over to the mattress when Flame and Princess made their entrance. Kneeling over the skinny drugie on the make-shift bed, Terry looked around at the sound of growling. There, framed in the doorway, was a woman and a dog. The woman held a shotgun and the dog bared its teeth.

Panic flowing through him, Terry scrambled off the mattress and reached for the rifle leaning against the desk. Flame, seeing a blast from her shotgun would probably kill the girl as well, cast it aside and pulled out her Smith & Wesson. At the same time she told Princess to "Sick man!" She had no idea if this would work, but the big was a fast learner. At the least it would give her time to get the .357 out.

Princess was off in a flash. Claws clacking on the factory floor, she made for Terry like an arrow shot from a bow. Indeed, her canine brain was already deeply imprinted with the ways of the hunt. Hadn't her ancestors millennium ago perfected the art of sudden attack? The throat or the groin the primary targets. Much to Terrible Terry's chagrin, Princess chose the latter.

Teeth, that until recently had chomped nothing more demanding than Alpo, now clamped down on Terry's crotch. The scream got a rise out of the poor souls chained to the cutting tables and the girl on the bed went white as a ghost and curled up into a ball. Even the Bridger Family paused in their heated discussion to peer out the office window at the spectacle unfolding down below them.

Flame hauled back on the dog's collar and spoke her name. The hound backed away, still ready to spring forward at the slightest provocation. The man, however, gave her none. Rolling around on the floor, both hands covering his groin, Terrible Terry moaned like a baby.

"Shut the fuck up!", Flame ordered, giving him a tap alongside the head with her .357. In his rush to obey Terry bit his lip.

"Flame? You all right in there?" Josh's voice echoed through the silent building.

"Ya, I'm fine. Got a dog-lover in here who wants to say hi."

Josh and Brad came in, followed by Gus. The old man took one look at the people in chains and began swearing a blue streak. "I told you that bastard Chisholm was up to no good!"

Josh pointed the Coach gun in Terry's general direction. "Where is he?"

"Like I already told Red here, I don't fucking know, man! He said he'd be back yesterday!"

Josh looked over at Princess. The dog stiffened, the hackles on her neck rising. That was enough for Terry.

"Shit, man, I'm bein' square with you! He goes off with the black guy, Kareem. Stays away two, maybe three days at a time. Comes back here, dumps off some poor smuck, tells me to watch 'em and then he heads back out again. He's fucking crazy, man!"

A few minutes later Terry was sitting outside on the ground with his back to a telephone pole. Bibs was on the other side. Both were tied to the pole by a rope going around their necks. Bibs was still out like a light. A towel was stuffed down Terry's boxer shorts. Og sniffed Terry's bare feet, wined, then went off to find Jessie. Princess stood staring at Terry's crotch.

"I think he's telling the truth, Josh," Brad said. "Even if he isn't, we've got to get these people out of here."

Josh looked at the group of half-starved people sitting on the picnic tables at a Clam Bar just down the road. From here they looked the survivors of a shipwreck. Gus and the others had taken them there and were feeding them from a large stash of food found inside Chisholm's cannery. Eddy, with a walky-talky, was farther down the road at the intersection. Josh could see the flash from the scope on his rifle.

Josh suddenly bent down close to Terry. "There's just the two of them? Chisholm and this Kareem?" Josh's 'teacher's voice' was in high gear.

"Ya! Old man Chisholm n' Kareem! That's all, I swear!"

"You're lying." Josh stood and walked away. Brad followed. Princess didn't.

"Hey! Don't leave this fucking animal here!"

Josh continued to walk away.

"Alright! Alright, for Christ sake! He's got two more with him! A man and a woman! Four in all!"

Josh stopped, but didn't look back. Brad glanced from his cousin to Terry and back again. Josh spoke again. " _When_ is Chisholm due back?"

Terry's eyes went to Princess. The dog was closer now, hackles up and growling. "This afternoon! Sometime before dark! Now, get this bitch away from me!"

Josh snapped his fingers. "Here Prin!"

Princess bounded over, leaving Terry leaning against the pole.

Brad looked at his cousin. "How did you know he was lying?"

Josh shrugged. "I didn't."

Just then a tall man in his middle 50's came towards them from the Clam Bar. He was wearing white pants and an expensive sweater, both smudged and dirty from his ordeal inside the fish factory. He was also carrying the rifle Terry had been reaching for when Princess introduced herself. "I just wanted to thank you again, all of you, for what you did. Heather and I will never forget it."

"Neither will they,", Josh said, nodding to the other survivors still back at the picnic tables.

"No, I guess they won't," Matthew Bridger said. "Any sign of Chisholm?"

"Not yet," Brad answered. "But his man there says he should be back this afternoon."

Bridger's eyes narrowed. "Good. I've a little score to settle with him before I weigh anchor."

Josh steered them over to his camper. Taking three cans of beer out of the small propane fridge, he handed one to Brad, then Bridger. The three men popped the tops and drank in silence.

"Gus says you sailed off down south, Mr. Bridger. What brought you back here?"

"Bloody savages, that's what! We stopped at Portland. I have --- I _had_ family there. Not any more."

"Do you mind telling us what you did see?" Josh asked.

Bridger shrugged. "We saw a saw a number of crazies, and heard a lot more. One old woman was standing in the park screaming about the end of the world. Others were fighting over food. I got Heather out of there fast. We headed south to Boston, thinking that a huge city like that must have some kind of order. Maybe even the power back on.

"And?" Brad's voice was high and hopeful.

Bridger shook his head. "Worse than Portland. Oh, things _looked_ quiet enough, until we left the ship. Then we saw the madness. Must have been a hundred people all watching as they hung some guy up on a lamp post. I left Heather in an empty store and went and asked what he'd done. The man I asked laughed and said he'd broken the law. When I asked him what law, the fool just laughed and said he'd refused to share his food." Bridger drained his beer. "I collected Heather and got the hell out of there! By the time we got back to our boat it was dark. Looking over the city, we saw that a large part of it was on fire!"

Brad sighed. "So much for the big cities. I wonder what New York is like?"

"Probably a madhouse!" Bridger said, shaking his head. "They say The Plague killed off ninety per cent of the population, but there were over ten million people in New York City alone. That leaves around a million survivors! With water, power, and food all gone, it must be a living hell! I'm going to head south to the Caribbean, find some small island and sit there for a year or so. Maybe by then law and order will have returned."

"Don't count on it," Josh said, "Not a long as there are men like Chisholm still around."

Bridger patted the rifle cradled in his arm. "If I get him in my sights, he won't be around for long!"

Just then Eddy's voice came over the walky-talky. "Josh, Brad, come in!"

Brad leaned in and grabbed the receiver. They could just see Eddy standing beside his van a quarter mile down the road. "What is it, Eddy?"

"Company's coming. A big green four by four. A red truck behind it. Both coming fast!"

Josh thumbed the 'talk' button. "Stay out of sight till they go past, but _not_ in his van! They might stop to investigate. Once they've gone past, move in behind. And watch your ass!"

"Copy that. No problem."

Josh was already half way to the Clam Bar.

Brad and Bridger ran after him.

***
**Chapter 23** **: 'NECESSARY FORCE'**

Bar Harbour

_Maine July 22_ nd _(Day 32)  
_

John Chisholm was in a foul mood. That in itself was nothing new; since the death of his sons he was rarely in anything else. But this time it went beyond just being pissed off and bordered on rage. Sitting in the front of the Ford four by four, he gazed out in a red haze as the empty town of Bar Harbor flowed by. He'd lived here all of his fifty-seven years, as had his father before him and his father before him. The processing plant had been run by his family for damn near a century! The name Chisholm was known up and down the coast of Maine. The name _meant_ something! It _stood_ for something, by God!

Yet those bastards back in Camden had turned on him! Him! John Winston Chisholm! He struck the dash of the Ford Explorer. Pain shot up his hand, washing away the rage that had all but engulfed him, leaving in its red wake a newer, sweeter thought. _He'd make them pay!_ Christ, yes! He'd make those arrogant bastards pay and pay dearly! They'd bleed fucking tears of sorrow before he was through! He would collect Roland and that smart mouth Terry and he'd go back there and burn their bloody town to the ground! Camden! What was it anyway but a place where the rich and pampered gathered to play in the summer! Big, fancy houses with tennis courts and private docks for their pretty little boats! He'd soon teach the snot-nosed little ass-wipes to fear the name John Chisholm!

Kaream, whose real name was Ugean Gimps, a fact that Ugean wanted desperately to keep as dead as the life he had lived as a child, looked over at the Old Man. For a honky, Chisholm he wasn't half bad. _Crazy as hell, but smart_. Kaream liked that, the smart part, mainly because he knew he himself wasn't. He was strong, always had been, but his strength was from the neck down. Together they made a good pair. And the Old Man didn't seem to mind that Kaream was black. Most folks did, but not the Old Man. He treated everyone exactly the same --- like shit.

When IT happened, Kaream had been working at the Plant, forking tuna onto the conveyer belt. There must have been a dozen people around him. Suddenly they were all gasping and choking and falling down. Sam Gruber slumped over onto the belt. By the time he was dumped into the bin, there was nothing left of him but a sack of old clothes. Looking around, he saw more of the same. Everyone had just kind of dried up and melted.

Then he'd looked up and saw the Old Man standing there. Time itself had seemed to have gotten stuck on something, like in a fucked-up coke-dream. Then he'd noticed that the Old Man's face was in shadow.

Looking around he saw that the day had somehow slipped away --- like the lives of all the people he had worked with here at The Plant. When he turned back, the Old Man was standing there like he always did --- up there at his big office window looking down at him --- looking at him the way Kareem figured God Himself would look when He was real pissed off.

Kaream-Ugean felt that cold, hard stare go through him like a kick in the nuts. Then the Old Man had crooked his finger and Kaream had shuffled on over. Standing there looking up, with the remains of the dead all around him, Kaream was reminded of a picture his Momma had kept over the her bed. Moses on the Mount. Standing there frowning down at everyone. Moses had looked real pissed off too.

"They'll pay!", the Old Man had finally said. "They killed my boys and by God they'll pay! You and I, Kareem --- you and I will see to it!"

Kaream no idea who was going to do the paying, but that didn't bother him one bit. No sir! He followed the Old Man then and he had been following him ever since. It did bother him a little that the Old Man was so hard on the ones they found, but then, he was the brains and Kaream was only the muscle. Together they made a good pair and that was good enough for him.

***

"What's this shit?", Chisholm growled.

Kaream snapped back into reality, or at least, what passed for reality in this screwed-up world. They'd almost reached the plant. At first Kareem wondered what the Old Man was on about. Nothing looked different. Roland's new pick-up was parked outside in its usual place. Nobody was in the street.

Then he saw the white van. And there was another one parked just beyond it. He was almost certain they weren't there when they left three days ago.

"Stop here!"

Kaream slammed on the brakes. The cattle truck behind almost rammed into them. Old Man Chisholm drew the automatic his father had brought back from his tour of duty in Viet Nam and got out.

"Bring the shotgun."

Kaream grabbed the Riot gun he'd taken from a Maine Trooper's smashed car. The Trooper hadn't seemed to mind at the time. He'd taken the man's .38 as well. Benny and Lynn had got most of their guns the same way. All four of them were now out in the street.

"What's up, Mr. Chisholm?", Lynn asked.

Kaream didn't like Lynn. He knew that she hated the Old Man, but she was always polite to his face. They'd found her drunk in the park a couple of days after IT had happened. At first the Old Man had kept her tied up. But she'd pleaded and smiled and said she'd do anything if he'd untie her --- anything at all. The next day the Old Man had put her to the test.

They had come across an old woman pushing a shopping cart down the main street. She was talking to herself and paid no attention to them when they stopped. The cart was full of nick-knacks taken from the fancy boutiques. The Old Man had pumped a shell into his automatic, removed the clip, and handed it to Lynn.

"Shoot her and I'll untie you," he'd said.

Lynn had looked at the heavy gun with her beady ferret-like eyes, then turned towards the Old Man.

He'd smiled coldly. "You only have one round, girl. Shoot me and my man Kareem here will gut you like a fish and leave you for the gulls."

Lynn had smiled back, taken the gun, pressed it against the crazy woman's ear and pulled the trigger.

Benny, Roland and Terry had been baptized in the same wild fire. Only Kaream hadn't been forced to use the Old Man's gun. Kaream was proud of that. He was the muscle, the Old Man the brains. Together they made a good pair.

Now, standing there in the quiet street, Chisholm pointed at the two vans parked opposite his plant. "Strangers come calling. Let's give them a warm welcome."

Lynn drew a .38 from the front of her jeans while Benny ran back for his shotgun. A moment later all four of them were walking down the street.

***

Josh and Matthew Bridger were in the front part of the Lobster Bar. The rest of the people they'd freed were crowded in the back kitchen. Brad was outside by the large stone fireplace. He'd told Billy to back the tow-truck up a side alley opposite restaurant. Though he couldn't see her, Josh knew Tina would be in the chair behind the cab. Eddy was out there somewhere behind Chisholm and his motley crew.

Matthew Bridger, anxiously checking Terry's rifle, suddenly leaned close to Josh. "What do you have planned? Call out for them to surrender? Shoot them where they stand? What?"

Josh looked into Brad's tanned face, not quite sure if he liked what he had just heard. Before 'The Plague' came along his cousin was a quiet, peace-loving man. He still fished, but had given up hunting --- and the thought that one day soon he would lightly contemplate shooting another human being down in the street disturbed Josh greatly --- especially since he himself had already considered doing the exact same thing!

"We'll try your first idea, cousin," Josh said quietly. "But if 'talking' doesn't work, then we'll use what force is necessary."

Brad seemed about to argue when a man's voice interrupted. "Excuse me, mister, but if there's going to shooting, I wouldn't mind shooting back."

Josh looked around and saw one of the men who'd been tied up in the plant. He was tall and bearded and still a bit shaky from his ordeal, but he had a look in his eye that couldn't be denied.

Josh held out his shotgun. "You ever used one of these?"

Taking the gun, the man smiled warmly. "Mister, I've been duck hunting ever since I can remember!"

Josh passed over the belt of shells and drew his Glock.

"I'd like one of those." This came from Bridger's daughter, Heather. She stood in the kitchen doorway, her expression one of suppressed anger.

Josh looked at the deadly instrument in his hand, then back to the young woman. Something deep in his gut told him that the Glock and Ms. Bridger had a good deal in common. He thought of the small .22 Backup he had strapped to his ankle and lied.

"Sorry, I'm all sold out."

She walked towards him, a knowing smile on her pretty but cold face. "You're either being chauvinistic or gallant; either way I still want a weapon."

"Here, take mine," Jessie said, handing here his .22 target pistol. "I've got my bow."

Heather Bridger accepted the light gun with a formal nod. "I thank you, fair archer. May your bolts fly straight and true."

Jessie blushed. "No sweat."

Brad appeared at the side door. "They're coming, Josh. Walking right down the bloody street!"

"Armed?"

"To the teeth! They must have spotted the vans!"

Josh frowned. He'd hoped to catch them off guard. He'd been stupid not to hide the vans. Now it was too late.

"Where's Flame?"

Brad shrugged. "Here somewhere."

Josh swore, then turned to the boys. Jessie held up one hand. "I know, Dad. 'Stay here with the dogs'."

Josh shifted his gaze to Bridger. "See that they do." He nodded to the bearded man holding his shotgun, then followed Brad out the side door.

***

"For Christ sake, Roland, hold the damned thing still!" Terry said to the other man tied up beside him. "You want me to cut my fucking wrists?!"

Roland didn't really give a shit if Terry cut his throat. All he wanted was the pain in his balls to go away from when Flame had kneed him.

"Bitch!", Roland muttered. "Suckered me good, she did! But the Old Man will fix her good!"

"Hold the fucking knife still or you'll fix us both!" Terry growled. He'd gotten Roland to fumble the switchblade out of his back pocket and spring the blade. Now, if the drooling idiot could only hold the fucking thing still Terry would soon have his hands free! He sawed away blindly, his shoulder screaming from straining around the telephone pole. His hands were sticky and wet; blood probably, but even that didn't matter. What did matter was cutting himself free and getting some fucking payback!

Suddenly the rope parted and his hands were free! Taking the knife from Roland, Terry carefully cut through the loop around their throats. A minute later both he and Roland were limping towards the parked vans.

"Why here?", Roland panted. "Inside the plant we ---"

"We'd be caught for sure. Trapped like rats. Besides," Terry grinned, pointing at the rifle in the gun rack inside the white van. "Now we got ourselves some firepower!" He climbed in and grabbed Josh's .30 -.30. Searching drawers for shells he came across Snake's massive .44 Colt Python.

"Jesus H. Kee-rist! These guys don't fool around!" He handed Roland the .30 -.30 and picked up the heavy handgun. Checking that both weapons were loaded, they shoved extra shell in their pockets and stepped out into the street. They were fifty yards away from the Lobster Bar. Another fifty beyond that they saw Chisholm and his three followers moving towards them. Terry raised the Python above his head and fired. The sound shattered the silence, sending a flock of gulls screaming into the sky.

"Hey! Mr. Chisholm!", Terry yelled. "Watch your ass! Some bastards have taken over your plant!"

Chisholm stopped in his tracks. A moment later the four of them scattered for the nearest cover. Lynn ducked behind the rusting remains of an old truck. Kaream followed the Old Man across the street and into a maze of stacked lobster traps. Benny made for a weathered boathouse.

The Python's loud explosion caused both Josh and Brad to duck down beside the outdoor fireplace. "What the ---?", Brad gasped.

Josh was already peering over the soot-blackened stones. "It's the two we tied up. Both now have guns."

"That's just great!", Brad growled. "Now we're caught in a bloody crossfire!"

"Maybe not. They don't know where we are yet."

"Ya, but now we don't know where they are either!"

Josh attempted a smile. "Then let's go find out."

Brad groaned. "I was afraid you'd say that."

***

Through a crack in the ancient planking of the boathouse Flame could see Lynn, the woman from Chisholm's group, crouching behind a rusting truck. Flame cursed herself for not bringing a rifle. Something like Eddy's .303 with its big scope would stop that bitch cold! She hefted her stubby Riot gun. Up close, it was a real ass-kicker, spraying buckshot like water from an elephant's trunk; but for any real distance it sucked big-time! She thought about using her Smith & Wesson, but handguns weren't a hell of a lot better for distance either. Now if this was a movie, then she could easily nail the bitch right between the eyes, but then in the movies a mouse named Mickey walked, talked and wore white gloves!

She was about to try the shot anyway when Benny ran through the boathouse doorway. Feeling like a spider waiting in her web, a cold smile spread across Flame's pretty features. Silently she watched from the shadows as Benny fumbled his cautious way towards her. Her only movement was her thumb flicking off the safety.

Breathing hard, Benny moved deeper into the old building. A rotting fishingboat squatted on rusting rails. Moving beyond it, Benny came within three feet of Flame. Stepping out of the darkness, she brought the stock of her Riot gun up in an arc that connected with the side of Benny's head. Spinning around from the force of the blow, he careened into the boat and collapsed. Flame tossed his shotgun deeper into the shadows but kept the Trooper's .38. Without a backward glance, she moved towards the open doors.

***

Terry slammed the driver's door of the white van. "Bloody asshole took the keys!"

Roland remained silent, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the empty street. Terry wasn't the most cool headed of fellas at the best of times, and this was far from the 'best of times'. In fact, in Groin-Sore Roland's humble opinion, ol' Terrible Terry seemed about ready to go completely batshit!

"Any sign of the muthafuckers?"

"No," Roland said, secretly relieved.

Terry kicked the side of the van. "Well, I aint gonna sit here with my fuckin' finger up my ass! I'm goin' after 'em!"

Roland spit into the street. "Don't think that's such a good idea, Terry. Best wait for the Old Man to make his move."

"Fuck the Old Man! First I'm gonna get that bitch that sicked her dog on me, then I'm gonna do that cold-eyed fucker that's leadin' 'em!"

Roland spit again. "Sure you are. But first you gotta find 'em."

Terry cocked Snake's heavy gun. "I'll find 'em! You just cover my ass!"

"Aye-ya. I can do that , but I'll be doing it from right here."

Terry turned and glared at the taller man. For an instant he thought of putting a bullet in Roland's smart-ass mouth, but soon changed his mind when he saw the way Roland had the .30-.30 pointing --- right at the blood-soaked towel stuffed down the front of Terry's pants. Terry snorted and started out across the street. He tried to run, but the pain from his bleeding balls reduced his best efforts to a crippled shuffle.

Tina, leaning over the cab of the tow-truck, sighted down the long barrel of Earl's old rifle. The dead farmer's warning rang in her ears. 'Careful now, it pulls a might to the left'. She shifted slightly to the right. Terry was now half way across the street. It was a long shot, something over a hundred yards, but if she didn't fire now he'd soon reach the safety of Chisholm's plant. Gently Tina squeezed the trigger.

***

From inside the Clam Bar, Kenneth saw Terry leave the van. "One's coming this way!"

Matthew Bridger took one look and rushed out the door.

"Father!", his daughter Heather called, then she too ran outside. The boys were close behind her.

Bridger was moving into the open street, trying to get a clear shot at Terry. Just as he was raising his rifle, Tina's shot rang out. She had compensated too much for the left drift and the shot went wide. Terry dove to the ground just the same. Bridger ran forward, firing as he went. Terry rolled as the slug kicked up a puff of dirt beside him. As he rolled he fired the heavy magnum. The third shot took Bridger in the leg. Heather screamed as her father went down, then bolted towards him. Brad moved to intercept her while, Josh ran at Terry, firing his Glock. The 9 mm's clip held fifteen rounds. Josh used up a fair number of them. When he reached Terry, one had struck his chest, one in the leg and one in the side of his head.

Roland, seeing Terry down in the street, began firing at Josh. The first bullet went wide but the second nicked Josh's left forearm. Cursing, Roland snapped off two fast shots and dropped down behind Terry's remains. Grabbing the dead body, he propped it up before him as a shield while he reloaded. Seeing Josh down made everyone who could fire at Roland. Standing between the two vans, Roland felt one hit him in the shoulder and one in his thigh. The one that entered his open mouth he never felt at all.

Seeing Roland fall, Josh sagged back himself, the pain in his left arm finally reaching his brain. Someone was calling his name. Looking around, he saw Jessie running towards him.

"Get back!", he cried, but Jessie kept coming, the two dogs at his heels. Josh willed himself to rise and went to meet his son.

From her place behind the rusting truck, Lynn saw the two people in the middle of the road. She stood up and, holding the Trooper's .38 with both hands, began firing. She had squeezed the trigger only twice when the blast of a shotgun drove her back against the truck. From the shadows the tall bearded man that had been chained in the plant cocked the second hammer of Josh's Coach gun. It wasn't needed.

Then Chisholm's four by four began spinning up dirt as its over-large tires dug for traction. The heavy treads bit in and the truck leapt forward, heading directly for the group in the street. In the dust, Eddy suddenly appeared, firing at the truck racing away from him.

Inside, Kaream had the peddle to the metal while the Old Man leaned out the passenger window, his .45 waving wildly about as the truck bounced over the uneven road. Everyone started firing at once.

From the boathouse Flame pumped three shots into the truck as it raced by. The arm on the driver's side was red with blood. Her third shot blew the front tire. The four by four swerved, hit the bearded man square in the chest, knocked him up over the cab and kept on going. Brad drew his Glock 9 mm., but the light automatic jammed after the third shot. Casting it aside, he unslung his rifle and frantically worked the bolt. Beside him, Kenneth's target pistol coughed repeatedly. Just to his left, Heather Bridger stood in front of her father and emptied Jessie's .22 at the charging truck. Ten yards further down the street, Josh joined the others joined in.

The four by four now looked as though it had just passed through a war zone. Two tires were flat, the windshield and body were full of holes and the radiator hissing steam --- and yet still the bullet riddled truck continued to close on the defiant group! Dead at the wheel, Kaream's heavy boot kept the motor racing.

From the doorway of the Clam Bar, Gus fired both barrels of his Coach Gun. The recoil knocked him back on his ass at the same time as the blast vaporized the truck's windshield, adding hundreds of tiny glass shards to the dozenspea sized pellets of #2 steel shot that raked the cab. The remains of both Kaream and John Winston Chisholm splattered against the back window. A moment later Billy's tow-truck came racing out of the alley. Slamming into the four by four, the heavier vehicle drove the lighter one across the street and into a large stack of lobster straps.

As the smoke, steam and screaming gulls cleared away, silence once again settled over the sleepy little town of Bar Harbour.

***
**Chapter 24** **: 'HEART'S DESIRE'**

York Beach, Maine

_July 29_ th _(Day 39)  
_

A week after leaving Bar Harbor, Josh found himself sitting on York Beach, some two hundred miles south-west of Acadia National Park. They were still in Main, but the New Hampshire border was just a short drive down the coast. Watching wave after wave rolling across the vast Atlantic, Josh thought again of Matthew Bridger and his daughter bravely sailing southward in search of a new home. Bridger had offered to take all those who wanted to go. Most of the survivors they'd freed from Chisholm's had jumped at the idea. Josh wished them well. Gus, the old fisherman, had opted to tag along with Josh's group.

'Got a hankering to see those mountains of yours after all,' he had said.

After seeing Bridger off, they had taken Highway #1 south along the coast, glad to leave the bloody little town far behind. Having been warned about the larger cities, they bypassed Portland and continued on through Kennebunk, Ogunquit and had finally stopped at the seaside community called The York's. Josh knew it well. He and his wife had spent a week or two there each summer for the last dozen years.

He glanced down at the piece of driftwood he'd been whittling. All that remained was a pile of shavings. Somehow this matched his present mood; a mood that had been with him ever since they'd left that bloodstained little town.

Sitting on the beach he reflected how everything looked both the same and yet strangely different. The waves still rolled in, the wind still blew. The tattered collection of houses, weathered and worn from the salt spray and the relentless wind still lined the sand dunes. Everything was just as it had been for years and years --- except for the people. The hoards of vacationers were gone. No flocks of sun worshippers eagerly crowded onto the narrow strip of land. No brash, colorful umbrellas blocked his view. In town no lines of talkative tourists waited outside stores and restaurants. For Josh the strangest thing of all had been to look in the window of the Saltwater Candy Store and see the arms of the taffy puller frozen in mid air. Frozen like a fly caught in amber. How long would it be, he had wondered, till the power once again came on? Years? Decades? Forever?

The thought had sent a chill down his spine.

Until this terrible change in the world happened, Josh had inwardly considered himself basically a loner; more content with his own company than the company of others. Family and a few close friends he allowed inside his own private world, but their number was far from legion. If the truth be told, those who really knew him could easily be counted on one hand. And even then, there'd be a finger or two left over.

Then The Plague had come, wiping out most of the human race, leaving Josh the Loner _really_ alone \---and yet he was one of the lucky ones! Not just because he was alive, but because he still had not only friends, but family as well! He shuddered to think what it must be like to face a dead world completely, utterly, desperately alone. Deep inside he thought he'd have gone mad.

A sound beside him broke into his gloomy thoughts. Turning, Og's face loomed before him. A rough, wet tongue washed his face --- a face whose owner hadn't bothered to shave for a week.

"Mind a little company?", Flame asked from several feet away. "Og and I were swimming and saw you sitting here all alone." She sat down beside him, her long hair still dripping. Glancing over, Josh noticed the one piece bathing suit she wore matched her large, emerald eyes. He also couldn't help but notice how low cut the front was. She stretched her tanned legs out before her and smiled. Josh returned the gesture, then went back to watching the waves.

They sat in silence for several minutes before Og, deciding to chase an upstart seagull from 'his' beach, tore off after the offending bird. The gull took to the air and hovered in the wind a dozen feet above the frantically barking pup.

Flame laughed deeply and leaned against Josh. "Isn't that just like a male? Always wanting something that he can't have." She smiled. "Even if he did get it, he wouldn't know what to do with it."

Josh, conscious of her hand still on his arm, faced her. "You don't give us males much credit for brains, do you?"

"Why should I?", she asked, continuing to lean against him. "I mean, look where it's got us. For thousands of years men ruled the world, made all the decisions, pushed all the buttons."

"Even if that's so," Josh put in, "do you think that's going to change now?"

Her deep laughter pealed across the beach. "Hell no! We women were just starting to gain some ground in the last fifty years or so when some asshole, probably a male, fucked up big time. Now we're all back in the bloody Stone Age. Survival of the fittest and all that shit."

"Darwin would be pleased you agree," Josh said dryly.

Flame laughed some more. "Don't try that teacher-shit on me, Josh. I know who Darwin was, and I agree with him. But who says the fittest always has to be a male? I've known plenty of men in my time, and most of them were assholes, but they still thought they were big shots just because they carried around a third leg."

Now it was Josh's turn to laugh. "Does all this male-bashing have a point?"

Tossing back her wet hair, she turned to face him. "Sure it does. I spent most of my life looking for someone who would accept me as I am. Not try to change me or make me stand in his shadow. Whenever I thought I'd found him, somehow he'd turn into a shithead." There was a long pause before she continued. "Somehow with you, I think it might be different."

Josh was taken back. "Me? What makes you think I'd be any different ?"

She turned to face him. "Because you think before you act. You weigh things in your mind --- and you always try to do the right thing."

"You make me sound pretty boring," he replied.

"No, not boring, just different. Look, I know that most men see me as a sex object. Something to use and , sooner or later--- if only in their mind --- toss away. But you don't --- or at least it's not the _only_ thing you see."

Josh continued to watch the waves.

She put her hand on his shoulder. "You gave me a chance to be something different --- something better than I was. I want that. I didn't think I would, but I do. And I want to thank you for giving me the chance to change."

Josh turned and smiled. "You're welcome. Since what's happened we've all been forced to make changes in our lives. To learn to fight for our survival."

Now it was Flame's turn to laugh. "I've been doing that since I was a kid. But here, with this group \--- with you --- I can have something more than just survival --- something that actually _means_ something." Her touch moved from his shoulder to his hand. "With you."

Josh sighed slowly, then decided that such frankness deserved a frank response. "I've had a wife, Flame. I loved her deeply. Part of me always will. I don't want another one."

Again her deep laughter rang out. "Christ, I don't want to replace your wife. I told you, I want something more than just sex."

"What then? Love?"

She held his gaze. "Respect. A kind of equal partnership."

He reached out and gently touched her hair, sliding his finger down her upturned cheek. "My wife was my partner, Flame. I don't want another one."

She turned and faced his squarely. "Then tell me, Josh, what do you want?"

He looked at her for some time, the sounds around them stilled by the intensity of his gaze. When he did speak, his voice was heavy; not with desire, but with a distant longing. "I want everything to be as it was. I want a world where Snakes' and Chisholms' exist only in books and on TV. I want a world where my son won't be forced to grow up killing others just to stay alive." He smiled, holding her gaze with his own. "Beyond that, I honestly don't know."

She sat there in silence, looking at this quiet man that drew her like no other ever had. In the course of her life she had had many lovers. A few times she had even thought herself _in_ love. But this was different. Strangely different, and she wasn't quite sure she liked it. Always before she had called the shots. Her looks and her personality had always put her in the driver's seat.

Until now.

She dropped her eyes. It was not a gesture she had made too many times in her life. Feeling suddenly like a schoolgirl, she groped for words she had used so easily in the past. They came awkwardly to her tongue.

"Do --- do you want me --- even a little?"

Josh waited so long to answer she was unsure if he was going to. Then he spoke. The answer both delighted and confused her.

"Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don't. Most of the time I'm too busy to think about it."

Her voice caught in her throat. Part of her wondered what the hell was happening. It had never been like this before.

"Do you want me --- now?"

This time the answer was quick in coming. Shockingly quick.

"No."

She moved closer; wanting and angry at herself for wanting. "Why not? The others do. Brad. Jimmy. Even Eddy. He still doesn't trust me, but I've seen his eyes follow me."

This time it was he who took her hand. "It's just too early, Flame. Too much has happened. I guess I'm just not ready for any more --- complications."

"And that's what I'd be for you? Just another 'complication'?" There was a hint of anger in her voice.

He grinned, his hazel eyes sparkling. "You already _are_ a complication. I'm just not sure how to deal with it yet."

Her anger faded. _'Don't push it, girl!'_ , a little voice said inside her. _'You're on to something good here, so don't screw it up! He said he was interested; well, sort of. He just needs time. What do you want him to do, take you right here on the beach?'_ The answer to that came back at warp speed. _'You're bloody right I do!'_ , but she pushed that thought away. Instead, she smiled sweetly.

"Fair enough. But you'll let me know when you do?"

"You'll be the first to know."

Og's little dog growl suddenly drew their attention. The pup stood with its hackles up, staring at two strangers walking towards them along the beach. A large dog trotted out ahead of them.

Josh instinctively checked his Glock, then pulled the .22 Backup from his ankle holster and slipped it to Flame.

She covered it with her towel and stood up. The strangers were a couple of hundred feet away. "Looks like a guy and an old lady. The guy's carrying something. Could be a rifle."

Josh stood up and called Og. The pup obeyed, but reluctantly. "Watch the old woman. And look happy."

"I'd be a hell of a lot happier if this pop gun of yours was bigger!"

Josh waved at the odd pair. Both waved back. They looked like a young man taking his grandmother out for a stroll along the beach. Josh saw that the man was carrying not a rifle but a shovel. The old woman had a large sack. Both dogs were busy sniffing each other --- then Og wanted to play.

"Hi there!", the young man called, his tanned face breaking into a grin. He looked to be in his early twenties. A headband held back long, brown hair. "I'm Buz. Me and Granny here are out digging clams."

"Having any luck?", Josh asked, his eyes watching the shovel.

"Got enough Pissers here for a real clam-bake," the old woman put in, eagerly showing the half full sack. "You and your misses are welcome to share. Come along back to the Lighthouse and I'll fix us up a batch."

The old woman's smile showed a poor set of false teeth, but was open and friendly. Buz nodded agreement.

"You folks live near here?", Josh asked. He had relaxed his guard somewhat, but not completely. A part of him wondered if he ever would.

"Just around the bend," Buz replied. "Six of us have moved into the York Lighthouse. It's sort of a commune. We live off what we grow and what we take from the sea. You know, like they did back in the Sixties!"

_'Christ!',_ Josh thought. _'A bunch of third generation Hippies!'_ Looking at Granny, he revised that to the second and third generation. 'And why not?', the voice inside continued. _'Peace and love are a hell of a lot better than what Snake or Chisholm had been offering!'_

"We'd be pleased to," Josh said. "But we're not alone. There's another six of us camped back in the dunes."

"Far out!", Buz grinned.

Granny agreed. "Bring them along. There's plenty for all. Myra's been baking bread since sunrise."

Josh said they'd talk to the others and probably drop by on their way out of town. Granny told them to stop over anytime they liked, then called her dog and started off down the beach. Buz shot them a peace sign and trotted after her.

Josh and Flame watched them go, shrugged at each other and headed back to the others. Og, reluctant to leave his newfound friend, barked twice, then raced after his master.

***

As it turned out, they not only dropped by the Lighthouse, they stayed several days. Besides Buz and Granny there were three women, two men and a young boy about four or five. There were also three dogs and at least a dozen cats. They had a large garden planted and the sheltered bay provided an endless supply of fresh fish. Also, Myra's bread was the best any of them had ever tasted.

It did them all good to see that there were people left who were attempting to build something worth while, instead of just living off the carcass of a dead world. Gus took the boys fishing in an old boat he 'borrowed' from the York docks. Buz and Bobby would play guitar and Granny accompanied them on a harmonica she swore Bob Dillon had given her mother at Woodstock. Og seemed to enjoy the company of the commune's dogs, though Princess acted regal and refused the eager males company --- something Flame was quick to notice.

***

When they left a few days later, it was with full bellies, warm hearts, a bag of fresh vegetables and several loaves of Myra's bread. Granny had packed a tin of Toll House Cookies, her own specialty, for the boys. As they drove away, Josh was pleased to find that he had left the sour taste of Bar Harbor far behind as well.

They stopped at the Kittery Trading Post to stock up on camping gear. This was the store Jessie had talked about as being the 'most rad place in the world!' Josh secretly agreed. It was a large, multi-leveled building, with each floor devoted to a specific outdoor sport. Once inside, everyone, including Gus, felt like a child let loose in a candy store. Trina, Flame and Bobby headed for the clothes section, Josh and Brad for the camping gear and Gus for the fishing department. Eddy wandered around trying on several pairs of hiking boots. Jessie and Kenneth headed straight for the archery department.

Josh soon found himself in the antique gun section. He knew all these 'ancient' weapons were just replicas of the originals, but being a history teacher and more than a little in love with the past, these well crafted representations of days long gone drew him like a magnet. He had always loved the sleek, graceful lines of the Kentucky and Pennsylvania longrifles. The slender, hand-polished Tiger-Maple stock, the delicate brass work of the patchbox and half-moon buttplate, the hand forged hammer and frizzen. His mind ran backwards through the centuries as he lifted the graceful weapon to his shoulder. Hawkeye, Chingagecook, The Last of the Mohicans! Daniel Boone had carried such a creation, as had Davy Crockett at the Alamo. Lewis and Clark as well as they forged their now legendary way across a much younger continent. A gun, yes, but also a tool to help build a new world! The fact that it looked and felt like a work of art only added to its allure!

But in this 'Brave New World' there was no place for such a delicate creation. Semi-autos with laser scopes and squat, ugly machine pistols now ruled the day. The one-shot muzzle-loader was truly a thing of the past.

"Screw it!", Josh said out loud, and gleefully helped himself to a replica of a single action .38 caliber Navy Colt revolver --- the kind Wild Bill Hickok carried, only this one used modern cartridges--- and he was more content that he'd been in weeks.

A half-hour later they all met at the front door. Each one was so laden down with things that Brad laughingly said they'd need another van just to carry it. Bobby piped up that he'd seen a Volkswagen dealership across the street, and so while Josh cooked up a freeze-dried feast on his new Peak III hiking stove, Brad and Bobby left to pick out a new camper.

Billy, being a mechanic, suggested changing the oil on all the vehicles as well as checking the tires, brakes, ect. Eddy and the two boys helped Billy while the rest sorted though their gear. It was late the next afternoon by the time they loaded up and headed back to Mount Hawthorn. Brad's new red camper now added to the convoy. All felt good to be on their way back home.

END OF BOOK ONE

***

That's it for now, friend. Get the rest at

W.WM.Mee SMASHWORDS

Or any other E-Book seller.

Thanks again and keep reading.

'Rest ye gentle, Sleep ye sound.'

If you like, leave a short REVIEW

or send me an e-mail at

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***
Here's a little taste of **BOOK 2** of our story.

1 A.C.

'Ever Onward'

'Payback'

Book 2

by

W. Wm. Mee

A Novel of

The Cleansing

Copyright 2012 W.Wm.Mee

Smashwords Edition

_Please note_ _:_  
_This is not a children's book._

Mature language and actions are depicted.

'Not for the faint of heart'

Revised in 2019

Chapter 1: 'ONE ARM'

Upstate New York

Lake Champlain , August 5 (Day 45)

While Josh and his group were wending their way home from their adventures in Maine, a large motor yacht was moving steadily southward along the western shore of Lake Champlain. On board was a motley crew of survivors, alike only in their lust for violence and united by their common goal; take what you want and to hell with anyone that got in their way!

Six men of varying ages and dispositions, bound together by one man, James Phinious Tibbs, better known as One Arm. In his checkered career Tibbs had been everything from a logger to a pizza deliverer, a truck driver to a night watchman. He'd driven a taxi, slung hash and shoveled shit. Good ol' One Arm had been a butcher, a baker, and a candlestick maker --- and during each and every one of these short-lived jobs he'd also been a drinker. Not just your average liquid-lunch kind of drinker mind you. Oh no sir-eee! Not our good-ol' boy James Phinious Tibbs! He was the honest ta Gawd REAL THANG! A dyed-in-the-wool, bad to the bone, good-to-the-last-drop kind of drinker! The kind that started with his first piss in the morning and ended with his last piss at night, driven by a never ending dedication to stay totally pissed in between.

Such single-mindedness had been the main reason for him having lost his arm.

Tibbs had been working at Billing's Sawmill in Raquette Lake, a small, nowhere little berg in upstate New York --- one of the world's greener spots where there are at least ten thousand trees for every person. After every three or four pulls on the large rip-saw lever, Ol' James Phinious had taken a pull on a bottle of Captain Morgan's Dark. Drunk as a skunk, however, is not advisable while working a heavy rip saw. Gravity eventually got the better of him and he slipped. Cursing royally, he felt something like a beesting just above his left elbow. Reaching over the swat the little bugger, his hand came back red. Looking down he was surprised to see his arm lying in the sawdust.

***

That little piece of trivia had taken place over seven years ago. Since then James Phinious Tibbs had been on a downhill side and picking up speed. Arrested several times for drunken driving, he'd lost his license and drove anyway. After the workman's compensation ran out he turned to robbery. Nothing big, for our boy James, though a mean son-of-a-bitch, was not the brightest of lights. Just your average mugging and a little B & E now and then, with a few sadistic beatings thrown in for good measure. Enough to keep him in cigarettes and booze.

It was while doing a two year stretch in the Utica pen that he picked up both his tattoos and his nickname. While there he also took crash course in silent killing on the side. Word was that if you wanted a fellow inmate offed, One Arm was the man to see. He'd been out six months and was wanted for parole violation and three counts of armed robbery when the end of the world came along.

In June, when the shit really hit the fan, he'd been hiding out with some bikers in a run down farmhouse outside Dannemora. They were having a little party late one night when all the good ol' boys suddenly started choking and puking and turning a rather ghoulish shade of green. At first he thought it was the shit they'd been smoking, but when the green turned to grey and Boots McHanan suddenly crumpled in on himself like a balloon with a hole in it, One Arm started to get the Big Picture. The only part of Boots that was left was his fancy tooled cowboy boots on one end of his jeans and the Golden Eagle belt buckle on the other.

One Arm had gone tearing round the place looking for someone, anyone left alive. All he found was carbon copies of Boots. Thirteen bikers and their assorted ladies lay scattered about like last years ashes.

That's when he'd flipped out completely. Jumping into a pick-up, he drove through the suddenly silent town of Dannemora, honking the horn and screaming at the top of his lungs. In the end all he saw was one lone old dog sniffing at a pile of ashes in the middle of the road. On a whim he swerved and tried to run the dog down, taking out a fire hydrant intead. Somehow the mindless violence acted like Grandma's tonic, flushing the fear from his veins. Without looking back, he left Dannemora and headed on for bigger and better things.

In Plattsburg he found a number of survivors. The first two were an old man sitting on his front porch and a middle aged woman wandering around a park clutching a doll. He'd ignored the old man, and tied the woman up in the back of his pick-up.

The next day he'd come across a young man with hair the color of moldy straw. The youth was busy smashing store windows with a baseball bat. One Arm drove up and casually asked the youth if he'd like a go at the woman. The look the kid gave back had One Arm tightening his grip on the shotgun he'd picked up at C. J. Penny's. Then the youth's beady eyes had shifted to the near naked woman tied in the back of the truck. When they flicked back, One Arm had seen a baleful light burning deep within his gaze. The youth was close to drooling.

"Go ahead, son," One Arm smiled. "But watch out for her nails."

After he had finished in the back of the truck, the straw haired youth hopped in the cab, grinning from ear to unwashed ear. One are handed him a fifty dollar cigar. Introductions were short and to the point: "I'm Boss, you're The Kid. Got it?"

"Got it, man."

On the truck's sound system Johnny Cash was riding the Orange Blossom Special. One Arm cranked up the volume, fired up their cigars with a solid gold lighter he'd helped himself to back at the cigar shop and the two high rollers set of to find others of their ilk.

Later that same afternoon they happened upon a likely lad. Bruce 'Rambo' Chillis. Bruce was shooting empty beer cans outside a gun shop. He'd chug a brewsky, set it on the top of a nearby car, go back to the arsenal he had in the back of a new, red jeep, carefully choose a weapon, and blast away. Bruce, however, was either a lousy shot or the beers were taking their toll, for most of the cars on the street had their windows shattered and sported large holes in various parts of their anatomy. Still, a fair of a lot of Coors cans had also bit the dust.

His marksmanship aside, Mr. Chillis looked the part of the recently late, great movie-star whose name he had taken on. 'Rambo' was dressed in laced combat boots, camouflage pants held up by a belt from which hung a .45 automatic and a knife best described as a short sword. A black sleeveless shirt strained over bulging muscles and a red headband encased long, curly black hair. For one mad moment One Arm thought he was looking at the real thing. When the drunken soldier-of-fortune fired a burst from a semi-automatic rifle in their direction, he was even more sure of it! The bullets punched several holes in their pick-up's radiator. Steam hissed out like the breath from an angry dragon.

"Holy shit!", The Kid, (soon to be christened Straw Hair by Rambo), half yelled, half squeaked. "That crazy asshole nearly killed us!"

Slamming on the brakes, One Arm's pock-marked face stretched into a predatory smile. His gold tooth gleamed. "That ol' boy missed us because he _wanted_ to!"

Getting out of the dying truck, One Arm prudently left the shotgun on the seat. "Stay here and keep quiet," he growled at The Kid, then, flashing his golden smile, he approached the big man with the big gun.

"Getting in a little practice, I see. Mind some company?"

The man's eyes, and the barrel of the long gun, tracked his approach. Back in the cab, The Kid reached slowly for the shotgun.

"They call me One Arm," he continued, moving the stump that ended just above his left elbow. "The young asswipe in the cab I call The Kid."

Dark eyes danced from the speaker to the youth in the truck. The gun followed. "Tell him to show his hands or you can call him Dog Meat."

One Arm yelled over his shoulder. "Show your hands! And make sure they're empty!"

The Kid thrust his hands through the open window like a demented faith healer.

"Satisfied?", One Arm asked.

Rambo's clone snatched a can of beer out of several cases piled on the curb and tossed it to One Arm. Catching it deftly, he flashed his gold tooth and used it to pull the tab. Warm suds foamed over his beard. "Tastes like warm piss, but it hits the spot."

The big man joined him. "What's with the woman?"

One Arm glanced back at the truck. From where he stood he could only see a head matted with tangled brown hair. The rest of her was wrapped in an old car blanket. "Just a little distraction," he said, winking slyly. "You interested?"

The stranger didn't bother to respond, so One Arm pressed on. "Me and The Kid were planning a little boat trip. Thought we'd pick out one of those big mothers down at the marina and chug over to Burlington. Maybe even cruise on down the lake. Hell, the thing's over a hundred miles long! The three of us could make a party out of it! What do you say?"

The man shrugged and nodded at the truck. "She coming along?"

One Arm's grin widened. The key to getting this walking weapons factory on his side had just dropped into his hand. "If you want, though we'll probably pick up some better than her as we cruise around."

"Aint interested."

One Arm's patience was starting to wear a tad thin. Laconic was not a word One Arm was familiar with, but he sure as hell knew a stuck-up, mightier than thou attitude when he saw one. A sudden urge to shove a knife into this tight lipped bastard flooded through him. His good hand even started for the one he carried in a sheath at the small of his back. 'I'll cut this wise-ass dog turd a new smile from ear to ear!' he thought.

Then he felt a slight nudge in his stomach. Looking down he saw that the tip of the man's long knife was already lost inside the folds of his shirt. The serrated fangs along the top spine looked like giant fish hooks. A flick of the wrist and One Arm's steaming guts would spill out all over the ground.

"Well, are you going to do it or not?", One Arm managed to say. To give him his due, there was only a hint of tremor in his voice.

The big man held his gaze for several heartbeats, then smiled. The mini sword seemed to have magically returned to its scabbard. "You might be shy an arm, but you aint missing any balls. I like that. How about another beer?"

One Arm willed his hand not to shake. Something told him that he'd just come a whole lot closer to dying than he had in all his wayward years put together.

The stranger waved a beer in The Kid's direction. " Hey Straw Hair? Want a brew?" The Kid was out of the cab like a shot.

After they'd downed a few more Coor's, the Rambo look-alike had Straw Hair set the empties up on a smashed Toyota across the street. When Straw returned, the quiet stranger handed the youth a .45 and nodded at the cans. Straw, truly looking like a kid with a new toy, grinned from ear to ear. Three shots later the cans still sat atop the Toyota, only now the car was minus a side window and sitting on a flat. The .45 was passed on to One Arm, who at least hit a couple of cans before returning the empty pistol.

"Your turn, Mister Rambo," Straw grinned. The half dozen beers he'd downed were starting to give him a pleasant little buz.

The man spit, then walked over to his jeep. When he returned, he was carrying a stubby little cannon that made Straw think of what one of his heroes, Arnold Swartzinager, had used in Terminator II. The bandoleer of elephant size enemas slung over his shoulder completed the picture. The stranger snapped open the short cannon and inserted one of the large shells. He then raised and fired in one fluid motion.

A second later the Toyota blew up --- literally. The car seemed to leap into the air, do a half gainer, then flopped down on its roof, flames and black smoke pouring out the shattered windows.

"Ho-leee-fuck!", Straw beamed, slapping his thigh like a rube at a barn dance. "You ARE Rambo!"

The man's stern face creased into a sly smile as his hard eyes washed hungrily over the excited youth.

One Arm knew that look. During his little sabbatical up in the Utica pen he'd seen it aplenty. Some of the toughest, meanest cons would get that look in their eye whenever a new, young prisoner came in. 'Fresh meat' they called them. They didn't, however, stay fresh for long.

Content that he had at last found the key he needed to control this walking cannon, One Arm belched and reached for another Coor's, his gold tooth aglow in the Toyota's flames. He sat back and began making his plans for the future.

***

Now, two weeks after meeting Straw and Rambo, One Arm's nasty little group had more than tripled. The 45 foot yacht he'd liberated from Plattsburg Marina was now crewed by six full-blown psychos, led by a greasy haired man missing one quarter of his limbs and carefree bunch of good ol' boys, each and every mother's son of them loaded for bear and, just like the song said, 'looking for love in all the wrong places'.

Now and then they take on an extra crew member. Gleaned from hamlets scattered about the meandering shore of Lake Champlain, these shell-shocked survivors would gladly join the motley crew. Men and women alike, but since this was far from the Good Ship Lollipop, few lasted more than a couple of days. There'd be a quarrel over a bottle or a woman, (as One Arm had promised, there were always plenty of women), and then someone would die. A bullet in the head or a knife in the back was a simple way of solving social problems.

Besides, One Arm was more than a tad superstitious, and seven was his lucky number. The number of women on board didn't seem to count one way or the other.

"Hey, Boss! Looks like we got another live one!"

Straw Hair, standing on the bow of the 45 foot yacht, pointed at the old, rusty pick-up pacing them on the road running alongside the lake.

From the large seat atop the yacht's wheelhouse, One Arm sat up. Pushing Cindy-Lou or Betty-Sue or whatever her name was off him, he squinted into the westering sunlight. Sure enough, he saw an old green pick-up slowly driving along the shore road.

"Hand me the glasses, Bitch!", he growled.

Cindy-Lou/Betty-Sue hastened to obey. In the week she'd been aboard she'd learned to move her ass in more ways than one. Either that or Captain Stump, (that's what most the girls called One Arm behind his back), or worse, that walking piece of dog shit, Rambo, would decide a little 'correction' was in order. Both were pretty heavy handed when it came to handing out 'correction'.

Through the powerful binoculars One Arm saw that the driver was a big man in his late fifties or early sixties. An old hat hid most of his features, but by the way he was casually hanging his arm out the window, it looked like he wasn't too scared.

"I'll soon fix that!', One Arm said to himself. Pulling the stubby .38 out of the clamshell holster clipped to his belt, Captain Stump quickly emptied the revolver at the old truck. Laughing, he watched the truck speed off down the road.

Doug Shellings stuck his long, thin body out the wheelhouse window and looked around for a body. Peter Welter looked up from his game of Solitaire, scratched his thinning hair and then went back to cheating himself out a red queen. Sitting in the head, 'Weasel' Weasilski continued drooling over an old Playboy's centerfold. Too preoccupied, Weasel never even heard One Arm's little impromptu target practice.

Several of the women began clucking away, wondering who was dead and glad that it wasn't one of them.

Rambo, however, knew exactly what had happened. He was on his bunk, absorbed in cleaning one of his numerous guns when he heard the six distinctive little 'pops'. One Arm got his rocks off shooting at strangers.

_'Asshole'_ , he said to himself. This sentiment was not brought on by any humanitarian reasons, rather it was because of One Arm's poor choice of weapons. In Rambo's view, the only thing a Snub Nosed .38 was good for was giving someone an enema.

"Look at the old bugger go!", One Arm laughed as the green pick up raced up the lake side road.

Cindy-Lou/Peggy-Sue smiled sweetly. She was scared shitless not to.

"The crazy old fart probably won't stop till he runs out of gas!", One Arm flashed his gold tooth, reached out and pulled the girl to him. The .38 felt like a jagged piece of ice on her bare back.

Cindy grinned, preying the one armed maniac wouldn't decide on a target more closer to home. She need not have worried, for the captain's gaze was on the cluster of buildings still more than a mile away.

"Hey, Straw! What's that little shit-burg up ahead?"

Straw pulled a nautical map out of his open shirt. After a moment he called up. "Some town called Crown Point. Says there's a 'historical fort' there. Someplace called Mount Hawthorn is right behind it. Map says there's a large park there. A 'wildlife sanctuary'." Straw prided himself on being able to read the charts and keep them off the sandbars. So far they'd only run aground twice.

"'Wildlife'?", One Arm repeated, giving Cindy's bare ass a little squeeze. "That's the way we like it, eh Bitch?"

Cindy looked up and smiled, secretly wishing she had the Clap, just so she could give this limp-dicked bastard a double dose.

One Arm banged on the railing. Doug Shellings long, thin head appeared out the window below him. "What's up, Boss?"

One Arm pointed to the town a mile or so ahead . "Take us in there, Dougie. We're going to have us a little look-see what Crown Point has to offer!"

Deadly Doug grinned and vanished back inside. A moment later the large diesel engine revved up a few notches and the good ship Sadistic began to surge forward, soon going from five knots to ten. Its top speed was twenty, but full out the bitch gobbled fuel. They'd filled up back at Port Henry, but already the tanks were just a little under half. Deadly Doug smiled to himself. _'No worries, mate. The town up ahead looks like it has everything we need.'_

***

Willard Spinner was pissed off. It took a lot to get the big farmer riled, but the assholes shooting at him from that fancy boat had done it. Willard now had the old Ford's peddle to the metal and was ripping down the Lake Road at a speed somewhere close to Warp I. (The speedometer hadn't worked for years, but, just like Willard himself, the old gal had a lot of get up and go left in her yet!)

Sadat, the little Turk sitting beside him, wasn't pissed off. Sadat was scared shitless. A slug from One Arm's .38 had passed through one open window and out the other, taking the little Turk's straw hat with it. Looking over at the small foreigner, Willard noticed that Sadat's usual dark, swarthy complexion had lightened up considerably. Willard also noted that if the bullet had been a few shades lower, Sadat would now be dead. He liked the little man, and the thought of seeing his Turkish brains splattered all over his cab made him even more pissed off.

Over the past month quite a few strangers had passed through Crown Point. They'd come in ones and twos, looking lost both in mind as well as body. Most didn't stay and that was just fine with him. It seemed to Willard that of the few people left after IT happened, the vast majority weren't worth a bucket of pig slop! Not like the folks back at Hawthorn. No sir-ee!

Still, some were decent enough folks, and most of those had gladly stayed on when Doc asked them; like Jim Shell and his wife, Marcy. Oh, everyone knew that she wasn't really his wife, but that didn't seem to matter much anymore. Then there was Fred Perkins, plump Thelma Wiggs, Tom Leeson, and the two young women, Betty Sinclair and Jenny Hiller. Even the dark little Turk, Sadat Something-or-other was okay, though Willard hadn't trusted him at first. The swarthy little ex taxi driver was too foreign for Willard's tastes. Christ! He wasn't even a Christian! But after the little fellow had willingly pitched right in when Willard's best mare was having a breach birth, the big farmer's somewhat narrow views had widened considerably.

He and Sadat had been on their way into Crown Point for more feed for the horses when they first saw the boat. Looking out over the two miles of sparkling water, Willard had been surprised to see a large, white boat cruising down the lake about 100 yards off shore. A _'yacht'_ the city-folk called them. Willard didn't know much about 'yawts', except they always looked sort of sissified to him. Plus they cost a hell of a lot of money! A boat for him was something you could go fishing in and not worry about spilt beer or fish guts. He'd slowed his old pick-up down to take a better look.

Then the shooting had started!

"Smart-assed, _yawt_ -driving city-folk!", he cursed as he swerved around a sharp curve. "I'll show 'em to fool around with honest, hard working folk!" Suddenly it came to him just how he was going to do it. Willard glanced over at Sadat sitting in the passenger seat, then up at the gun rack behind him.

Willard had always loved firearms. Ever since his daddy had given him his grandfather's 410 Poacher's Gun he'd loved them. Not handguns though. Handguns were meant for only one thing --- killing other humans, and Willard had no truck with that! But _longuns_ now, they were something else!Not counting old Earl Handcock, Willard had one of the biggest collection in upstate New York.

His old 12 gage was in the rack, along with the new long rifle he'd picked up a few weeks ago up at Ben's Ammo in Chimney Point. It was a 444 Marlin, one of the most powerful long bore rifles made. Fitted with a good scope and a maximum load, just a few days ago he'd brought down a deer from just over 300 yards. 317 yards to be exact. He'd proudly paced them out on his way to collect the fresh meat for the Family.

Looking up at the 444 Marlin, Willard knew exactly how he was going to pay back them trigger-happy 'yawt-fellas'

***
Chapter 2: 'AN AFFAIR OF HONOUR'

Lake Champlain

New York August 5

A good quarter mile outside of Crown Point, a rocky, pine covered finger of land thrust itself a hundred yards out into Lake Champlain, Willard brought the pick-up to a screeching halt and shut off the motor.

"Why are we stopping here, Willard?", Sadat asked. "Are they still shooting at us?" The little man's eyes were wider than ever.

Willard grinned, reached up and handed his daddy's old double barrel to his new friend. Sadat took it as though it was hot.

"No they are not, but we're going to do some shooting at them! Come on, Saddy, get that low slung ass of yours in gear!"

Of the fourteen people now living in Mt. Hawthorn, (not counting the still absent Josh Williams and his roving band of adventurers), twelve of them now lived up in The Park. Doc Gruber's place had gotten too small to hold all the newcomers, and there were several large old houses up there, each one equipped with fireplaces, iron stoves, gardens, barns and woodsheds. Each was located on a vast, rolling estate bordering the two central lakes. The lakes were stocked with bass and trout. A river, complete with waterfall and functioning grist mill, connected the two lakes. _The Shire_ , Doc had called it, after the home of some funny little fellows in a famous book he'd once read. To Willard the Mount Hawthorn Nature Reserve would always be just 'The Park'. Whatever its name, the dozen survivors had taken it over, setting up their own little community. Willard's farm bordered on its eastern or 'lake side'. Sadat had chosen to stay with him. The little Turk had said it was because he liked being close to the animals. It reminded him of when he was a boy back in Turkey. After the business with the mare and her colt, Willard hadn't minded a bit.

Over the last two weeks they'd worked well together, tending the corn and wheat, weeding the garden and caring for the horses and other animals. Sadat had proven to be very good with horses. For relaxation they'd go riding, fish in the lakes, visit with Doc and the folks over at the Big House or just sit on the front porch and watch the sun go down. Yet the big farmer had not been able to interest the little ex taxi-driver in his one great passion --- hunting.

Sadat was deathly afraid of guns.

"Come on, Saddy!", Willard urged, taking down the new Marlin and filling his pockets with the extra large shells. "We aint going to shoot nobody. Just scare them the hell away from our town!"

"But what if they shoot back?!", Sadat asked nervously.

Willard hefted the long rifle with the large scope.

"They won't get close enough. This little darling will see to that!" Wilber patted the dangerous work of art lovingly. "All I need you for is to make a little extra noise."

Somewhat mollified, Sadat accepted the box of 12 gage shells thrust at him. Moments later both men were trotting through the pines towards the end of the headland.

Willard soon found the spot he was after, a well concealed duck blind he had helped his father and grandfather build out of the black shale found on the shore of Lake Champlain. Positioned among the large boulders left there 12,000 years ago by the last Ice Age, they could easily make out the yacht. It was coming directly towards them at a surprisingly fast clip.

"They've seen us!", Sadat whispered, though the yacht was still half a mile away.

"Naw," Willard replied, deftly loading the Marlin. "The fool driving that thing is just cutting in close to the headland. Serves him right if he rips the bottom out of her!"

"Are --- are you sure we should do this?", Sadat asked.

Willard frowned down at the little man. "They shot at us, didn't they? They're heading right for Crown Point, aint they? You want that lot poking around our town? Shooting it up? You remember those young punks who came around last week? You want that to happen again?"

Sadat remembered all too well. Three young men had come through Mt. Hawthorn last week in a large four-by-four. All three of them had been drunk to begin with and a whole lot drunker after raiding the liquor store. The Park is two miles further up the mountain, and they might have kept on going if Mrs. Chan and a couple of the women hadn't come down for groceries. The three punks spotted them and chased them back up to the Park. Sadat had been tending the corn and saw the two trucks race by. The young men had apparently driven right up to the Big House and demanded that at least one of the younger women come with them.

Doc Gruber had gone out to talk to them. Mrs. Chan and Thelma had followed. Those still inside had reached for weapons. When Doc asked them politely to be on their way, tempers had flared. The three punks had drawn guns and Jim Shell, Fred Perkins and Jenny Hill had opened fire. By the time he and Willard had got there, the two of the three young men were dead. Tom Leeson and Jenny Hiller were guarding the third one while Doc patched up a bullet hole in his left arm. They'd sent him on his way, still leaking blood. The other two had been buried out in the forest.

"No, I don't want that to happen again," Sadat said. "I just don't want us to get killed either."

"Just stay low, little buddy, and do what I say. We'll have us a good tale to tell at the Big House tonight!"

Willard wrapped the Marlin's sling around his arm for added stability and leaned against a house-sized boulder. Shadows cast from the pines darkened his face. He looked like a cross between an aging Lone Ranger and a member of the Grand Ol' Opre's SWAT team. Looking through the scope, he squinted at the yacht. The X10 view made it look like the boat was at the end of the barrel. The rifle was zeroed in for 200 yards. Willard calculated he should hold a couple of inches high to hit at 400 hundred. He then winked at Sadat and spit into the wind. All that was missing was a junkyard dog and Superman's cape.

***

On the upper deck One Arm put the field glasses down and turned his attention back to more pleasant things. The choices at hand were between Cindy-Lou or a can of beer. Much to the girl's secret satisfaction, the cold brew won out.

"Any sign of that old bastard in the pick-up?" Rambo asked.

"Shit," One Arm grinned over a mouthful of foam. "That old fart won't stop running till he gets back to his chicken coop and changes his shorts! Lighten up, man, it's Miller Time!"

Down below at the wheel, Deadly Doug Snelling was easing in closer to a rocky headland less than a quarter mile away. The town they had seen earlier was now lost from view behind the narrow finger of land.

The map on the chart table showed a series of 3's, 4's and 5' all around the peninsula. Doug wondered if the numbers meant feet or yards or fathoms. He had no idea what the hell a _'fathom'_ was, and right now he didn't give a shit. The two little red pills he'd swallowed half an hour ago were kicking in and he himself was just about ready to blast off himself. Shoving the twin throttles all the way forward, the speed leapt up to 20 knots. He also had no idea what a 'knot' was either, except that right about now it felt like Warp speed. 'Beam me up, Snotty!'

Just as the cruser surged forward, the windscreen on the upper deck exploded, shattering One Arm, Rambo and Cindy-Lou with hundreds of Plexiglas chips.

"Whathefuck?!!" One Arm bellowed. Blood was streaming down his cheek from a cut from the space-age windshield.

Cindy-Lou had started screaming. Rambo drew his .45 and slammed it alongside her head, dropping her like a stone. Three hundred yards away, Willard saw this through his powerful scope. Cursing, he lined the cross-hairs on Rambo's muscular chest and began to gently squeeze the Marlin's trigger. At the last second he swung the barrel down. The jacketed Hollow Point streaked its way across the sunlit water, punching into the wall under the shattered windscreen. Its momentum far from spent, the expanding slug came out the other side, tumbled to the left, ripped through the cooler filled with Miller Light and buried itself in the exterior wheel seat One Arm had just vacated.

"Jesus Christ!" One Arm gasped. "What was that? A fucking cannon?!"

Rambo ignored him. Squinting into the distance, he was looking for a muzzle flash. The yacht's diesel drowned out any chance of locating the shooter by sound.

Down below another slug ripped through the wheelhouse, shattering the large front and back windows. Deadly Doug Snelling, oblivious to the sizzling death that all but parted his hair, continued blissfully to pilot his own personal starship.

Weasel Weasilski pushed open the head door and was about to step out onto the deck when the door suddenly banged back into his nose. Dropping the Playboy, his hand went up and came away bloody. The flash of anger turned to amazement as he looked up and saw a small porthole where none had been before.

Willard's fifth and last shot before he had to reload slammed into one of several 45 gallon gasoline drums lashed on the forward deck. Gas began pissing out one side and pouring out the other.

One Arm, his .38 clutched uselessly in his hand, turned to Rambo and screamed: "DO SOMETHING!"

The soldier-of-misfortune was already on the stairs leading down to the wheelhouse. Seeing both windows gone and gas pouring out on the lower deck, he yanked smiling Space Cadet Douglas Snelling out of orbit and deposited him on his butt.

"Hey, man, no need to --- " His voice trailed off as another batch of chemicals exploded in his brain. Sitting there slack -jawed and drooling, Deadly Dave seemed to have momentarily lost his train of thought.

Rambo, however, hadn't. Yanking the wheel around, he yelled at Pete Welter to haul his candy-ass up there and take the wheel. Pete, sweat beading on his receding forehead, scrambled to comply. Gas sloshed around his feet.

By now Willard had reloaded. Through the powerful scope, at a little over 200 yards he saw the sweat on Pete's forehead. Willard shifted slightly, searching for a non-human target. His sixth bullet went directly into the wheelhouse, tore the expensive sonar unit to rat-shit, then ricocheted off a steel strut. The mangled piece of copper whizzed around the room like a mini meteor, entered Deadly Dave's open mouth and exited out the back of his skull. Bits of bone and brain splattered what was left of the white walls.

Pete's eyes were wide with wonder. "Hey! Somebody's shooting at us!", he managed to get out, proving beyond the shadow of a doubt that there were certainly no flies on Mrs. Welter's little boy Peter. He turned to pass on this information on to Rambo, but that particular military mastermind was once again already on the move.

Having caught a glimpse of Willard's muzzle flash, Rambo now knew exactly where this little problem was coming from. He also thought he had a ready solution.

_'Must be the old farmer in the pick-up!'_ , Rambo reasoned, his cold eyes straining for a sign of the truck. "Head for that point up ahead!", he yelled as he tore down the passageway to his own room. "Zig-zag a bit to throw off the old bastard's aim, but _get me close to that goddamned point!_ "

Then he was inside his room. Pete had only been in there once, but once was enough. It looked like a walk-in gun vault! Weapons of all kind filled the tiny space. Rifles, shotguns, handguns. Pete had even caught a glimpse of something that looked like a bazooka! Glancing quickly at Dave's body on the floor, Pete began working the wheel. The headland was about a 100 yards away and coming up fast.

Rambo reappeared a moment later and Pete nearly shit his pants. The tall man was holding what looked to Pete like something out of the tail gun of a B-52! Long, dark and ugly, (which also described its owner!), with a half dozen rotating barrels and a belt that was bigger than the World Federation Wrestling Trophy and longer than his sainted mother's sermons on the many virtues of a good education!

Straw Hair appeared at the missing front window, took one glance at this real-life movie idle striding towards him and ducked for cover. The barrel of the Heckler & Kotch Rotating Cannon lowered, centered on the finger of land now no more than seventy-five yards away and began to speak. Over its continuous, powerful bark, Rambo screamed unheard words of wisdom. Laying on his stomach on the middle deck, Straw may not have been able to follow the words, but he didn't need the Gift of Tongues to catch the drift. The bark of a H & K was universal, its meaning crystal-fucking clear. _'Move over Sony! God's here and He's pissed off!'_

The H & K spit out death in the form of seven rounds per second. Fire and brimstone delivered right to your bloody door!

Despite the recent 'air conditioning' done by Willard's 444 Marlin, acid smoke and ear-splitting sound filled the wheelhouse. Through it all Rambo stood with legs apart, a Primal Scream erupting from his curled lip as death and bloody destruction vomited out of the rotating barrels.

By the time the long belt was emptied, both Straw and Pete thought Quasimodo had given up his bell-tower condo in Notre Dame Cathedral and taken up permanent residence inside their heads. The girls, Cindy-Lou the Second, Betty-Sue, and Big Bertha, were on their knees offering up unending devotion and unlimited blowjobs to whoever or whatever would make the thunder stop. Weasel Weasilski had dove back inside the head with a serious case of the Hershey Squirts and One Arm was standing on the front of the upper deck screaming at the top of his considerable lungs to: "Kill-The-Cock-Sucking-Mother-Fuckers!!"

His head still pounding, Pete pulled back hard on the duel throttles and yanked the wheel to the left. The yacht's diesel dropped from a growl to a purr as the bow swung to port. The wash from the wake caught up and rocked the large boat like a babe in a cradle.

When the rocking passed, all eyes strained towards the headland now just a little over a hundred feet away. Where once a dense pine forest had stood, their now was only splintered wood and large boulders. Severed tree limbs lay about. Large trunks bled sap from dozens of holes. Rocks, both large and small, had gouges and chips torn from their age-old surfaces. The headland looked like a hurricane had passed over it --- Hurricane Asskicker!

As the yacht slowly came parallel with the killing ground, Straw gave a ragged cheer. Pete joined in, followed by One Arm himself. Weasel Weasilski stuck his head out of the can, blinked into the fading sunlight, and stepped out, fully intending to join in the celebration. The next slug from Willard's 444 however blew yet another porthole in the head door --- taking a good deal of Weasel with it.

As the body crumpled to the deck, the three women began wailing again. From the top deck, Cindy-Lou loudly accompanied them.

"He's still there!", One Arm bellowed. "The stupid old fuck is _still there_!"

"Not for long!", Rambo hissed, sprinting back towards his room.

One Arm turned and bellow at Pete to put some distance between themselves and the shore. As he bent over the rail, Willard's Marlin spoke again. With the engine idling softly, the thunder from the long rifle could clearly be heard by everyone \--- the blinding pain it caused, however, could only be felt by One Arm. A searing gout of agony enveloped his head. The top felt like someone had pressed a cherry-red poker on it. Already bleeding from the cheek, rivulets of sticky wet crimson now poured down his entire face.

"I'm shot!", One Arm yelled. The words came out in a high pitch squeal. Blinded now by his own blood, One Arm raised his .38 and began firing. The first four shots went winging off into the wild blue yonder. The fifth one struck the large brass bell mounted on the upper deck to mark the changing of the watch. The sixth gave Cindy-Lou the First a second navel. Looking down at the neat little hole below her breasts, her long legs gave way and she sat down on her often ill-used ass. A look of surprise drifted over her once pretty features. _'Free at last. Free at last. Great God Almighty, I'm free at last!'_ , her somewhat whimsical expression seemed to say. The look soon drifted away, her soul or spirit or life-force following quietly.

***

"Willard! Willard!", Sadat yelled. "You're bleeding! "

The grizzly old farmer turned and looked down into the little man's worried face. "I aint dead, you dumb Turk! Just winged me is all!"

Willard looked a whole lot more than 'winged' to Sadat. In fact, if he wasn't dead, he should be. His face and hands were covered with scrapes and cuts and he was leaking blood from three or four places. Most of it, however, came from the rock-chips that had been flying around. There was one nasty gouge in the old man's left shoulder that might have been caused by a bullet, but Sadat couldn't be sure.

He himself wasn't exactly feeling in the pink of health. The house-sized boulder they had hid behind had shielded them from Rambo's own version of Armageddon, but the 'fallout' had been something else again! Besides the rock-chips, there had been the bloody ricochets! Led had whizzed and wined all around them like kernels of corn in a hot-air popper. Sadat had a cut on his forehead, another on his left arm and a hole in his right shoe. His toes still moved, but they hurt like hell.

"We got to get out of here!", Sadat said.

Willard smiled. Through the blood it looked like a gargoyle's grimace. "Here's what were going to do, Saddy. When they're heading away from us, we both jump up and let go a few rounds, then run like hell for the truck!"

"Why not just sneak away now?", the little man demanded.

Willard's friendly eyes narrowed. "'Cause I aint going to run till I get me one more lick at 'em!" Sadat swallowed, then nodded agreement.

This time Willard's smile reached his eyes. "We'll learn 'em to come snoopin' around our town shootin' at peaceable folk!".

***

Rambo pulled the tab that extended the Laws Rocket and flipped up the sight. The whole thing was less than a yard long. Built as a one-shot disposable bazooka, it launched a mini-rocket a quarter of a mile or more.

"Jesus wept!", Pete intoned as he looked on, his shell-shocked mind dredging up a quote from a youth spent in revival tents and pool halls.

Rambo placed the tube on his shoulder and peered through the sight. As the yacht turned seeking deeper waters, the cross hairs lined up on the largest boulder less than 50 yards away.

"Better stand to one side, ladies. This baby blows out both ends."

Straw and Pete almost tripped over Doug Snelling's body jumping out of the way. One Arm, now at the controls, a blood-soaked bandana tied round his forehead, giggled like an old maid on her first date. The three remaining women were nowhere to be seen.

As the yacht came abreast of the headland, Rambo pressed a red button on the side of the stubby tube. "Fire in the hole!"

A _'whoomphing'_ sound like a lion's cough followed and the mini-rocket streaked out over the water. A moment later the large rock that sheltered Willard and Sadat went super-nova. The earth trembled. On the side hit by the Laws Rocket, ancient granite formed millennium ago vaporized in a heartbeat. What didn't turn into gas was transformed to lava. The great rock shuddered and cracked. The shock wave spread out, dragging dust, smoke and rock with it. Sadat, crouching at the base of the huge rock, was protected from most of it. Willard was not.

The farmer had been on his feet, leaning against a split in the rock when the missle hit. Blinded by the blast, the shock wave had pushed the older man back like a leaf in the wind. Luckily the springy bows of a downed pine twenty feet away broke most of his fall.

"Willard!" Sadat yelled. Still clutching the shotgun, he scrambled over to the still form. Acidic smoke from the dozen or so small fires filled his lungs and stung his eyes.

"Willard!", Sadat repeated, cradling the older man's bleeding head.

No response.

_"Willllarrrd!",_ the little Turk screamed.

The farmer's graying head rolled to one side. His eyes remained closed.

Slowly Sadat looked around. Less than a hundred feet out into the lake the bow of the yacht was slowly coming into view. Cocking both hammers of Willard's daddy's old 12 gage, the mild little man stood up, a look of intense anger in his bright blue eyes.

"Bloody bastards! Bloody, stinking bastards!"

He raised the heavy gun and fired the first barrel. The stock kicked him like his grandmother's donkey. He grunted and fired the second. Dropping the now empty gun, he grabbed Willard under the arms and pulled. One of the farmer's boots had become wedged in a fork of the downed pine. Sadat yanked with all his might.

Willard groaned and opened his eyes. "Jesus Christ, Sadat! I aint a bloody wishbone!"

The little Turk sank down behind Willard, still clasping the heavy farmer to his breast. All about them smoke and fire raged.

"I --- I thought they'd _killed_ you!", he said, trying in vain to hold back his tears.

"Not bloody likely!" Willard grunted, painfully freeing his foot. His head still ringing and blinded in one eye by his own blood, he staggered to his feet. Sadat helped as best he could. Willard had the Turk retrieve both his weapons, then, using the empty shotgun like a crutch, both men hobbled away into the swirling smoke.

"You want me to drive?", the smaller man asked.

"Hell no!", the bigger one grunted. "We might have an accident!"

***

Things hadn't gone quite as well on the yacht. In fact, all was in bloody chaos. Sadat's first shot had missed by a country mile. The second, however, had been dead on. Loaded with # 9 birdshot, the tiny pellets from Willard's granddaddy's old gun had raked the wheelhouse. Made years before the modern invention of Cylinder or Invector chokes, the 585 pellets, each one .08 inches in diameter, spread out in a vast inverted triangle to blanket the entire ship. The lion's share of these tiny led balls however, had entered the wheelhouse. Stinging like red-hot hornets, they pierced cloth, skin and flesh.

Straw has hit seven times. Twice in the legs, thrice in the arms and the rest in the side of his head. One pierced his earlobe, another pierced his eardrum. To the day he died he would be deaf on that side.

Pete was hit by thirteen little devils, all in the upper thigh and groin. It would be many days till Peter Piper would be up to using his pecker.

One Arm, partially shielded by the wheel, was struck only twice on the chest, yet one of the stinging little balls did score a bulls-eye on his right nipple.

Standing in the centre of the shattered window, Rambo took over two dozen tiny hits. Starting at his left shoulder and ending at his right temple, his once handsome face looked like Queequeg, the tattooed harpooner in Melville's _'Moby Dick'._ Small oil wells of blood sprouted from his chin, lips, cheeks and brow. Several led pellets tore off the lobe of his right ear, while several more put out his right eye.

One Arm, surveying both the physical and human wreckage about him, swung the large wheel around and slammed the throttles all the way forward. The purring lions beneath the deck roared to life and the once sleek yacht leapt forward, seeking the safety of open water. Over the sound of the motor, One Arm's maniacal laughter could be heard. Mixed in with the laughter were curses, moans and a promise that set him on a collision course with his own dark destiny.

"I'll be back, you fuckers! I'll be back! And when I do you'll curse your mothers for ever giving you birth!

***
Chapter 3: 'THE TEXAS RANGERS'

Lake Champlain

New York August 10

Driving back across New Hampshire and Vermont, Josh and his people came across several small communities. At Concord they met people living as an enlarged family in a town-house complex. On a large farm outside the town of Lebanon they found a religious group living as Orthodox Jews. Passing through the Green Mountain National Forest, they stopped at the village of Brandon Gap where they came across a number of people who were already reverting back to the days of Daniel Boon --- complete with flintlock and muzzle loading weapons! In Middlebury, Vermont, they found a small group of people who had taken up residence in a shopping centre and refused to venture outside!

Josh brooded over the diversity they'd found. Each one of these groups were struggling to rebuild their lives as best they could, yet it seemed to him that each was taking on a flavor of its own. What would these small communities look like in ten or twenty years? In fifty years? Would they hold to the democratic, North American view of society, or would each individual sect take on a way of life unique unto itself?

Being a student of history, he was well aware of just how fast a society could slip backwards once central authority had been lost. It had happened in Egypt, Greece and Rome. Christ, the whole of Europe went down the tubes during the Dark Ages! His master's thesis at university, _'The Real Arthur'_ , had searched for the real man behind the legendary King Arthur. What he had found was a 6th century war-lord struggling to hold back the inevitable. The all encompassing power that was Rome had vanished, leaving half-Celtic, half-Roman Britain to fend for itself. The 'Arthur' character had managed to hold it together for a short, glorious time, but with his passing, Celtic Britain had soon torn itself apart.

Was the same thing starting to happen here, but on a global scale?!

All over the world, both figuratively and literally, the lights were going out. Darkness seemed to be rushing in from all sides. Brave little islands of light were struggling to shine forth, but like Arthur's fabled _Camelot_ , for how long? How long could good people like Maybelle Smith in Bangor, Granny and Buz in the Lighthouse commune, even Doc Gruber and the folks back at Mount Hawthorn, hold out against the growing dark?

How long could descent, hard working people hold out against the wild, roaming bands? It had happened many times before: barbaric Huns, Viking Sea-Wolves, looting Vandals. And notjust in 'ancient times'either. The twentieth century had to world wars, Korea, Vietnam, and the never-ending wars in the Middle East! Add to that the ongoing drug-wars and terrorist threats, the modern world was even more violent than the distant past!

They'd come across several of these _'wandering gangs'_ on their way back from the coast. Homeless, rootless people, in search of something they themselves couldn't describe. Some were just poor, lost souls, banding together in two's and three's for moral as much as physical support. Harmless, haunted survivors of something they had no real desire to survive.

Others, however, were not so harmless.

These groups were what really bothered Josh. Though they came in all shapes and sizes, they resembled Snake's group in many ways. Always run by a loudmouthed male, always armed to the teeth and always deadly. They'd already had two run-ins with such groups on the way back to Crown Point.

***

The first time had been just outside of Concord. Heading up I-89, they had passed through the small town of Davisville. Several motorcycles and a large four-by-four had been parked outside a hotel. Two men had been sitting outside a bar when they drove through. They'd taken one look at Flame on her Harley and started out after them. Luckily these young gallants hadn't taken the time to inform their brethren of the manna that Heaven had just seemingly dropped into their laps.

Leaping on their bikes, they'd raced by the vans and chased the fiery red head a couple of miles out of town. They were trying to force her off the road when she drew her Smith & Wesson and blew out one of their front tires. The unlucky biker suddenly found himself face down in the ditch, his mouth filled with dirt and missing a few teeth. The second biker, realizing that 'the date' had suddenly turned sour, wisely decided to cut his losses and head back to the barn.

The second group they'd met had caused them considerable more trouble. Two days before they came across a Daniel Boon type bunch in Brandon Gap they had stopped for an early morning swim in a lake at the base of Round Mountain. The tow-truck had been running rough since leaving the Lighthouse commune, and Brad and Billy decided to try and fix it. Gus had talked Kenneth into a day of fishing in the mountain lake. Josh and the rest had left to conquer the 3400 foot summit of Round Mountain. Though not as high as New Hampshire's Whites or the High Peaks in New York, 'The Round' was said to be one of the prettiest of Vermont's famous Long Trail.

The five spent the day climbing, swimming in the streams and enjoying the natural beauty. It was nearing dark by the time they got back down. Still a quarter of a mile from the trailhead, they saw Kenneth jogging up towards them. Og and Princess bounded ahead to meet the panting boy.

"Four men ---", the boy gasped. "in a big camper!"

"Is anyone hurt?" Josh demanded

Kenneth shook his head. Jessie gave him some water. "No, but Dad told me to go meet you," he said after several swallows. "To warn you.

"Did they threaten you?!"

Kenneth shrugged. "No, not really. The one that did most the talking smiled a lot, but it seemed fake. He talked kind of funny too. Dad told me to pretend to go off to the toilet, but to come warn you instead. He also said not to let Trina and Flame come into camp."

"Did they do or say anything strange?"

Kenneth's flushed faced went a shade redder. "They wanted to know if we had any --- you know, women.". At sixteen the 'facts of life', though still hazy and confusing, were still very much known. "Dad told them we didn't. He also told them that we were waiting for three more men to come back from a hike \--- but I don't think they believed him."

Eddy moved up to stand beside Josh. "We could leave our packs here with the girls and jog down. It's only about a quarter mile."

"Like hell!" Flame put in.

Eddy shook his head.

"We'll all jog down," Josh said. "But _nobody_ leaves the woods till we see what's going on!"

Twenty minutes later they were on a rise of land overlooking the long, narrow lake. The trailhead was just below them. A large,dirty white Winnebago was pulled up behind their vans. Though the sun was still up, someone had built a fire between Brad's new red camper and the tow-truck. Six men were sitting around it; Brad, Bobby and Gus on one side, three strangers on the other. The fourth man was nowhere to be seen. Gus seemed to be casually whittling and Bobby was strumming his guitar.

"Looks like a bloody weenie roast," Flame whispered.

Trina peered down at the circle of men less than a hundred yards away. "If we had rifles, we could --- "

"But we don't!" Eddy said, his voice uncustomary harsh. "All we've got are handguns and that's up close work!"

Flame grinned. "Then me and Josh will go. We're the best shots. The rest of you can cover us from the edge of the woods."

Josh shook his head.

"Why not?", Flame demanded. "I'm as good a shot as you! Even better!"

"And a whole lot sexier," Josh added. "But Brad told those guys that we didn't have any women with us. If they see a walking centerfold for Guns & Ammo come out of the woods they'll know he lied. And that could get a bit awkward."

"Screw _'awkward'_!" Flame responded. "I say we walk up and off the buggers!"

Josh frowned. Until now, Flame had never come right out and opposed him on anything. She'd grumbled a bit, but never shown open defiance. Until now.

"And what if they're just four nice guys lonely for a little female companionship?" Josh asked. "Do we 'off them' first and ask them later?! That might have been Snake's way, but its not ours."

He could see that last remark hurt her, but it had to be done. Flame was always too ready to use force to solve a problem. Force or sex. He couldn't really blame her, but he didn't have to like it --- or go along with it!

She sulked for half a minute or so, then shrugged. "What the hell. You're the boss. And who knows, they _might_ just be four lonely Boy-Scouts --- though I seriously doubt it. But when you boys step out to meet them, remember to keep out of my line of fire." She was grinning now, and gave him a saucy wink.

Josh shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. "I'll bare that in mind." He turned to Jessie. "You and Trina stay to the left; Flame and Kenneth to the right. Get close but do _not_ come out unless I call."

***

Flame gave him another knowing wink. "Anything you say, Lover."

Over a week ago, Brad, an avid reader, had introduced her to James Axler's _'Death Lands'_ , a futuristic series about life in America a hundred years after a nuclear holocaust. _'Pulp fiction at its best!'_ , Brad had described it. Flame, reluctant at first, had surprised herself by gobbling up the first volume and searching every book store she came across for the rest of the series. Brad told Josh privately that he believed Flame 'had the hots' for the novel's main character, Ryan Cawdor: a gun-toting, knife-fighting, one-eyed anti-hero. The fact that Flame herself bore a striking resemblance to Ryan's love interest, the tough/sexy heroine, Christy Roth, Brad believed also had a lot to do with Flame's sudden 'literary obsession'.

Christy often called Ryan, 'Lover'.

***

"But Uncle Brad told them he was waiting for _three_ men, not two," Jessie said. "Shouldn't I \---"

"No you _shouldn't!_ " Josh growled. "When just Eddie and I walk into camp, they'll think the third one is somewhere close by covering our back, which is _exactly_ what you'll be doing."

Jessie looked like he was about to say something, but changed his mind. Instead he nodded, hefted his bow and faded off into the trees. Trina followed. Flame and Kenneth moved off in the other direction. Eddy and Josh checked their handguns --- loaded, cocked and safety on --- and began down the trail.

They were half way there when they heard the shot. Both of they began to run.

The END of the SAMPLE

***
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