Mountain Man (Book 5): Make Me King

by Blackmore, Keith C.

  A part of him, the angry part, hoped that bastard would indeed come back.

  Collie carefully leaned into the trailer, looked up, and inspected the inner lip of the opening. “Well, well,” she said. “Look what we have here.”

  She reached up and fiddled with something. A piece of metal wire clattered to the floor, which she ignored. She eventually lowered her hands and held them out to Gus.

  “Black pearls,” she said.

  Gus studied the two black objects, both the size of golf balls. “What are they?”

  “Grenades. Metal pins here, see?”

  “Like Christmas ornaments.”

  “Yeah. Except these will do much more than just sparkle.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh yeah,” Collie assured him. She picked up the fallen piece of metal and studied it. She then opened up a jacket pocket and deposited the sliver and the grenades inside.

  “That safe?” Gus asked. “Like that, I mean?”

  “Don’t ask.” She looked at the prisoners. “Can you guys walk?”

  Three out of five nodded.

  “Okay, walk towards me then. Take it easy now.”

  They did, the chains restricting them to shambling forward like the dead things that once ruled the world. They squinted in the daylight, and Collie, despite that crippling smell, helped each one to the pavement. Overcoming his horror, Gus lent a hand, gripping arms and easing each prisoner to the ground. Once they were out, he couldn’t help but stare at their wretched condition. Mittens of duct tape bound their hands and wrists. The smudges upon their cheeks and around their eyes were really bruises, black and purple and vicious. Blood caked the nostrils of one woman. The clothes they were wearing needed to be torched and replaced.

  One of the men stumbled to his knees and bent over with a whimper. That sound alone unlocked the emotions of the other captives. Red eyes—the ones not swollen shut—––watered up and moistened battered cheeks.

  “You’re okay,” Collie repeated as she moved among them. “You’re okay. Don’t worry. I’m gonna get you loose, don’t worry.”

  The fob Collie had taken from the dead hard rocker included keys for the chains. Once the shackles were off, Collie pulled out her knife and freed the little girl first.

  “Gus, get some water, will you?”

  Collie’s request activated him, and, still in a daze, he walked to the back of the truck and retrieved five jugs of water. Collie helped the survivors with their ball gags, working on the more stubborn straps. One guy came close to puking when she removed his gag.

  As soon as they had those wicked devices removed, the five stretched and massaged their jaws.

  Gus held out the water jugs until each of the survivors had one.

  “Thank you,” croaked a man with one remarkable shiner, his voice raspy from either screaming or dehydration or both.

  “Don’t drink that too fast,” Collie advised. “Just take a mouthful.”

  The man with the shiner did just that. His hands shook until Collie helped steady them. One of the women dropped her jug and broke down crying.

  Gus wavered and looked at Collie.

  “All right,” she said, studying the wretched group. “You’re out of there. Take a few minutes. Drink some water. When did you folks eat last? Are you hungry?”

  “Not hungry,” said the one lady who remained composed the longest, though she sounded physically and mentally wasted. “They fed us. Thirsty, though.”

  The guy with the black eye spotted the dead men lying on the pavement. His mouth became a tight line. “There’s one more,” he said.

  “We know,” Gus told him.

  “He got away?”

  “Yeah. He did.”

  “Are you going after him?”

  Gus looked at Collie. “Are we?”

  “No.”

  That bit of information caused the man to slump in exhausted disappointment. “We should leave then,” he finally said. “They talked about others.”

  “Others?” Collie asked.

  “Yeah. We were—” he stopped to swallow, his throat bobbing, “—were going to be sold to someone. Called the Leather. For… for all sorts of shit.”

  “Sell you?” Gus asked.

  “Yeah. Sell us. He called us merch. Merchandise. Cargo. That’s why we stopped here, I think. I think…” He looked around, grimacing. “I think this was the meeting place.”

  Gus and Collie traded looks. Gus then zeroed in on distant Timmins, and that straight runway leading towards the city. There was no sound of engines, however. Nothing to indicate any approaching danger.

  “Maybe we should get going?” an uneasy Bruno suggested. “Just to be on the safe side.”

  The operator, however, didn’t appear to have heard. Gus knew what was going through her head. The same thought was going through his own noggin.

  That one missing bastard was unfinished business.

  “Yeah,” Collie finally said. “Get them aboard.”

  “Aboard what?” Gus asked. “We only got the one ride. Unless we take this,” he said, indicating the truck and trailer. “Already hitched. And get the fuck outta here.”

  He could tell Collie wasn’t keen on asking the group to get back into that cage.

  “What about the one who got away?” he asked.

  “Gotta let him go. But hey, we nailed three of them, right? And got these people out. So that’s all good.”

  “S’pose so.”

  “All right,” Collie said, regarding the group of survivors. “I’ve got good news for you and some not so good.”

  “You want us back in the trailer,” said the one woman who had kept her composure.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Eva.”

  “Eva, I need you and everyone else to get back into the trailer.”

  Eva stared.

  “We don’t have any other way of transporting you,” Collie explained. “Our second truck is dead. And if you stay here, you risk being captured again. Especially if the one who got away comes back with friends.”

  Eva’s shoulders drooped. “All right.”

  And though none of the freed survivors were pleased, they climbed back into that filthy box one more time.

  “Here,” Collie said and handed over the padlock. “We’re not locking you in. Hold on for a few minutes more. Okay? Going to close the doors here.”

  She nodded at Gus.

  A palpable vibe of fear and uncertainty emanated from the little group, one that Gus didn’t want to aggravate. He closed the doors all the same and promised himself he’d be the one to open them. One look from Collie showed she wasn’t too happy about shutting them back in their cage either.

  “We’ll take the lead,” Collie said to Bruno and Cory. “If you guys see anyone coming back from the city, flash your headlights, okay?”

  “Where we going?” Bruno asked.

  “No idea.” Collie looked at Gus. “You ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s boot.”

  They hurried to the Raptor and climbed aboard.

  “Jesus, this thing smells like ass,” Gus said, sour-faced.

  “Total ass,” Collie agreed. “A lot of that going on today.”

  “Now you know why I’m such a nut about toilet paper.”

  “I never questioned the toilet paper thing. One of these days, I’ll tell you about what I had to do while on a seventy-two-hour S and E sometime.”

  “S and E?”

  “Search-and-evade.”

  That did sound interesting.

  “I got a surprise for you,” Gus said. “Check the back seat.”

  She looked over her shoulder and saw what he had noticed in the rear-view mirror. A couple of sheathed medieval swords set upon racks in the rear window. There was a gun belt as well. Beneath it all was a landslide of clothing probably more dirty than clean, and a collection of coolers. The truck’s key fob rested in the tray next to Gus’s knee. He had no trouble firing up
the machine.

  “Fuck me,” Collie muttered. “I hate putting them back in the box.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Gus said and swung the rig around. “Not much we can do.”

  She didn’t answer, focusing on her side mirror.

  “Damnit,” Gus ejected as he righted the truck. “Collie, we have to get our shit out of the truck. We got gas cans back there.”

  “And food. And our other gear. Yeah. Do it.”

  The world sped past them in an eight-cylinder huff of hybrid power, only to quickly decelerate when Gus pulled up beside their dead vehicle. They both jumped out.

  “Keep watch,” Gus shouted at Bruno and Cory. “We got shit to unload.”

  Bruno got out as well, and in the next five minutes, they transferred everything of value from the pickup to the cargo trailer.

  “Water’s there,” Gus told the people they’d rescued, pointing to the jugs. “There’s grub, too, if you want it.”

  The sight of all those worried yet hopeful expressions nailed him through the heart, distracting him from the nerve pain lighting up his damaged foot. He hoofed it back to the cab, keeping an eye on the city on the horizon. Still nothing. He had a nagging feeling, though, that he was going to see something he wasn’t going to be happy about.

  “Okay,” he said as he got in and slammed the door. “All done. You snapped in?”

  “All ready,” Collie answered. “Hit them jets.”

  The two trucks accelerated and raced away from the scene.

  Behind them, the city remained indifferent.

  12

  Top Gun drove through the clogged streets of Timmins, constantly checking his side mirror to see if he was being pursued. He wasn’t, much to his surprise, so he eased off the gas. He couldn’t drive too fast anyway; there was simply too much unmoving traffic filling the roads. So he slowed down and threaded his way through an overgrown subdivision called Greenwood Place. The empty cargo trailer obediently followed his every turn, but goddamn didn’t it feel like an anchor hanging off his ass. He intended to pull over the first chance he got and unhook that beast from his bumper.

  Timmins had once been a green city, an eye-pleasing union of plant and urban planning. At least it had been. Houses and garages scrolled by, mail boxes, even a playground, along with once-landscaped thickets of greenery that, in the absence of their municipal landscapers, had grown to full-on jungle. Dead leaves and twigs covered the road, creating a crispy carpet of decaying foliage.

  Top Gun intended to follow the TransCanada 101 all the way to the 17. He had enough biodiesel to get to Manitoba, but after that, he wasn’t sure what his options were. God help him, O’Leary didn’t seem so bad now that the whole crew had been wiped out. Without his crew, he was just one hired gun on the open highways, in an eroding wilderness that was being quietly carved up. And it just so happened, his most recent contract was with the one dominant player responsible for most of the cutting.

  The Leather.

  That troubled him. Greatly.

  And, like summoning some mythical urban monster, no sooner did he think the name when a string of trucks filled the road ahead, navigating their way through a four-way intersection. A shiny convoy of black pickups and vans hauling trailers that blocked the only way out of the city.

  Effectively fucking up Top Gun’s escape plan.

  He hit the brakes.

  Well shit, he thought. He surveyed the convoy and realized the forsaken cars and trucks had him hemmed in. He couldn’t back up fast enough, not with the trailer in tow. There was a motel and an open parking lot just ahead, which would have been the best place to turn his rig around. Trouble was, there were about five trucks between him and that open space.

  And the trucks weren’t slowing down. Just the opposite. They sped along as if smelling fear. Or meat.

  Top Gun had an idea of where they were going. Just his luck they were early. With a defeated sigh, he put his machine in park and took his hands off the wheel in a gesture of surrender.

  Men stood in the box beds of the approaching rigs, their faces hidden behind black leather masks. Top Gun knew why, and despair flared within his chest, as frightening as a plastic bag being pulled tight over one’s head.

  The trucks pulled around him in the street, completing a noose. Two of those rigs hauled cargo trailers, much like the one Top Gun hauled. One truck stopped directly before Top Gun, not five feet from his grill. Through the rest of the small army, he glimpsed an honest-to-God fuel tanker.

  Engines revved. Figures watched him from their cabs. Some of those masked individuals wore goggles, as if the masks weren’t frightening enough.

  Fuck it, Jolly Jake whispered from the grave. Just fuck it.

  “Easy for you,” Top Gun whispered back, counting the number of heads watching him. He eyed the nearest masked driver of the Leather. One of the Leather, anyway. Top Gun never got a name for the imposing road clan other than the Leather. Not that it mattered. They were definitely more disturbing when they referred to themselves as a collective. Perhaps that was the intention.

  An ominous figure emerged from one of the pickups. Three more got out behind him. All of them wore black—sweaters or t-shirts, and matching coats. Some of the coats were full-length dusters, though some ended at the hips. All three men sported padded shoulders and masks.

  Boots clicked on the pavement as the foursome drew closer. Top Gun kept his hands up and visible. No one else moved, at least not the ones he could see. They all watched him, however. And for a few seconds, Top Gun felt like a prize trophy in the middle of a safari.

  A shadow fell over him. The tall, intimidating representative for the Leather leaned into Top Gun’s window.

  “Hi,” Top Gun greeted in a wary tone, noticing the individual’s wide shoulders.

  The Leather did not reply. The Leather wore a mask fashioned in the guise of a vulture. Top Gun wasn’t sure if the material was indeed leather, or plastic, foam, or rubber, but the guy had blackened the skin around his eyes right up to the lids.

  A weird vibe nudged Top Gun’s head the other way, towards the passenger side, where another representative of the Leather stood, aiming a loaded crossbow at his face. That mask looked like a glossy special from a kinky sex shop, with visible stitches running from the temples all the way to the back.

  “Ah… remember me?” Top Gun asked, turning back and not daring a smile. He had a feeling if he did smile, if he showed any teeth whatsoever, a dart the size of a Roman Pilum would be fired into his ear.

  The Vulture mask didn’t answer.

  “We had a deal, remember? Five of us? Find some new meat and bring them back to you.” Top Gun hesitantly pointed over his shoulder. “We were supposed to meet back there. At that recharging station. Ah, change of plans. We had a problem. A couple of problems, really.”

  The Vulture continued to watch him, his eyes narrowed in either suspicion or dislike. Or perhaps both.

  That made Top Gun even more nervous. “Anyway,” he said, licking his lips. “Long story short. I’m the only one alive. Just me. We were attacked at the recharging station. Jake and the Jipman. And muffin shit O’Leary. All got killed. Anyway. Ah, more bad news. Those meat puppets you lent us? Ah, yeah, they all died too. Same way. Same shooters.”

  Sure, Top Gun was fudging the details, but he didn’t think Jake would mind, and there was a chance it would save his own ass.

  The Leather didn’t respond.

  “We found some new meat,” Top Gun continued, feeling it prudent to fill that ominous silence. “One was a little girl, even. But…sorry. There was too much heat. In five seconds I was the only one left. Everyone else was bleeding out on the asphalt. It was… insane, how quick everything went down. One second Jake and I were talkin’ and the next…”

  The Vulture didn’t move, didn’t blink, and for a moment, Top Gun wondered if he were talking to a person or a physical manifestation of some vengeful Egyptian god. It was unnerving.

  A truck door opene
d and another Leather got out, decked out in a long duster that reached the ankles. The figure was narrow of shoulder, but when he straightened, his head easily rose above the vehicle’s roof. His mask was colored bronze, with black rivets instead of stitches, while his mouth was a series of painted slits that smiled from cheek to cheek. The Bronze stepped away from the door, further showing off that slender frame, and the black duds covering him from neck to boot. The Bronze leaned to one side, his pose asking a question.

  “So, yeah.” Top Gun remembered the Vulture at his window. “Yeah. I had to leave my crew back there. Gave up a truck and the supplies aboard it. Had to. To distract them, right? So I could get away. I managed to get a few shots off. No kills. Just nailed their truck. Strand them out there. But I didn’t press my luck. Best to get out of there in one piece, find you guys, and report in, y’know?”

  The Vulture showed no sign of knowing. In fact, the Vulture showed no indication of understanding or even having listened. After a few seconds, the mask directed its attention to the Bronze towering over the pickup. With the barest of limps, the Bronze went to the rear of the vehicle. That imposing scarecrow rooted around in the pickup box. Metal scraped metal, like a meat hook scraping the bottom of a steel barrel.

  The sound was a little more startling than Top Gun cared to admit.

  That was when the Vulture slowly, purposely, reached out and gripped Top Gun’s face.

  Like a soot-mottled spider, the Vulture’s hand fastened to Top Gun’s mouth and chin and turned his head toward that unsettling mask. Top Gun’s breath shot out his nose. The Vulture’s grip was strong. The black eyes within the mask narrowed.

  “A little girl?” the Vulture said in a voice neither deep nor high-pitched, but damn near gender neutral.

  Through squished lips, Top Gun got out, “Yes.”

  “And you lost… her?”

  “Yes.” Top Gun blinked. “Sorry.”

  The Vulture did not relinquish his grip. “That disappoints us.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Top Gun’s anxiety spiked when the Bronze pulled an axe from the pickup box. It wasn’t just some tool for chopping wood. It was an honest-to-God executioner’s tool appropriated from some medieval castle. A wicked blade hung from a long shaft, the steel blemished and curved and well-worn.