Savage Gerry

by John Jantunen

  Don’t seem right killing a man when he’s knocked out, the rattle-man answered.

  Clayton came to, sputtering up pee and his head thrashing from left to right trying to get out from the spray, his hands flailing in front of him.

  There you are.

  Come on, hurry up willya. We’re missing out on all the fun.

  Won’t be but a tick.

  The stream dwindled into a trickle of spurts shortly replaced by the flashlight’s glare, Clayton blinking against it and trying to see past the blur. His head ached like it had been hit with a brick but as his vision cleared he saw that was the least of his concerns. The barrel of an assault rifle was hovering two inches from his nose.

  He could hear the distant rattle of gunfire and a woman — the nurse! — screaming a bitter agony from closer by, couldn’t have been more than a few feet away. Struggling through his daze and the throb of his head, trying to reconcile how he might have come to this and recalling nothing beyond the memory of the nurse burying her head in his chest and the sweet smell of her hair. Clayton clinging to that as he held his breath, cringing against the shot shortly to come.

  He was still waiting on that when he exhaled and then the man was calling out:

  Hey, Punch, come on over here!

  What? The crunch of feet. What is it?

  Take a look for yourself.

  A face appeared out of the bright, bending towards Clayton. The man had a pair of night-vision goggles propped on his forehead and was appraising him with beady eyes.

  He look familiar to you? the rattle-man asked.

  I don’t know.

  Take a good look.

  Punch bending closer.

  You don’t recognize him?

  Now that you— Oh, shoot. It’s the damn scarecrow!

  That’s what I’m saying.

  Don’t that beat all.

  What was your name now again? the rattle-man asked, glaring at him.

  C-Clayton? Clayton stuttered as if he himself wasn’t quite sure.

  That’s right. Clayton, Clayton Crisp.

  Hands then grappling with Clayton’s arms, hauling him to his feet, and a familiar face, and an even more familiar nose, pressing forward, only inches from his. It was bulbous and slightly askew, a boxer’s nose — which was exactly what it was.

  It’s me, the man was saying, Marcus Bonny, though Clayton only knew him by another name. Before Marcus had come to Central North he’d earned the nickname One Punch after he’d knocked out two opponents with a single blow on his way to winning Olympic gold, earning a twenty-five-year sentence shortly thereafter for killing a man in a bar fight with the same type of punch.

  That’s quite a goose egg you got there, scarecrow, the rattle-man was saying.

  In the dim beam from the flashlight now pointed at the ground Clayton could easily make out that he recognized him too. He’d never heard him called anything but DB, as much because his name was David Balmond as because he had a tattoo of a diamondback coiled around his neck, its head rearing up onto his chin. Staring into its beady eyes now hardly did anything to ease Clayton’s fright, knowing as he did that DB was about as mean as the snake that shared his initials.

  Wasn’t that the funniest damn thing, DB was saying, as if all of a sudden he’d forgotten Clayton was there. Him running smack dab into that tree branch?

  I damn near pissed myself to keep from laughing.

  Were you recording?

  You know it.

  Come on then, let’s have a look-see.

  Right now?

  No time like the present, I always say.

  One Punch produced a holophone from his pocket, thumbing its screen and then holding it suspended horizontal between him and DB. He must have still been recording through the goggles propped on his brow for when a holographic image materialized in the air above the screen, it was of two hands holding the phone, one of them thumbing it in tandem with its real-life counterpart. The image flickered and then two four-inch figures appeared in their stead, holding hands and running at a hard clip. One Punch thumbed the screen again and their movements slowed to a quarter speed even as the focus zoomed in on the back of what was clearly Clayton’s head the moment before it struck a low-hanging branch. As his chin thrust suddenly upwards the image zoomed out again to show his legs flying out from under him with such force that he dragged the nurse down after him, the two men renewing their laughter watching that and DB exclaiming:

  That’s a keeper all right!

  The nurse’s screams had stopped though Clayton could still hear the ones from the camp punctuated by bursts of gunfire. He was wondering who it was that might have been out there with her, knowing it was too late to do her any good and yet his eyes still wandering to the shotgun propped against the tree. A quick lunge would be all it took to get at it. If he was lucky he’d shoot one of them before either knew what was happening but that’d still leave the other. He was trying to make up his mind which one he’d rather it be, when DB wrapped his arm around his shoulders, jostling him like they were old friends, though he’d never so much as spoken a word to him before.

  Jesus. Clayton, Clayton Crisp. Won’t Virgil be surprised to see you?

  He’ll practically cream his pants, I bet, One Punch added.

  He always said the scarecrow had the softest lips of anyone he’d ever met.

  Like a little girl’s, is what he told me.

  Well, he would know.

  The mere mention of Virgil had Clayton revising his plan. His eyes darted low, fixing on DB’s knife clipped to his belt, not an arm’s length away, telling himself he’d never get both of them with that but at least if he tried, he’d never have to think about what that evil motherfucker Virgil Boothe had done to him.

  Virgil ever tell you how he got caught? DB was saying.

  The scarecrow?

  That’s who we’re talking about, ain’t it?

  He was coming out of the john when his stepfather clocked him with a rolling pin, way I heard.

  DB shaking his head, smiling at that.

  You got to shoot ’em in the head, he said, laughing.

  Ah hell, everyone knows that.

  Clayton thinking, It’s now or never, at the exact moment DB released his hold, striding away, stopping three paces hence, his knife well out of reach.

  You hear that? DB asked.

  A piercing screech filtered through the lash of wind against the trees and the screams and the gunfire. It was accompanied by a metallic clanking noise which didn’t mean much to Clayton but must have meant something to One Punch.

  Shit, he said, they’re moving the train.

  Then craning his head backwards he called out, Duck! Get your ass in gear, they’s taking the train!

  Cocking his machine gun and DB doing the same, the latter turning backwards and probing about the woods with his flashlight, Clayton looking after him knowing the nurse must have been out there somewhere.

  He’s gone, DB said.

  What?

  Duck. He ain’t fucking there.

  Well where the fuck is he?

  Tracking the light back towards the maple tree, skirting past a figure stepping out from behind its trunk and jerking the rifle’s barrel back. The man wasn’t visible for more than a camera flash and Clayton only caught a glimpse, but a glimpse was more than enough to see who it was. He’d never thought of him by any other name than Gerald Nichols but it was another that immediately sprung to his mind.

  Savage Gerry! he thought as if he was seeing him for the first time, watching him pounce with the swift reproach of a mountain lion, batting away the rifle and driving a knife as big as a machete up through DB’s gaping jaw, its point coming out the top of his skull, wheeling around then and disappearing back into the dark, gone before DB had even begun to fall.

&nb
sp; One Punch had been looking the other way and it was the crumpled thud of DB’s body hitting the ground that spun him back. Spying his friend on the ground and Clayton standing over the body, drawing his own conclusions about the blood pouring through the gash under his chin and his eyes narrowing to slits as he jerked his rifle up, levelling it at Clayton’s chest.

  You son of a bitch!

  Clayton doing his best imitation of a deer in headlights. A sudden movement then from behind the tree: a downward swipe at One Punch’s hand. It was too dark to see exactly what it was but it must have been the machete-knife slashing through his wrist. His hand dropped like a dead fish and the rifle’s barrel scissored upwards, knocked off kilter, One Punch stumbling back, holding his arm up, blood spurting from its severed end, too shocked to glean what had just happened.

  He never would.

  Gerald was on him again. His next slash caught One Punch just below the chin. He toppled backwards, swallowed into shadow, and Clayton gained an ounce of courage from that, taking a step forward and hollering out, Who’s the son of a bitch now!

  * * *

  When Gerald returned to the tree a moment later he was carrying One Punch’s gun and stuffing a few extra cartridges into the elastic band of his swim shorts. Clayton was nowhere to be seen but he could hear him calling out in a tremulous whisper from somewhere close, Nurse! Nurse!

  Slinging the rifle’s strap over his shoulder, he bent over DB, prying the gun out of his hands and hearing the frantic crunch of footsteps on leaves growing near. He brought the rifle’s flashlight to bear, freezing Clayton, blinking, in its light as he rounded the maple tree. Clayton’s arm was curled around the young nurse’s waist. Her scrubs were spattered with blood and so was her face and she was clutching at Clayton with the fierce resolve of a rock climber whose feet had just given out beneath her.

  Goddamnit, Clayton was beaming, I knew you’d come back!

  Gerald had lowered the gun and was bending to DB, foraging through his pockets for spare clips. He found two and stuck those in the elastic band with the rest. The screams from the camp had quieted and the only gunfire he could hear was coming from down towards the tracks, the steady pummelling of machine guns answered at intervals by the sporadic crack of rifle shots. Two blasts from the train’s horn sounded, long and mournful, and when he looked back up the nurse had forsaken Clayton for the shotgun propped against the tree. She must have had some experience with that breed of gun and was pumping it with the confidence of a seasoned pro, Clayton all the while staring at her with that familiar look of unbridled adulation. She cast Gerald a shy yet defiant glance — at once thanking the man who’d just saved her and telling him he’d never have to do so again.

  This here’s— Clayton started then stopped short, looking to the nurse. You know I never did catch your name.

  Jenny, she said and Clayton turned back to Gerald as if he wasn’t standing only two feet away. His eyes were alight with unmistakable pride, like an awkward teenager introducing his first belle to an older brother who’d always had a way with the girls.

  This here’s Jenny!

  37

  A hail of bullets chased after them as they fled from the woods, the shots sparking in ping!s off the train’s container cars as they came onto the tracks, Jenny in the lead and Gerald in the rear, Clayton with hands raised, calling out to the two soldiers sighting on them from the top of the nearest container, Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!

  The soldiers tracked past them with the fluid movement of wolves on the prowl, both releasing controlled volleys just over their heads, Clayton and Gerald ducking low and Jenny spinning with the shotgun on a quick axis, unleashing a blast of her own.

  A woman was calling out, Over here!

  She was standing at the back end of the second-to-last car, clutching onto the rail of the ladder leading up onto the platform and beckoning them as the car approached at a snail’s crawl. Jenny was pumping her gun and firing again even as Clayton grabbed her by the arm, hastening her towards the woman with Gerald skulking along behind, keeping his own gun trained on the woods and his gaze darting on sweeping laterals about the trees.

  Bullets ricocheted off the container’s corrugated steel hull and Gerald answered them with three short bursts.

  Quick now! the woman was screaming as she came alongside. Get inside! You’ll be safe in there!

  She was maybe in her late fifties, matronly and wearing a mauve leisure suit. Her hair was tucked under a black ball cap with a red CN embroidered on the front, the same one Larry had been wearing when they’d met him the day before. It was his wife, Chris, and in her free hand she was holding a rifle. Clayton was the first to reach her, clambering up the ladder and bubbling, Boy are we ever glad to see you!

  Jenny climbed after him but Gerald hurried on past. Just beyond the final car he could see the lights of the CN truck, inching along behind and taking heavy fire from within the solar pond. The muzzle of a sidearm was sticking out its passenger window and the barrel of a rifle was propped on the truck bed’s near wall, the both of them bucking and every shot they took answered with a dozen from below, hammering at the truck. The passenger door was getting the worst of it and the man inside no less.

  He must have taken about all he was going to. As Gerald reached the end of the train, the passenger door flew open and the old cop lurched out, scrambling down the loose gravel, his gun blazing like some kind of outlaw delighting in his last stand, screaming out, You goddamn bastards!

  The left shoulder of his uniform was caked in blood and he took another shot in the leg before he’d made three steps, his feet sprawling out from under him and his body tumbling down the slope. Gerald cut towards him on a steep angle, emptying his own rifle into the solar pond as he stormed towards the man and then tossing his gun, grabbing for the one on his back and emptying that one too.

  Gunfire sounded from above and behind, the soldiers joining in the fray. There was a brief whistle and a resounding boom! — must have been a rocket-propelled grenade landing in the middle of the panels. A welter of glass rained down upon Gerald as he slung his rifle on his back and bent over the cop. One ear had been shot off and there was blood bubbling through two holes in the blue shirt bulging at his gut.

  He was already as good as dead.

  He knew it too, or so it seemed to Gerald as he grabbed him by the hands, trying to haul him to his feet, only to have the cop muttering a gurgled and definitive, No! Or could have been he’d have rather died than be saved by a man such as he. Either way he was too weak to mount more than a feeble protest and Gerald pulled him up by the arms, lifting him onto unsteady feet, letting him then droop down over his shoulder. Turning back up the tracks and feeling his knees about to buckle under the weight and that only firming his resolve as he mounted the slope.

  The gunfire at his back had gone still under the unrelenting barrage from the soldiers. Halfway up the bank — the gravel crumbling beneath his feet and every step barely giving him an inch — the truck’s tailgate banged open and Devon clambered out. Ducking low, he scrambled to the edge of the rise, reaching out his hand, and Gerald grasped at it, using it to pull himself to the top.

  Devon eased the cop off Gerald’s back and draped the dying man’s arm over his shoulder, half carrying half dragging him towards the back of the truck. He’d just set him on the tailgate and was swinging his legs onto the bed when the guttural growl of an engine turned him back towards Gerald. He was bent over, trying to catch his breath. He craned his head in the same direction and he and Devon gaped in hateful awe at the spectre of a grim rider roaring between the rail lines, his bike bouncing over the ties at a dizzying clip, hurtling towards them.

  Slamming the tailgate shut, Devon dove overtop, yelling out, Brett, get us the hell out of here!

  The truck lurched forward and then Devon was calling out again.

  Goddamnit Gerald, get a move on!


  The grim rider had just reached the furthest of the four fuel cars, maybe three hundred yards away. His headlight flared in tandem with the four riders behind and it would have been an even bet as to what had shocked Gerald more, seeing five of the grim riders in pursuit or hearing Devon shouting out his name. His feet didn’t seem to care either way and were already tripping over themselves in a mad flurry. Devon was leaning over the tailgate. There was a strange look on his face — an odd mix of serenity and jubilation. The only other person who’d ever looked at Gerald like that was his grandfather and only when he thought Gerald wasn’t looking. Why a man such as Devon would find comfort in him just being there was beyond all reasoning but it hardly slowed his pace as he pitched himself up and into the truck.

  The moment he was on board, Devon was craning his head at the cab, shouting at his brother, Can’t you go any faster!

  I can only go as fast as the train! Brett yelled back.

  Then give them the horn, goddamnit!

  The grim riders were just passing the last fuel car, closing fast on the truck and the train, the both creeping along like they were on a sightseeing tour. Devon had the rifle at his shoulder and was taking shots at the lead bike. Gerald had taken a spare clip from his waistband and was jamming it into the gun but couldn’t get it to fit. Must have been the wrong kind. He pitched it out of the truck and grabbed one from the other side. There was a sudden whoosh! from behind and overhead. He looked up at a trail of sparks — an RPG of some sort — on a direct line for the closest fuel car. It struck the front of the cylinder, exploding in a cataclysmic blast that at once devoured the five grim riders and seemingly the night itself, such was the intensity of the firestorm it unleashed. Gerald was thrown backwards, tripping over the cop’s legs and slamming hard onto the floor, banging his right elbow on the wheel hub and feeling a sharp shiver of pain chasing all the way to his jaw. A piercing whine in his ears that seemed to have infected every cell in his body and at any moment might rend him apart, and fire raining down all around, flaming droplets fanned by the wind and bursting against the treetops, others spattering against the truck, dozens of firelets sizzling along its rails and on the bed, Gerald feeling a sear on his arm and sitting up, slapping his hand at the spot of burning oil.