Masters of Mayhem

by Franklin Horton

  “Nothing, my delicate feminine flower.”

  Barb gave him a withering look and continued on into the kitchen. Conor heard her shuffling mugs in the cabinet and then pouring a cup of coffee from the drip coffee maker. "Any thoughts on breakfast?” she asked. “I’m so hungry I could eat a goat.”

  "Glad to hear it. I was thinking eggs and goat sausage," Conor replied.

  Barb returned to the living room with a cast-iron skillet and set it on the wood stove. "That was quick. You lay awake all night thinking about a plate of goat sausage and eggs?"

  "No, but I did wake up to thinking about Bojangles again. I was imagining a ham biscuit, a sweet tea, and maybe a doughnut from Krispy Kreme for dessert."

  "I'm not sure breakfast is a meal traditionally served with a dessert."

  "Mine is," Conor responded. "Two chocolate glazed creampuffs. Not my fault you don’t understand a good breakfast."

  "You’re a cruel bastard, bringing up the Krispy Kreme at a time like this."

  "I've done worse."

  “You know what sucks? I could probably figure out a way to make a chocolate glazed creampuff but my favorite doughnut is the toasted coconut. How far you think I'd have to go to find a coconut about now?"

  Conor shrugged. "No idea."

  “Me neither. I take it sleeping beauty is still out cold?"

  "Yeah. The poor kid wouldn’t have survived the winter without us, Barb. The thought of that boy trying to live in a mobile home with no heat and no food pains me to my very soul."

  "There's people out there doing it right now," Barb pointed out. "We probably just don't know about them."

  “We can’t help all of them. I know that.”

  “If you can get your Mad Mick Militia together then maybe you can help a few more of them. Help them to help themselves, you know?”

  Conor snorted. “Mad Mick Militia.”

  “That’s what folks are calling it,” Barb said. “They’re saying that the double-M you’ve been carving into trees stands for Mad Mick, Mountain Militia, or Mick’s Militia.”

  Conor laughed at this. “As long as they’re talking, they’re spreading the legend. That in itself carries some power.”

  Suddenly, an electronic trilling filled the air. A look of panic crossed Barb’s face. Conor could see her mind racing through the possibilities–the motion detectors, the perimeter alarms.

  “It’s the satellite phone,” Conor said, getting to his feet.

  “Fuck,” Barb muttered.

  “Delicate feminine flowers don’t talk that way,” Conor said to her as he left the room, his voice lilting.

  “The last bloody time that thing rang you ended up leaving to rescue a damsel in distress,” Barb called after him. “Don’t answer it!”

  “I still have to see who it is.” Conor opened the door to the ready room. He found the phone and checked the display.

  “Fuck.”

  “Delicate flower,” Barb reminded him, obviously eavesdropping.

  Conor answered the call. “Hello.” It was not a question. He knew who it was.

  “Forty,” said the voice on the other end. It was the challenge phrase.

  The last challenge number they’d been using had been forty-eight. That meant Conor, when presented with the challenge, should respond with the appropriate number that, when added to the first, would add up to forty-eight.

  “Eight,” he responded.

  There was a moment of silence that made Conor thing he’d responded incorrectly, then the voice came back, warmer this time. “How’s it going, Conor? World treating you alright?”

  “Such as it is,” Conor replied. “About how you’d expect for the collapse of modern society.”

  The voice on the phone was Ricardo. For the last dozen years he’d been Conor’s contact, handler, or boss, depending on the assignment. Conor still wasn’t certain exactly who Ricardo worked for. He didn’t know if he even had a single employer or was simply a contractor who aggregated specialized services for hire to government alphabet agencies. Either way, Ricardo was the man who put Conor in the machine shop on Jewell Ridge so Conor had an appreciation, if not fondness, for the man.

  “Times may get worse before they get better, my friend,” Ricardo said. “Stay low and keep your friends and family close.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir,” Conor said. “I’ve had a little experience in that department already.” Conor had recently learned the lesson of letting his daughter stray too far from his sight and he wasn’t sure how long it might be before he made that same mistake again. Hell, he may just put her on a leash and keep her within ten feet until order was restored to the world.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  There was a moment of silence before Conor broke it. “So, Ricardo, you just calling for a status update? Surely you don’t have a project for me.”

  “You’d be surprised, Conor. Our world goes on. Sometimes it’s easier to settle old scores when the world is distracted by chaos.”

  “So you’re calling about a job?”

  “No, a favor.”

  “Fuck me running,” Conor swore. “I hope your expectations are low because I don’t have a lot of capabilities at the moment.”

  “You’re well positioned for this one,” Ricardo said. “I have an employee I’m trying to find temporary housing for.”

  Conor was silent so Ricardo continued.

  “He’s a specialist like you. I had him overseas on an operation when the shit hit the fan. I’d forgotten about him, honestly. I’d assumed he was still operating and that I’d hear from him when the dust settled. Instead, he turns up here in the city and rings me up.”

  “Why can’t you find some military base that will take him, or one of your training facilities? Surely there’s somebody that can give this stray a home.”

  “This guy can’t be seen. He’s been some places and done some things. He’s got plenty more dances on his dance card too, so I have to protect him. He’s valuable.”

  “How valuable?”

  “Valuable enough that you’re the only person stateside I would consider putting him with.”

  Flattery didn’t buy points with Conor. “Ricardo, resources are tight and they aren’t being replenished. Our living arrangements are kind of Spartan and I expect them to get even worse if this keeps going on.”

  “You were well-positioned to weather this. I saw to that myself. Everything you could possibly need. I know you have five years of provisions because I arranged the delivery myself.”

  “Those rations won’t last five years with more people eating them,” Conor said. “I hate to be a bastard about it but I will be. You know I don’t like to say no to a favor, but I may have to say no to this one.”

  “He’s a dad and he has his daughter with him. It’s just the two of them.”

  “You’re a prick,” Conor said. “You did that on purpose, telling me it’s a dad and daughter. You know that’s a weakness of mine.”

  “He’s also a doctor.”

  That got Conor’s attention.

  “That interest you?” Ricardo said, noting the silence.

  “Perhaps. As long as he comes with supplies. I don’t have enough medical gear to treat a group of any size.”

  “Conor, you know medical supplies are hard to get these days. It’s sheer chaos out there. The supply chain is broken at every link.”

  “You haven’t heard me out,” Conor said. “If I take him in, he comes with his own firepower plus extra ammo for me, just for the inconvenience of having company in the house. He comes with surgical setups, a pharmacy, and his own fucking food. Can you do that?”

  “Conor…” Ricardo said, his tone implying that Conor might be asking for just a little too much.

  “That’s the deal,” Conor said. “Take it or leave it. You have five seconds.”

  “I’ll take it,” Ricardo said quickly.

  “How you getting him here?”

  “You have a landing pad
, right? Big enough for a Chinook?”

  “Affirmative," Conor said. "I have a massive paved parking lot with plenty of room for approach and take off. How the hell did you get a Chinook?”

  "The chopper is leased. I’ve been on the phone all night trying to set this up. The bird is from a logging operation in Canada. The flight crew is G4 Securitas. I got a high-value contract to fly a container from Oak Ridge National Laboratory and drop it on the deck of a research vessel anchored offshore. The chopper is supposed to deadhead out of Norfolk, Virginia, tomorrow and head west. It’s going to fly right over you anyway. No one is going to bat an eye if it stops at your place to dump a shipping container and fast-rope off two people."

  "Just remember that container of supplies. I don’t care if the guy is a doc or not, if he shows up with no supplies, he’ll be walking back to the coast."

  "You're valuable to me, Conor. I wouldn’t lie to you."

  "Appreciate it, mate."

  "Then expect this guy tomorrow. If for some reason he's not there by afternoon just assume there was a change in plans."

  "This chap have a name?" Conor asked.

  "I'll leave the introductions to him."

  Conor was preparing to say he didn't like the sound of that when the call ended. Was there some reason he didn’t want to give a name? Conor checked the battery life on the phone and decided to put it on the charger. He stepped out of the ready room, shutting the door behind him.

  Barb was frying sausage and giving Conor a hard stare. "So what did you commit us to this time? I heard you in there folding like a warm tortilla.”

  Conor sighed. “If you heard me in there committing, then you should have also heard me in there protesting."

  "So what won out? Your protests or his impassioned pleas?"

  Conor didn't immediately answer. He was looking for an angle that might present him in a better light when Barb figured him out.

  "I knew it!" she yelled. "He threw some kind of sob story at you, didn’t he? What is it this time? You having to go rescue another damsel? Some other kind of mission? An operation? An assassination?"

  Conor looked at the floor. "It was Ricardo. He had some special deep cover operator show up unexpectedly and he needs to store him on ice, somewhere he won't be seen. He thought of me and this place."

  "Well this place isn’t just you. It’s me too, and now I have to take care of two middle-aged louts instead of one?"

  "I don't think so," Conor said. "Part of the deal is he has to bring his own supplies. He also has his daughter with him and if he’s loutish I assume that’s her responsibility to tend to."

  Barb was tight-lipped and growing angry. "All I can say is they better be able to take care of their fucking selves. My dance card is full."

  Conor held a consoling hand in his daughter's direction. "Those are all things I've already said to Ricardo. He knows the score and he swore to me he’d make it worth it. I told him we needed extra supplies for our pain, suffering, and inconvenience. Did I mention this guy is a doctor?"

  Until that moment, Barb had been furiously flipping sausages around her skillet with a metal spatula. She froze and looked at her father. "A doctor, you say?"

  Conor nodded slowly, meeting his daughter's eye. "We could use a doctor, both for our own needs and for building goodwill in the community."

  Barb shrugged. "Aside from the everyday hazards of just existing in the world right now, I guess there is the fact that you're quickly turning into a tottering and senile old man. Maybe, if we’re lucky, the doctor will have a little experience in geriatric medicine."

  "Maybe he has an obstetrics background in case you and Ragus tie the knot and start putting out little Conors," Conor fired back with a mischievous gleam in his eye.

  Barb didn’t miss a beat. "Or maybe he's a proctologist who can treat my asshole of a father."

  Conor feigned pouting but hunger won him over. "Do you need me to mix up some eggs? I think there's some peppers, onions, and maybe a little feta in the refrigerator."

  Barb didn't answer. The comment about Ragus and babies still had her festering like an angry bee. She wasn’t done with him yet. "I don't know what kind of devious machinations are twirling about in your bowling ball head there, dear father, but I got no interest in the lad back there. Let’s be clear about that. He's still a boy as far as I'm concerned and him fluttering about the place with those puppy dog eyes is far from enchanting. In fact, it's downright annoying. I’d throw his ass out if I thought he could survive the night but I’m not sure he could. A kitten would be better suited for survival.”

  Conor opened his mouth to make another comment. From the mischievous glimmer in his eyes, Barb knew it was not an apology but another jab. She'd had enough of him. In a preemptive strike she drew back and hurled her greasy spatula in his direction. Conor dodged to the left and the spatula bounced off the wall.

  "Geez, Barb! You could addle an old man with a blow like that.”

  Barb retrieved her spatula and glared at Conor. “Let that be a lesson to you. Next time it might be something a wee bit heavier and a wee bit sharper."

  3

  “I'm pretty sure by now all you guys know I used to be a history professor."

  Bryan sat in a chair at one end of the dining hall addressing his dwindling assembly. Rather than a charismatic speech from a leader of men, this felt more like a confession, like Bryan was new to Alcoholics Anonymous and was sharing his story.

  "One of the aspects of history that has always interested me on a personal level is how family dynasties find their way to wealth and power during times of national strife. Whether it was the turmoil caused by Western expansion in the nineteenth century, or the global turmoil of the great world wars, or whether it is wealthy Russians who rose to power during the collapse of the Soviet Union, there have always been men who found avenues to success because they were willing to look beyond the darkness. Sometimes it's dumb luck, simply being in the right place at the right time. Sometimes it's because people understand there may only be brief windows in the span of your life where you have the potential to grasp opportunities. As I've said before, fortune favors the bold. If you hesitate, you lose out."

  Bryan stood and took slow, measured steps to the dining hall window, looking out. His was a near mournful expression, a look of profound sorrow directed at something slipping away, or perhaps already lost.

  "I envisioned good things for those of us who staked our claim at the ground level of this disaster. Some of you were there with me when we discussed these plans in the wake of the attacks. Others of you came in later, but I still want to think you believed in our mission too.”

  Bryan turned away from the window as if he could no longer bear what he saw out there. “You see, cash and personal property mean nothing to people now. They can't eat their silver and gold, their family heirlooms. They can't eat their stashes of paper money. They can't eat the deeds to their property. But if I can trade them things that they can eat for those things in which they see no value, if I can convince them to sign those things over to me for a couple of meals, then I will still own those assets when the world is set right again.”

  He sagged back into his chair at the front of the room and looked from face to face. He needed to know that he was reaching them, that they were connecting. “If our crops had matured I would have sent dozens of armed convoys out into the local community with eggs, jerky, potatoes, dried beans, and even marijuana and opium. What do you think people would trade for those things? If this disaster went on for a year, how many houses do you think we could own at the end of that year? How many trunks of cash would we have stored? How many sacks of gold jewelry and silver coins would we have?"

  No one responded. The men were silent but enthralled. They saw his vision. They had experienced it in action. They had seen it come to fruition and then shatter like a beer bottle against a rock.

  "I'm telling you this not because I think the opportunity is lost, but because I want
you to know what is it stake here. We can still right this ship. Whatever happened to the men we sent out of here was a declaration of war on us. It was a declaration of war on the very dreams that you and I share. I will not let that stand. We cannot let that stand.”

  Bryan stood and his voice hardened. A fire was flickering to life inside him, an angry inferno that he wanted to spread from man to man across this room like a wind-driven brush fire. “When you leave this room today I want you to arm for war. Take your best weapons and gear. We’ll take a chuck wagon and pack horses with food, cooking gear, and more ammo. We will search until we figure out what has befallen our comrades. Along the way we will build an army and we will lay waste to anyone who stands in our way."

  One of the men dared raise his hand. Bryan nodded at him to speak.

  “How do we build an army? There are so few men out there willing to leave their families in these circumstances. Who do you think would be willing to come with us? Is there some incentive we’re offering?"

  Bryan smiled. "Have you ever heard of the Shining Path?"

  4

  Conor stood in the yard enjoying the sun and raking leaves. Although his structures were fairly fire resistant, he was always concerned about leaves allowing fires to travel between the buildings on his property. He was pulling the leaves onto a dirty blue tarp when he heard the rhythmic clop clop of shod horses on the paved road.

  In a flash, Conor dropped his rake and grabbed his rifle from where it was leaning against the building. He ducked behind a continuous mining machine parked nearby specifically for the purpose of providing cover. The machine was a remnant of the property’s past. It was over a hundred tons of dense steel that could mine, scoop, and convey coal, all while being controlled remotely.

  He opened up his rifle scope to provide the widest possible picture and monitored the road. Two riders came into sight. Neither looked familiar to him but they appeared comfortable, as if they knew the area. In fact, they rode right up to his gate and paused as if trying to figure out if anyone was home or not.