Masters of Mayhem

by Franklin Horton

  The man shook his head, regretting that he’d been too weak, unable to control himself. Regretting that the word had escaped his mouth like a snake poking its head from beneath a rock. “No sir. Nothing. I’m sorry.”

  Bryan studied the man closely. His pistol was raised dramatically into the air, as if he were prepared to signal the start of a street race. “No, you clearly have something to say and I want to hear it. It’s written all over your face. What’s your name, man?”

  All eyes were on the man. No one spoke and no one moved. The only sound was a babbling creek beyond the road and the occasional sound of a bird lingering into the cool weather.

  “Phil.”

  “Phil, do you have something more to say? You seem determined to add something to your statement. I’d like to hear it because I’d hate to be accused of stifling your rights. You got free speech, use it. Tell me what’s so important that you just have to say it, even at the risk of death.”

  The fear Phil experienced when Bryan backed up to confront him was suddenly pushed beneath the surface by a surge of anger. “I said I will come with you but I will also enjoy seeing what the Mad Mick does with you when he finds you.”

  Bryan raised an eyebrow. He needed to address this insolence. He lowered his gun to his side, perhaps growing tired of holding it aloft or perhaps simply forgetting about it as he was distracted by a new piece of information, a shiny trinket in a world of mud and filth.

  Phil raised a hand and the sudden gesture resulted in Bryan’s army turning all their guns on him. Even Bryan stepped back in reaction to Phil’s movement, raising his pistol to point it at the man in front of him. Phil opened his palms in a non-threatening gesture, then folded all his fingers inward except for one. He extended his arm and with that finger, pointing at a thick sycamore growing nearby. In the thin bark, two letters were carved by the bold strokes of an ax. The straight lines merged to form a pair of “M”s.

  Bryan stepped back from the line of men and approached the tree. He touched the deep marks as if conducting a forensic examination. “Let me guess. MM stands for the Mad Mick?”

  “Yes,” said Phil.

  Bryan strolled casually back to the line of men, holstering his pistol, and stopping in front of Phil again. “Who is this Mad Mick?”

  “He came through here a couple of weeks back,” Phil replied. “The story is that his daughter was kidnapped by an army of slavers and he went after her. They say he killed every single one of the kidnappers. With my own two eyes, I saw him riding through here with a boy and a big group of women. They stopped here at this creek to water their horses. While he was here, he carved that symbol in the tree.”

  Bryan looked at the symbol again, the mark of the Mad Mick, and returned his gaze to Phil. “Why?”

  “Why what?” Phil asked.

  “Why did he carve that symbol in that tree?”

  “I didn’t talk to him personally but he told some folks that the mark right there, that very mark, is the line. Beyond that line is his territory.”

  “He runs it?”

  Phil shook his head.

  “What then?”

  “He protects the people. Once you get past this point, those marks are everywhere. They’re carved in trees, painted on the road, and spray-painted on the highway signs.”

  Bryan nodded, vaguely unsettled by the confirmation that he was on the correct track. It was what he’d wanted this whole time, to find out what happened to his men and rain vengeance down upon whoever attacked them. This was not what he’d expected to find. He always thought he’d find out that it was a determined family with a lot of sons. Maybe Top Cat and Lester had kidnapped the wrong woman and the men of her family hunted them down like dogs and took their women back. This was different.

  One man? It couldn’t be true. It was likely a hastily-formed campaign of disinformation. It was psychological warfare. What likely lay behind the façade of this Mad Mick character was a man like Bryan himself. Probably a teacher, professor, or history buff using some technique from an ancient empire.

  But Bryan would not be out-historied. The past was his realm. Its stories and techniques were his toolbox. He smiled at Phil. “Thanks for sharing that information. I get the feeling that I could have gone down this whole line of sad sacks and no one would have had the balls to tell me what you just did. You are to be admired for your forthrightness.”

  The look on Phil’s face was a look of smug satisfaction. The problem was it also revealed the obvious fact that he couldn’t wait for Bryan to get what was coming to him. It irritated Bryan, and he so hated irritation.

  “I’m not fond of old sayings,” Bryan said. “I particularly hate people that throw them up in your face at every opportunity, like you’re supposed to base your life decisions on unattributed and undocumented drivel.”

  The look of satisfaction faded from Phil’s face and was replaced with confusion. That made Bryan feel a little better.

  “I’m sorry, that was clearly above your head. I’m referring to the old saying to not shoot the messenger. I do shoot the messenger,” Bryan clarified, pulling his pistol and tapping two quick rounds into Phil’s face.

  Bryan enjoyed the sounds of shock that rose from the people around him. He loved having that affect on people. The power made him surge with vitality. Had he known earlier in his life that killing men gave him such a charge, he may well have turned out differently. He might have become a hit man or a serial killer.

  He moved down the line and smiled at the next man in line. “Will you join us?”

  When they were back on the road their number had grown by eleven men. Eleven men able to understand that failure to go along with Bryan meant a sudden and irreparable end to their existence. Those men were under the careful watch of Zach, undergoing their orientation to the way this army operated. They all looked terrified, which was exactly what Bryan wanted. It was the best possible reaction they could have. A man who came aboard without a little fear and trepidation likely had his own agenda and would be trouble.

  After learning about the Mad Mick, learning that he was crossing into the Mad Mick’s territory, Bryan faded in and out again. He rode alone, sometimes talking to himself. Lecturing in front of a class had helped him solidify his thoughts as a professor. Now there was no class, but that did not mean that he could not speak his thoughts aloud when the desire hit him.

  For much of this journey, both revenge and the desire to return to Douthat Farms had played back and forth as being his primary objective. He wanted both things to happen. They’d lost so much there. Returning to the shell of his operation at Douthat would be like living in the shadow of a monument to his failure. Each day he would stare loss and defeat in the eye. As had crossed his mind at several points in this journey already, perhaps starting anew was the right thing.

  After he got his revenge.

  It was one thing to travel south in pursuit of the mere suspicion that his men might have been killed. It was another to find the actual scene of their demise. To find verbal confirmation from locals that his party had been caught and killed was the icing on the cake. There was no mystery surrounding their fate any longer. He knew what happened, where it happened, and who did it.

  He had a name. The Mad Mick. He couldn’t be sure if it was actually a name, a nickname, or a title. Perhaps in the new world it didn’t matter. Maybe it was no different than him taking Douthat State Park and making it Douthat Farms. Maybe it was no different than remaking himself in the semblance of Thomas Jefferson. Maybe this was how things were now. You could be who you wanted if you had the strength to force your vision on enough people. If you could force enough people to call you the king then you became the king.

  That indecision, that vacillation between whether this was a campaign of war or a resettlement mission, weakened him, he finally decided. There needed to be a singular mission with a singular goal. It was easier to think that way now that he had a more concrete vision of his enemy. He had an actual target
. From this point forward, this was a campaign of war. Once he had defeated his enemy, once he had laid waste to the lands that this Mad Mick so arrogantly claimed as his own, he could focus on what to do next.

  Now that Bryan knew what the MM meant, he saw it everywhere. It was indeed sprayed on highway signs and abandoned cars, hacked into trees, painted on the windows of gas stations and restaurants. The scale of the promotional effort was impressive. While the proliferation of the symbol told him nothing about the size of the Mad Mick’s army or how effective they might be in combat, it did indicate they had some level of support among the locals. Surely the Mad Mick himself couldn’t be making all these symbols. There had to be some local folks participating as well.

  The idea that the Mad Mick had local support dawning on him, Bryan felt a shiver of uncertainty for the first time. It was almost as if he felt he were being watched. He knew what it was; it was the realization that he was in the Mick’s territory. Somewhere within the area he was travelling was this man who had killed his team. Somewhere within this area was the man he would have to kill before he could move on with his life.

  25

  “I didn’t know what to do,” Ragus said when Conor, Barb, and Shannon returned to the compound.

  Conor smiled at the boy. “You knew exactly what to do. You knew to stay here until I returned. It may not have been what you wanted to do, and I appreciate you doing the right thing instead of giving in to what you wanted.”

  Barb rolled her eyes. “Big honking deal. He can follow directions. Hell, a goat can follow directions. Patting him on the back for that is like giving him a participation trophy.”

  Conor looked at his daughter. “Would you have stayed or would you have gone to check out the men’s information?”

  “Oh, I’d have probably gone,” she said without hesitation.

  “I thought so,” Conor said. He turned back to Ragus. “Thanks for not being like Barb.”

  Emboldened by the compliment, Ragus could not resist doing something so childish he could not remember the last time he’d done it. He stuck his tongue out at Barb. Seeing the expression on her face, he immediately knew it was a mistake.

  Barb sprang over the coffee table and caught Ragus by the foot as he tried to escape over the back of the couch. She pulled him to the floor and had him in an ankle lock before he even understood what was happening. Shannon, sitting peacefully on the couch, drinking a cup of hot tea, lurched back in surprise.

  “You hurt him and you’ll carry him on your back until he heals,” Conor warned.

  Barb released the stunned Ragus. He’d been so taken by surprise that he hadn’t even had the opportunity to tap out.

  “Be glad I went for the submission,” Barb said. “The other option was to shorten that tongue so you couldn’t stick it out again. Trust me, you don’t want to experience that.”

  It made Ragus wonder for a moment if she’d actually cut someone’s tongue off before. He didn’t want to ask.

  Conor sorted the two of them out, helping them to their feet. “We don’t have time for this. Sit your arses down and listen to me.”

  Ragus took a seat beside Shannon. She leaned over and patted him on the arm. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Ragus nodded, embarrassed by the attention. He couldn’t help but look over at Barb. She was choking back a laugh.

  “Yeah, Ragus, are you okay?” she teased.

  He gave her a harsh look but kept his tongue in his mouth this time.

  “Barb, are you paying attention?” Conor asked.

  She nodded.

  “Get your patrol load-out ready to go,” he said. “Medium-range rifle. Gear for a night or two in the field.”

  “Got it,” she said.

  “What about me?” Ragus asked.

  “Doc Marty is expecting someone to show up and escort him home tomorrow. I’d rather he not try to get back here on his own. He’s got his own set of skills but he’s at his best in the city. The hills are not his area of operations.”

  “What about me?” Shannon asked.

  Conor was pleased that she asked. It showed that she saw herself as part of the team and expected to carry her own weight. “You’re with Ragus. You need to learn the area. You guys go together to get your dad.”

  “Okay.”

  “This is a strict out-and-back mission, Ragus,” Conor advised. “No sightseeing. I want you guys to go straight there and come straight back. I don’t like leaving the compound unattended if I don’t have to. You hear me?”

  Ragus nodded.

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Yes, I understand,” Ragus assured him. “What should Shannon take?”

  “Shannon, we don’t leave the walls of this compound without basic patrol gear. You never know when you’re going to get stuck outside for a day or two. Do you have a Go Bag?”

  “Yes,” Shannon replied.

  “Ragus will go through it with you and make sure you have all the gear you need for this area. You’ll probably want an M4 with a low-power scope or red dot optic. Your dad said you could shoot but I’ll ask you. Can you shoot?”

  “Yes. Dad wanted me to be able to defend myself if his cover was ever compromised and they came for us. I’m proficient with nearly everything you might come across.”

  “Of course you are,” Barb snipped.

  Conor shot her a look. “Problem?”

  “Just with wasting time,” she replied.

  “Then get your gear together while I finish with these two.”

  “You’re just going to leave them here together?” Barb asked.

  All eyes turned to her questioningly.

  “That a problem?”

  Barb gestured at Shannon and Ragus. “They’re clearly interested in each other. You think they’ll be focusing on security?”

  “Barb!” Shannon said. It was the first time she’d responded to any of the snippy and sarcastic comments. “We’re just friends.”

  Barb opened her eyes wide. “Oh…friends. Excuse me.”

  “What the hell is this about, Barb?” Ragus asked. “You can’t stand me most of the time. Why would you even care if it was true? And I’m not saying that it is.” He shot Shannon a look to make it clear he wasn’t jumping to conclusions.

  “You’re jealous!” Shannon said, the truth suddenly dawning on her.

  It was completely the wrong thing to say. Barb erupted with an even greater viciousness than she’d displayed when attacking Ragus earlier. She launched herself toward the younger girl. There was none of the playfulness there’d been earlier when she was trying to teach Ragus a lesson. This was Barb unleashed.

  Though Conor was not as quick as Barb, he did manage to hook a hand in the back of her belt as she flung herself past him. He got to his feet and hauled her backward while she cussed, spat, and snarled like a wildcat. Ragus had shielded Shannon with his arm, ready to throw himself between them.

  Conor slung his daughter into the hallway. “I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you. Get your gear on now. Don’t look at Shannon and don’t speak to Shannon until you’re ready to apologize.”

  “I’m sorry,” Shannon told Conor when he returned to the couch.

  Conor held up a hand. “You have nothing to apologize for. It’s best you get out of here until she cools off. You two go back to your cabin and let Ragus go through your Go Bag with you. We’ll be out of here in fifteen minutes. Ragus, keep the fire burning and take Shannon on perimeter patrols with you. Plan on heading out of here by 8 AM tomorrow. It will take you a couple of hours to get over to Johnny Jacks’ place.”

  “Got it,” Ragus said.

  In a half-hour, Conor and Barb were walking their horses down the paved mountain road. They’d try to make better time when they hit flat ground but the shod horses didn’t corner well on these roads if they were moving too fast. Added into the mix was the fact they had been forced to go with unfamiliar horses. The horses they were used to riding needed a break after th
e experience with Johnny Jacks’ family. They were sore, tired, and risked injury if they kept pushing them.

  “So what was that all about?” Conor asked. “I’ve never seen you like that.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Barb said. She’d been sullen since the incident, not speaking unless she had to, and not meeting Conor’s eye.

  “We have to talk about it. We’re out doing dangerous shit and we can’t risk having that tension between us. You and I don’t have anyone else in the world. If something is bothering you, it’s bothering me.”

  “Or maybe you’re just bored and don’t have anything else to talk about.”

  “Nonsense. I’m serious. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that Shannon was right. You did seem jealous.”

  Barb flushed a deep red. “I’m tired of talking about Shannon,” she mumbled. “I’m tired of looking at Shannon. When are we getting shed of that pair?”

  “You know the answer to that,” Conor said. “It could be a while.”

  “Great.”

  “Look, Barb, I will be the first to tell you that I don’t know a lot about women. I have very little understanding of the female mind. I was young when I married your mother and young when I lost her. By the time I was finally old enough to get my head out of my ass, it was just you and me. So I apologize for failing you in that respect. Hell, for that reason alone I thought you might enjoy having another woman around. I thought you might be wanting more girl time. I thought the two of you might bond.”

  “If I want girl time, I hang out with JoAnn,” Barb said.

  They rode in silence for a while before Conor picked the conversation up again. “There was a time when I thought you and Ragus might hit if off.”

  Barb sighed. “Can’t let it go, can you? The idea that he and I might spawn little Conors for your herd.”

  “You know he was crazy about you. He risked his life to save you. He did things he never thought he was capable of, all because he was enamored with you. But a guy can only take so much of bashing his head against the wall. You never reciprocated at all. You treated him like a kid and gave him the impression that you weren’t interested in him.”