Masters of Mayhem

by Franklin Horton

  “Can Carrie and I speak to you in private?” Zach asked Bryan. All the assignments had been given out and the ad hoc camp was bustling with activity.

  “Can we do it in the library? I want to see if they have anything interesting,” said Bryan. “I need a good book to read. The burden of command is weighing heavy and I need distraction.”

  “Sure,” Zach said.

  They walked down long dark halls filled with trash and debris. All carried flashlights, for watching where they stepped and for scavenging anything useful. They passed a trophy case broken into for seemingly no other reason than to destroy the trophies. Zach wondered if it was the result of some long-standing vendetta carried out by someone from another school. An intercom speaker had been snapped off the wall and dangled by a thin strand of wire.

  The office area had received special attention. Apparently, harboring many bad memories, those unable to move past childhood grudges had vented their frustration on this particular area of the building. The glass windows had been shattered by tossed furniture. The teacher mailboxes had been turned over. Stacks of charred paper records lay in the floor, the shameful evidence of an unskilled arsonist. Pictures of old principals hung from the wall, the target of a violent baseball bat attack. Old men smiled from behind shattered glass and warped frames.

  They found the library on the second floor. The most visible characteristic of the room was that whole shelves of books were missing.

  “Must be a book lover remaining in the town somewhere,” Bryan said. “Some solitary man of letters on a mission to preserve the classics.”

  Zach and Carrie had no comment on that, just looking at each other as they often did during Bryan’s rambling diatribes. Bryan perused what remained like an entranced customer finding the best used book store in the world. He strolled the shelves, touching thick institutional bindings, and scanning titles. He remembered most of them as being the same books that graced the shelves of his own high school library a lifetime ago.

  “Such a burden,” he whispered.

  “What?” Carrie asked.

  “Books,” Bryan said. “We invest so much in them as readers. Our hopes, our dreams, our aspirations. They get us through hard times. They stave off emotional collapse. Sometimes they become reservoirs for parts and pieces of our self. Because of that, we don’t want to let them go. To sell them, to give them away, to lose them, would be to lose something essential, some part of us that we fear we couldn’t live without. At the same time, they can be like anchors. You ever move a houseful of books?”

  “No,” Zach said. “I prefer audiobooks. Not much storage room in my truck.”

  “I prefer magazines,” Carrie said.

  “Moving a houseful of books can be a brutal and exhausting experience, but what do you do? It’s like those cultures where people burn the hair removed in a haircut because they don’t want to leave it for a witch to use against them. I couldn’t leave a book. I would feel like I was abandoning something vital to me.”

  “Where are your books now?” Zach asked, knowing Bryan obviously must have books somewhere to be so enamored of them.

  “Douthat Farm. Hopefully stored in a manner that they’ll remain safe until I can retrieve them.”

  “I hope we make it back there,” Carrie said. “Sounds like you had a good thing going.”

  Bryan looked at her with a look of both incredulity and disgust. “Of course we’ll make it back there.”

  “That’s right, Carrie,” Zach said, attempting to smooth things over. “When we’re done here, we’ll be heading back there. I can’t wait to see the place myself. It sounds amazing.”

  Bryan didn’t respond, torn between his inner fugue state and the feeling that they were patronizing him. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Let’s have a seat,” Zach suggested, ushering them to a dusty oak table.

  They sat down in the hard chairs. There was an old book on the table, a battered copy of The Gypsy Caravan by Howard Pease. Bryan opened it and examined the pages. He’d read it as a child.

  “I didn’t want to mention this in front of the other men but I think we should split up into two groups,” Zach said. “I don’t want to walk into a trap.”

  Bryan focused on the man in front of him. “You’re concerned that might be the case?”

  “He did seem to be baiting you,” Zach said.

  Bryan huffed at the suggestion. “I think the Mad Mick believes his own legend. He likely expected we would turn tail and run at discovering who we were dealing with. He’ll be surprised we are pursuing him. If we follow his trail, we’ll catch him off guard. I think we have the numbers. This shouldn’t even be a challenge.”

  Carrie cleared her throat, struggling to find a way to word the question that wouldn’t offend Bryan. “The rumors are this man is a skilled fighter. Does that not concern you at all?”

  “I suspect it’s all a campaign of disinformation. I doubt there’s anything of substance to this man at all. He’s likely some hillbilly who read too many thrillers and thinks he’s a superhero. I think we can dispel the myth pretty quickly. Once we do so, I intend to hang his body in some prominent place so that everyone will soon know that the Mad Mick was nothing but a smoke screen behind which some pathetic mountain man was hiding. We will pull down the curtain on Oz to reveal the buffoon behind the controls.”

  “I’m not questioning your judgment here, but in my opinion, this all came together a little too neat. The fact he left you a business card makes me wonder if he expects you to come to him,” Zach said. “Have you thought at all about a plan of attack?”

  “Of course,” Bryan said.

  “What is it?” Zach asked.

  “First, I find your tone dangerously close to being insubordinate, but I’ll answer your question anyway as I’ve come to think of us as colleagues of sorts. I’ll remind you to remember who is in charge here.”

  “Sir, I asked to speak to you in private because I did not want, in any way, to create the appearance that I was questioning your leadership. We are here because I respect you and want to aid in the success of our mission,” Zach said.

  “Very well then,” Bryan replied. “You should be well aware that I am a student of history and historical warfare. Part of my mission here is not just to prevail, but to discredit and perhaps even embarrass this Mad Mick.”

  “How do you intend to do that?”

  “I intend to teach him about gentlemen’s warfare,” Bryan replied. “We march to his residence in a single body with a massive show of force. We call him out upon the battlefield. I hurl a few insults, to which I suspect he will respond by hurling some back. Then we kill him and drag his body to a public intersection where it will hang until the buzzards and crows carry off the last remnants of him.”

  Several things hit Zach like a landslide at that very moment. One was the realization that Bryan was, at least, delusional, and at worst, completely mad. It was apparent in the complete confidence and resignation with which he stated his plan, as well as being visible in the dark, flat pools of his eyes. Zach also realized that to go with Bryan was to walk into certain death. It was no different than the English troops marching into battle during the Revolutionary War only to be devastated by the ungentlemanly guerilla tactics of their opponents.

  For his own safety, it was essential that Zach get his friends out of that force. There was also the possibility that Zach could outmaneuver the Mad Mick. If this Mad Mick was basing his strategy on a frontal attack by Bryan, perhaps he wouldn’t expect Zach to sneak up from the rear. Zach’s success hinged on presenting Bryan with a plan that would still allow him the glory he so desperately desired.

  “Can I present a suggestion without offending you?” Zach asked.

  Bryan nodded. “Certainly.”

  “When do you plan on launching your attack against the Mad Mick?”

  “Tomorrow. If we locate him promptly,” Bryan replied. “If it takes us all day to find him, then we
’ll hunker down for another night and attack the following day.”

  “If I could get a team out of here tonight, we could approach Jewell Ridge from the back side. I was checking the map in the school office and there’s a way to do it, through some place called Pilgrim’s Knob. We could move in from the back and hide out until you guys attack. If the Mick tries to retreat, we drive him back forward. If he attacks you, we jump into the fight from there. I don’t think he’ll be expecting that.”

  Bryan considered the idea for several uncomfortable minutes. His eyes wandered around the room, his brain processing in the background, running scenarios. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “On the condition that you not forget who’s running this show. You only move when I move. If I’m not there yet, you wait. You do not engage the Mick until I’m there. This is not just about winning. It’s also about crushing and demoralizing a legend. Don’t forget that.”

  “You fine with us leaving tonight?”

  “Yes. You can take eight men, and your personal gear.”

  “I don’t think you’ll regret this,” Zach said.

  “Let me remind you that if you double-cross me, if you head home instead of doing what you told me, I’ll track you down and kill you.”

  Zach and Carrie both nodded.

  “Let’s get to it then,” Bryan said, shoving his chair back and getting to his feet.

  They exited the library and headed down the hall they hadn’t yet explored. Shortly, the reek of sewage hit their noses and the mystery of the missing books was solved. They hadn’t been rescued by a devoted reader. Their pages had been ripped out to use as toilet paper. Discarded bindings lay in a stack outside the doors to the restrooms. Loose pages carpeted the floor, covered in dirty footprints.

  Bryan clutched the Howard Pease book tightly. “Fucking animals.”

  37

  Conor and Doc Marty hadn't even made it halfway down the ridge before they began running into clusters of armed locals mobilized by Barb's warning. The first group they rode up on was initially startled at Conor’s approach but cheered when they recognized them. Conor wrangled his horse to a stop beside the two men and the teenage boy that made up the party.

  "Hope you fellas are coming to help out.”

  The men nodded enthusiastically. "You got three generations here, buddy. We heard about what happened to those girls who were kidnapped. We don’t want to see it happen again. We want to help."

  Conor nodded and smiled. "Did my daughter tell you where to meet up?"

  "At the community center," the boy said.

  Conor smiled at him and nodded. "That's right, son. I hate to ask this of you but it might mean working through the night. If we can get some proper traps in place we may be able to reduce their numbers without putting any of our men at risk. Some good booby-traps will even the odds."

  The men on the road looked at each other and conducted an entirely wordless conversation in their glances. "We probably got a good two hour walk ahead of us,” the elder of the trio said to Conor. “Don't remember because it’s been years since I had to walk out of here. Probably since I was a teenager determined to walk into town for some pretty young thing. But we’ll get there and we’ll do what we can."

  Conor thanked the men and rode off with a wave. Over the course of the ride they met several more groups, varying in size, but all bearing the same determination to protect their community. Conor made certain each knew where to assemble.

  "I'm impressed," Doc Marty said. "For such a contrary and unlikeable bastard you've done well to bring these folks together. Is this because you're such an upstanding member of the community? You sit with the elderly and host Easter egg hunts at your compound?"

  Conor laughed. “I think it's a combination of things. They've probably heard the embellished Mick stories we've been passing around and I think it's made them confident that I can get them through this. It's a tightknit community and I'm sure the group of women I brought back have extended family among these men. They’ve probably heard what those women went through on the road and don’t want it to happen to the women in their family. If those women told any stories about the final battle that probably made an impression as well. It was a little over-the-top, even for me."

  "A little excessive?" Doc Marty mocked. “You?”

  Conor shrugged. "It happens. Sometimes things get personal. You have a daughter—you think her kidnapping wouldn’t be personal to you? Wouldn’t justify a few excesses?"

  "I see your point. It would become very personal.”

  It was dark when Conor and Doc Marty reached the community center between the base of the ridge and the town where Bryan’s men were holed up for the night. Conor could see a few flashlights and lanterns, men gathered and talking in low voices. Conor hailed them and introduced himself before anyone got twitchy with a firearm.

  With the men here and the men still on the mountain, that gave him somewhere around two dozen fighters. Then there was his own party—Barb, Doc Marty and Shannon, and Ragus—which added a handful more. Conor dismounted and searched around in the load on his pack horse. He came out with a large bag of brown beans.

  "If you dig around in the community center kitchen you should be able to find a big pot. Gather some water in the creek and start heating it. Make sure it reaches a boil and stays there for a few minutes. These beans will take a little while to cook but we have a night of work ahead of us. These beans will fill some bellies when we’re done. He tossed them to one of the men, then reached back into the saddle bag again, coming out with a healthy chunk of salt bacon. “I assume you men know what to do with this?”

  The man who’d caught the beans grinned. There probably wasn’t a man for thirty miles in any direction who didn’t know how to cook soup beans.

  "Cooking beans ain’t going to take all of us," said one of the men. "You got anything else?"

  "You know where the highway department shop is?" Conor asked the man.

  He nodded toward town. "About a mile and half that way."

  "That's the place. I need five or six of you to go down there. Stay alert, don't make a lot of noise, and don't draw a lot of attention. If you see a group of men on horseback, don’t engage them. Turn around and get back here. If you can make it, I need you to get into the shop and find an ax, a couple of shovels, and every steel drum lid you can find. Got it?"

  “Ax, shovels, barrel lids,” the man repeated.

  “That’s it,” Conor confirmed.

  The man gathered a few of his buddies and they peeled away, heading toward town at a hurried walk. That left three men who were not engaged in the cooking operation.

  "You men up for a job?" Conor asked.

  They nodded eagerly.

  "You know that barn down the road with the antique metal signs on it?"

  One of the men nodded. “Got antique tractors and such.”

  “That’s it. Besides those signs, there's also an old two-man crosscut saw fastened to the side of that barn. I need you to bring it back here. If the owner of the barn is home, tell him what we’re doing and why we need it. Don't take no for an answer. If he's interested in saving his family, recruit him."

  Happy to have a mission, something to calm the nerves that frayed during periods of waiting, the men took off. Conor spotted one man sitting on his knees, carefully assembling a teepee of kindling for the cooking fire. "You guys will probably have some time on your hands while you're cooking. You see that shed across the road?"

  The man raised his head and squinted against the darkness. He could make out the vague outline of what had once been someone's old car shed. "I see it. Barely."

  “Tear the roof and siding panels off of it. It doesn’t matter if they’re in good condition or not. The easiest way to do it is to get a long pole, maybe an old two by four, and bang the panels off from the inside. Stack all the metal panels you can get over here at the community center."

  "Got it," the man said.

  C
onor was impressed with everyone's enthusiasm and eagerness to participate. Even if they lacked fighting skills, eagerness and the willingness to listen would take them a long way.

  "With all the assignments handed out, we done for the night?" Doc Marty asked.

  Conor shook his head. "Not at all. We have our own list, my boy."

  38

  "There's somebody on the move," Shannon said, breaking what had been a long silence.

  "Where?" Barb asked.

  "My two o'clock."

  Barb adjusted her position to better see what Shannon was describing. The girls had quietly searched the town until they heard the sound of penned horses. They located them on the high school football field and quickly determined that the high school itself was serving as the temporary quarters for the approaching army. The girls figured out the best way to observe the football field and the immediate area was from a cliff on the other side of the four-lane highway where the rocks had been blasted away to make room for the road, leaving a sheer rock wall several stories high.

  Fortunately, a crude trail led to the top of the cliff, likely made by stoners who wanted to lay out of high school and get high. From this perch they could smoke pot and laugh at the poor saps still having to suffer through a day of school.

  The girls were lying at about thirty degrees to each other, both of then scanning with binoculars in a manner that allowed them to cover the entire vista before them. They had a plastic tarp beneath them to keep from getting wet and each was burrowed deep into a zero-degree sleeping bag. During long periods of inactivity, such as keeping an enemy under observation, it was nearly impossible to keep warm without layering up.

  "I've got multiple folks on the move, headlamps and flashlights,” Barb confirmed when she saw the activity Shannon noted a moment ago.

  "You think the entire force is heading out?" Shannon asked. “Are they making their move?”

  "I don't think so," Barb replied. "There’s still a lot of folks back at the high school sitting around campfires. Let’s just keep an eye on the movers. Could be a patrol or a scavenging party.”