by Chuck Rogers
The bastard didn't even blink. "Mine."
"Good luck with that."
Those undertaker eyes of his narrowed.
He was not amused.
Frame, winning friends and influencing people.
But add to the list of things I don't like? Being beaten down with clubs. I had a ferocious headache because one asshole, that would be Larry, forgot the rule that you're not supposed to hit suspects in the head, and all of my experiences with the US Marshal Service had been bad.
The look in the Marshal's pale eyes told me without a shadow of a doubt he hated me. They were eyes that had to seen too much recently and I had a feeling the Sons of Ged were the last god damn straw.
I locked my baby blues with his. "Listen, I'm not one of them."
"One of who?"
Oh, fuck him. He was one of those cops who could hate and remain conversational.
"You know who, the SOG."
"The SOG? Oh! Nice, hadn't heard you boys and girls were calling yourselves that."
"I'm not a Son of Ged!"
"You sure look like one."
"So do you."
He actually smiled. There was a joke there. It was on me, and I didn't get it. I hunched my right shoulder. "Am I wearing a brand?"
"No, you're not a member yet, but you're a prospect, and one hell of a prospect from where I'm sitting."
"I'm a United States Marine!"
"There aren't any Marines anymore."
I glared and gave him the standard response. "As long as I'm alive there's one."
He cocked his head for a just a second. He smelled the jarhead on me and smelled some truth. Then he smiled. "So, where'd you sit?"
God damn him.
Good nose, though.
There was no point in even trying to lie to this asshole. "Leavenworth."
"Dishonorable discharge?"
I rolled my eyes.
He looked at me like I was a bug. No, worse than a bug. I was a snake, and in his eyes a traitor to the human race. "What were you doing? Scouting Westlake by yourself is pretty goddamn bold. Oh, wait. I know. You were about to get made weren't you? Ged send you out on your spirit quest? What was it? I bet I know." He flicked his finger against his Marshal star so that it pinged. "One of those come back with a badge or don't come back missions?"
God my head hurt. I would have given anything for two Tylenol. He knew it and just let me dig my own grave. "I'm not one of them."
"Okay. You're not, but you know who the Son's of Ged are and you're heading straight towards them on open freeway. You on your way to join up?"
Fuck this.
"As a matter of fact I was."
Jeannie folded her arms across her chest. "Wow."
Larry pointed a finger at me. "Fuck him."
"You know, they say the truth will set you free." Marshal Miles grinned and shook his head. "Not so much."
This was an interrogation, and probably the only reason I was still alive was that the Marshal was hoping for something useful.
"Want to hear a story?"
"Is it a good one?"
"Are you kidding? Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love," I shrugged. "Miracles."
Jeannie beamed. "Nice!"
I liked Jeannie. She got it.
I didn't wait for permission. "Well, I don't know where you all were at when the world ended, but I was in a bar . . ."
Everyone likes sharing Where were you? stories.
I told them about meeting Line. About what the Deathstar was. I told them about falling in love and Line blowing her brains out in my bathroom. I told them about beautiful Bobby and my three months in his bomb shelter. I told them about emerging into post-apocalyptic Malibu and about turned and burned bears.
That got some very long looks at the scars on my face.
I told them about black helicopters, moon rocks and the murder of mayor pro tem Sophina Smythe. Marshal Miles grimaced and I think maybe he'd seen the Men-in-Black too. I told them about Malibu and its struggle to pull itself together. I told them about my recon to Malibu Lake and everything I'd learned about the SOG in Agoura Hills.
I told them Keith Braun, the RV King of Malibu had personally dropped me off at Carillo State Beach and about Orcas and Raj dying. I told them how I'd taken the 23 to the 1. I freely admitted I intended to join the Sons of Ged, rise to their upper echelons if need be, and of my intention to burn the assholes to the ground. Failing that, I intended to gather the kind of intel that might let us win a war against them. I would be more than happy to share that same intel with the men and women of law enforcement, and failing that?
Maybe I'd just kill this Ged son of a bitch myself.
It was all very quiet in the station save for the sound of the rain.
Larry spoke first.
"Marshal, you don't actually believe this asshole, do you?"
Fuck you, Larry.
"Wow," Jeannie gave me the folded arms again. "It's perfect, seamless, and there isn't a single part of it we can verify. I wish I'd done my administration of justice thesis on this guy."
God damn it.
I thought Jeannie liked me.
Marshal Miles made his pronouncement.
"Doesn't matter whether we believe him or not. What I know is that if he does something that earns him the mark and takes the sacrament then he'll be one of them. We're already outnumbered and outgunned. I sure as hell ain't gonna deputize him and I can't let a man this dangerous join them." He stood up and put the chair back at the desk. "I gotta go. When there's a break in the weather? Hang him."
What the fuck!
Larry smiled at me. "Out on the highway?"
I swear to God the shining knight marshal asshole took out a form, signed it and handed it to Larry. "Where all his buddies can see him. I take full responsibility."
Jeannie chewed her lip with something that might resemble unprofessional concern. "You sure about this Roman?"
Called him by his first name.
It was weird, but it sounded like Jeannie was talking about something besides hanging me.
He ignored the question. "We heard from Outpost 4?"
Ramirez spoke. "This morning. Still no movement." He shook his head at me. "Except him."
Marshal Miles sighed. "All right, then. I'm out of here. Mitzie over in 2 is in charge until I get back, and personally I'd keep her in charge if I don't." He gave me a final, cold look. "God help your soul."
Self-righteous, son of a . . .
I gave him the look with the added bear-torn smile that turned it hideous.
Deputy Marshal Miles turned his back on me and muttered as he walked away. "They're coming out of the fucking woodwork . . ."
God damn it.
* * *
I WATCHED THE BAROMETER ON THE WALL RISE.
It looked like it was going to be clear tomorrow.
Hang'em High weather.
Normally, once they've got you in the holding cell they take the handcuffs off. With me they didn't. But, they'd handcuffed me from the front so I could eat and shit without their assistance.
That was their first mistake.
Their second was leaving me alone with Larry.
Larry was at his desk watching some action movie with a lot of shooting on his laptop.
"Hey! Larry! Can you turn it this way so I can see?"
Larry didn't even look up. "Fuck off."
Starting not to like Larry.
"Don't I get a last meal or something?"
So far I'd been given a plastic bottle of water.
"You get beans and cornbread in the morning, Geddy. Just like the rest of us."
Geddy . . .
"Me? I wouldn't waste it on you, but the Marshal would insist."
"You're not really going to hang me, are you?"
"I am going to tie a rope around your neck and push you off the overpass, asshole. You're going to shit yourself and twist in the wind for all your Gedhead friends
to see."
Gedhead? That's mine, Larry. You stole it.
"You're not a real cop, are you Larry?"
Larry flinched.
Larry had a tell.
"What are you? Forestry service? Deputized firefighter? No, I got it. Simi Valley Town Center security guard."
"Fuck you, asshole."
"No! Really! Good for you, Larry! I bet the apocalypse is the best thing that ever happened to you. You're not in the mall any more. Far fewer alpha males for you to compete with, you got your junior safety patrol badge, you're wearing the big boy pants, and hey! The Marshal let you have a gun!" I lowered my voice conspiratorially. "Does he let you put bullets in it, Larry? Oh, wait. Let me guess. He gave you one bullet, but you have to keep it in your pocket, right?"
Oh, he got the reference.
"You know, maybe you're not going to get that last meal."
"Oh yeah, well, let me tell you this. I--"
Larry took out a pair of ear buds.
"Oh, c'mon, Larry! You and me, awe man . . ." Larry put the ear buds in and hit the volume key on his laptop twice.
Bad move, Lawrence.
Then again, he really had nothing to fear. I was in a cell with steel bars. I'd been beaten to a pulp, strip-searched and I was wearing jeans, a t-shirt, socks and handcuffs. My resources at hand consisted of a half roll of toilet paper and a recently emptied 16.9 oz. plastic bottle of water.
That would do nicely.
You might have heard the bit about there being three kinds of people in the world, dicks, pussies and assholes.
Larry was an asshole, and he was about to learn about dicks and their dick-move ways.
Larry studiously ignored me as I chewed a small hole in the bottom rim of the water bottle. Then I put a finger over the hole while I peed in the bottle.
I capped the bottle tightly, went to the bars and tilted the bottle to aim it at Larry. Larry was only ten feet away. I shouted at the top of my lungs.
"Goooood, morning Vietnam!"
Larry lifted his chin.
I Charles Atlas'ed the bottle between my hands.
Hit him right in the eyes. He flailed and shouted. He spluttered and gagged as I got him in the mouth. Larry hacked and almost threw up as I pissed on him. The stream died as the pressure equaled out. I spun off the cap and sent the bottle pee-tomahawking through the bars and hit him in the chest as he launched to his feet.
Larry looked at me with piss dripping from his face and murder in his eyes. "You mother fucker."
I smiled sunnily and waggled the toilet paper roll at him. "Just wait 'til I take a shit, Larry!"
Larry was so angry he was shaking.
"Word to the wise, Larry. It's literally the end of the world, and Jeannie still isn't going to fuck a grass-eating, thimble-dick, wannabe, beta-male like you."
I'd caught that vibe, too.
He literally bared his piss-dripping teeth at me. The moth that'd landed on his upper lip quivered.
There is a saying that the most dangerous thing in the world is a United States Marine and his rifle. The only slightly lesser known maxim is that the most dangerous thing in the world is a Force Recon Marine and his devious little mind.
"Jeannie fucks alphas, Larry. Like the Marshal."
Larry flinched.
I'd caught that vibe, too.
"And me."
Boom.
I owned him. Well, he had me handcuffed in a cell and he had a gun. So technically Larry owned me. But I could run circles around Larry. Of course he could bisect both that circle and my devious little mind with a .40 caliber round from his service pistol.
I was hoping Larry would do something stupid, but I gave it four out of five Larry would just shoot me.
He did.
Larry drew his Taser. "Play time's over, fuckface."
Fuckface?
Oh, this was just getting started.
I jinked back and forth slightly to keep the bars ruining his aim. "Don't Taze me bro! Don't Taze me!"
Larry actually shoved the Taser through the bars.
I lunged.
I didn't beat him. The Taser "chuffed!" and I took both probes in the sternum.
I've been Tazed before.
I'm not going to tell you I've pulled a Superman and ripped the probes from my chest, but long ago, as a newly minted MP asshole, me and some other newly minted MP assholes had engaged in the 'playing with the Tasers' ritual and taken bets as to who could take the most juice.
Won me a bottle of Jack Daniels.
I don't know about the twenty-one foot rule and a gun but I got both hands on his wrist as he gave me the juice. I made the 'Eeeeeeeee! I'm being electrocuted noise' but the voltage only made me grip harder. It's not like when the EMT's yell Clear! and give a heart-attack victim the paddles. At most if you touch a person being Tazed it's startling. But I was gripping him with both hands and his wrist was wet.
It was a good connection.
Larry yelped and faltered on the trigger.
The first second of being Tazed is pain. A whole lot of it. The next second starts the muscular contractions and the third starts disorientation and autonomous collapse. Three seconds is a very long time in a fight. Larry gave me enough juice to seriously piss me off and then faltered on the trigger. I was larger, stronger and faster, an order of magnitude more vicious and I had him by the wrist with both hands.
I yanked his arm straight.
Larry screamed like a rabbit being killed as I snapped his elbow ninety degrees in the wrong direction against the bars.
There's no rest for the wicked, or their victims. I heaved back as hard as I could and bounced Larry's face off the bars. That brought him within range and I wrapped my hands around his throat. It was a little awkward in handcuffs but I got both thumbs on his windpipe and squeezed.
Larry's eyes bugged out of his head.
He wasted precious seconds scrabbling at my wrists with his left hand. Then Larry went for his gun but he didn't have a right arm, he was already turning purple and his service pistol was on the wrong side of his body. He had a knife and a baton but he was already in shock from the elbow break and going disoriented from the choke. His eyes went brick red and looked ready to explode out of his face. I tried to push his Adams apple out the back of his neck with my thumbs. He made fascinating ever more quiet noises. His face went cyanotic blue and his eyelids fluttered. Larry went boneless.
I dropped him.
It took some fooling around but I dragged both his legs through the bottom of the bars. Larry hacked and twitched and made really bad gargling sounds while his throat swelled and turned black. His airway was obstructed. I'd done something permanent and perhaps fatal to his trachea.
Fuck him.
I got the handcuff key and the key to the cell and I was a free man.
I stood over Larry and watched him die.
God damn it.
Larry was lucky.
I'd lost Raj today.
And Larry had a tactical pen.
That meant a big thick pen barrel. I spun off both ends and pulled out the pen's guts. Larry also had a tactical folder. I snapped out the knife and made a half-inch cut just below his jacked up Adam's apple. The cut exposed the yellow cricothyroid membrane and I made another incision in that to access his airway. I stuck the pen barrel in about two inches and gave Larry two quick rescue breaths through it. His chest rose and fell and he started making faint teakettle noises through the pen.
There you go Larry.
You like hanging people? That's what if feels like. You like executions? That's what it feels like to die. The hands of the Grim Reaper feel just like mine, and, this Larry? This is what it feels like to get that eleventh hour reprieve.
He was probably going to die anyways.
One more good deed I was probably going to regret.
And Lalli worried about me going to the Dark Side of the Force.
I gave my enemies emergency tracheotomies!
Of cour
se I was the one who put him in need of one . . .
But enough about Larry.
It was time to blow.
I retrieved my clothes and gear and stole Larry's duty rig and everything on it on general principle. Today's deluge had not been planned for so I stole a CA Highway Patrol poncho. My food was nowhere to be seen but I found a box of 1-quart freezer bags and stole a quart of beans from the crock-pot and loaded another bag with squares of cornbread. I filled a CA Highway Patrol thermos with their coffee.
They had a lot of super market type food in their larder and I wondered where they were getting it from.
I went out the back door.
It was the middle of night. Howling wind and pounding rain. Visibility just about zero. I risked a few moments of flashlight time. The station was an old single story brick building and wasn't attached to anything. A few other small, dark one-story buildings loomed out at the edge of the flashlight beam. There were a couple of corrugated metal vehicle canopies of recent construction out back. Bobby's bike and a beauty of a Highway Patrol Electra Glide Harley Davidson sat beneath one of them. The difference between that mighty iron horse and the emasculated café Sportster was stark. I was tempted, but being on that bad boy would get me summarily shot by the shields and probably shot at by a lot of other folk who saw the colors before they saw me.
On top of that, Bobby's bike weighed about half as much as the CHiPs beast. I re-packed my saddlebags. The same road that led to the front of the station was the same one that led out. I chose the back road because it was downhill rather than up. I didn't want my headlight seen or my engine heard. I had not recovered from my beating, I was pushing a 400lb pound bike and it was going to be a long night.
I spontaneously named my bike 'The Bobby McGee.'
I sang the song to keep myself company as me and Bobby McGee walked out into the storm.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
How to win friends and influence people.
THE BIGGEST PROBLEM WITH GOING UNDERCOVER?
Is that you're going undercover.
A cop tries to pretend he's a biker. He lets his beard grow for three days, puts on some shiny new leather, gets on a bike and shows up at biker friendly establishment with his hair perfect, wearing cologne and talking biker slang like he read it off an internet site. This happens more often than you think. Then our hapless junior detective and his superiors wonder why he can't get anyone to take long rides in the moonlight with him much less spill their guts.