by Clay Martin
“Now tell me about the bone pile.” Mike stated flatly. No hint of emotion, no accusation, like a mother asking a child where the candy in his pocket came from.
No response. Mike brought the tent peg down next to Robbie’s still captive penis, now purple and mangled. The noise shocked him, and brought pre-emptive tears to his eyes.
“ I already know about the bone pile Robbie. I just want to hear it from you. Earlier today, I turned a femur into a spear and ran one of your boys through with it. That’s why they haven’t come back yet. They are carrying another of your dead or dying. So answer the question Robbie. There is no need for more pain.”
Mike stared him in the eyes, willing him to break. Time was running short, and he needed the threat of violence to be enough. Pain has a threshold, and if he reached it, Robbie would either pass out, or shock would make further damage irrelevant. Mike’s face was a stone mask. Gently, he put the tent peg down. And slowly, he pulled the Randall fighting knife from its sheath. Turning it in the air, he let the light glint off the stainless steel, seven-inch blade. The threat was as real as it was going to get.
“Last chance Robbie. I want to hear it. Tell me the truth, and we can be done here. But if you don’t tell me, this can still get a whole lot worse.”
The moment held. Robbie’s face was pure terror. Mike braced himself for the next move. Robbie took a deep breath, exhaled, and rolled the dice.
“Fuck man, I’ll tell you. The Return of Kings is……..”
On he rambled, spilling the entire mythology of the tribe. How the Time of Kings would come again, how they took the spoils to prepare for that day, why they ate the bodies of the women, but only the hearts of men. Mike was sickened, but he prodded him on. Now that the story was flowing, they were the best of friends. Tell me how long you guys been at this. You must all be very crafty not to get caught. Wow, that is amazing.
“Your a hardcore dude. Chief would let you join us, I’m sure of it. You killed two of ours, but that just strengthens the tribe. Tribute paid on the field of battle. He will be back here soon, I’ll talk him into it.” Robbie finished, rambling on into drivel.
“ So let me get this straight. You guys kidnap women, bring them up here, turn them loose, hunt them, rape them, and then cannibalize them in a ritual sacrifice? Because you think this is how mankind functioned up to a few hundred years ago? And you think you are bringing about a time, the Return of Kings, when this is socially acceptable to do again? Any piece of ass you see, you just go take it because it is your right as the Alpha Males of this soft society?” Mike asked mystified. He had been around the world and seen some savage shit, but this was taking belief to a different place. At least in Africa they didn’t write mythology about it. It was just the way of tribal warfare, from a society that didn’t have the wheel yet. These were US Citizens, in the age of the internet and air conditioning. Whatever had popped the screws loose in this group of misfits, there was no redemption for.
“Yeah, pretty much.” Robbie cowered. He had put it all out there. It was a dangerous gamble, but what kind of warrior could resist a sales pitch like that? Whatever this Mike guy was, he was definitely a warrior.
Mike considered his options. There was an appropriate response forming in his head, and sometimes it paid to let these things form fully before acting.
Reaching down with the Randall, Mike cut Robbies leg bonds. Keeping his left arm up to guard in case of a ruse, he then severed the bonds holding his arms. Dropping his knife hand back, he pulled Robbie to his feet, and stepped back a pace.
“Imagine that, finding an entire tribe of warriors in the ancient tradition, all the way out here in God’s country.”
Robbie couldn’t believe his luck. He chanced half a smile, which Mike returned fully. He was going for it. Chief really might invite him into the fold, and it would be Robbie’s brilliance that had done it. Or Chief might kill him on sight. Either way, Robbie was going to be just fine. He struggled to hold himself upright after the beating he had taken, and winced as he reached down to pull up his pants. As he did, Mike very gently pushed him back upright.
Voice even, still smiling, Mike peered into his soul. “ One problem though. The God of War doesn’t like you. You prey on the grazers because you are the weak. You play like you are hard, but you don’t know what that means. You are soft, so very delicate, and yet you think you are men. The God of War grows angry when soft things pretend to be his disciples. It is why he has sent me. To punish you.”
Recognition slowly dawned in Robbie’s eyes as he absorbed the words. A question rose to his lips. He didn’t understand, he needed clarification. Mike rotated the Randall, held reverse grip, so the point was horizontal. In a savage blur of motion, he ripped the blade across Robbies lower belly, turned into an upward arc to his sternum, and sinking the blade deep, dropped his weight behind it as he plunged it all the way to his hip. Robbie still stood with an idiotic look on his face as his guts fell out of a foot wide triangle shaped carved out of his torso. In Sayoc they would call that a blue worm strike, and his instructors would be proud if they could see this one. Mike stood as the realization of damage finally made it to Robbie’s brain. He tried to stuff what was falling back in the hole, and fell to his knees as shock set in. Grabbing Robbie by the hair, Mike pulled the seven inches of razor-sharp steel into the sky. His eyes lit with fury, Mike administered the only last rites he knew. “See you in hell. Your friends will be joining you soon.” And with that, he proceeded to hack Robbie’s head off, a necessary part of phase three.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jessup’s command was slowly falling apart. The guys had been pushed too hard, and taken too many licks without giving any back. They were fraying at the edges, snaps of anger at each other, and a wild eyed fear at what was lurking behind every bush among some of them.
Bill was in bad shape, and if they didn’t get him to a doctor soon, he wasn’t going to make it. Jessup was feeling a little overwhelmed himself. Back at the river, things had turned to chaos as soon as the shooting started. Half the crew just opened fire in a random direction, while some ran toward the action. These guys had never trained for fire and maneuver, and had no idea what they were doing. Bo and Jessup almost got shot by their own guys, fucking Wade mistaking them for phantoms sprawled out on the rocks. Thank god the dumb shit was so excited he jerked the trigger half way to China, sending his bullet careening off a rock behind them. Zeke ran in front of someone taking a shot, and got half his ear blown off. Dumb son of a bitch was lucky it didn’t canoe his head. It took almost two minutes of Jessup waiving and screaming to restore order, and he was kind of surprised he didn’t get blasted in the process. He was an inviting enough target. His troops back under control, he had half of them lay still, while the other half tromped down the streambed in a flanking move. Then they were too scared to beat the brush towards the sound of the contact, lest the jumpy men on the firing line open up on them by mistake. Finally Jessup said fuck it, ordered everyone to hold their fire, and took Bo to investigate. They found Bill pinned to a tree with a spear, gasping for breath and desperately trying to pull it out of his chest. Jessup tried to pull his hands away from the shaft, prevent him from doing more damage, as he screamed for Wade. Wade had paramedic training, the closest to an expert they had. All the guys came tumbling in, and froze with horror as they saw what had happened. “Perimeter you fucking jack wagons” Jessup screamed, snapping them out of bystander mode. “ His fucking rifle is missing.”
Wade was out of his depth, but he knew enough not to remove the projectile. It was the only thing keeping Bill from bleeding out. He opted to try and cut the spear on both sides, keep a section in place to control bleeding, so they could transport him out. As he looked to see how the spearhead was attached to free it from the shaft, he noticed a detail that had so far been missed. Dropping his knife, he motioned Jessup over.
“This is a bone.”
&
nbsp; “No shit it’s a bone. Can you fucking get him down or not?”
“Specifically, its a femur.”
Jessup looked at him and made a “so what” gesture with his hands.
“A femur is a leg bone. It’s not his.”
Jessup’s eyes grew wide at the implication. “You sure?”
“Absolutely positive. This isn’t no fucking animal bone. It’s a human leg bone. He found the spot, and he’s letting us know he knows. This is bad. We gotta tell Chief.”
Fuck. News was getting worse by the second. Well, if they were going to get shot, it would have happened by now. And no point in hiding what everyone was going to find out pretty soon anyway. Jessup passed the news to his guys on security. Keeping two of them close to guard Bill, he sent the rest out in pairs to find some appropriately thick branches to make a stretcher. At least someone had the sense to pack a poncho today. And fuck the trail. They had to get Bill to a hospital, and they had to let Chief know that their darkest secret was in danger of being dragged into the light. He would have to pull out all the stops now. Everything they had built depended on it.
That had been hours ago. They had been tromping through the woods ever since, doing their best not to drop Bill’s dead weight. They had started off noble enough. But as the miles dragged on, the aggravation grew. The rough bark dug into palms, pressed by 200 pounds of flesh atop it. Forearms burned and grips gave out. Four men walking, holding a fifth, trying to find a rhythm over the uneven terrain. Stumbling, jarring the package, which always brought inhuman, gurgling screams from Bill. Resentment grew, cursing Bill out loud for being dumb enough to get stuck by a goddamn spear. On they went, fighting against the coming darkness. They were exhausted, even with rotations on the stretcher. A mile from camp in an opening, Jessup called a halt. Bill was lowered to the ground unceremoniously, and the stretcher bearers collapsed in heaps.
“Rest ten minutes, then one last push back to camp. Bill is counting on us, and we don’t leave our own behind.” Jessup announced, trying to sound more in control than he was. Calling Bo over, the two huddled to confer.
“’Bout a mile left, right?”
“Give or take. We are damn close.”
“We better be. These fucking dudes are beat. Chief needs some answers, and I need a drink. We gotta get this fucker, but the boys ain’t up to it tonight. You gonna be able to find that track tomorrow?”
“Sure as eggs is eggs. Not a cloud in the sky tonight, they gonna still be there. And I could track a dollar bill through a Miami titty bar with the fleet in town.”
“Not a cloud in the sky, but what about that?” Jessup was pointing to a new column of smoke rising above the trees.
“What the fuck? Robbie must’ve started a goddamn bonfire, in case we didn’t beat the sun. Bet that stupid little shit used every scrap of firewood we got by the look of it.”
With an uneasy feeling growing, Jessup and Bo turned back to face each other. What if it wasn’t Robbie?
“Everyone up! Move your fucking asses! We gotta go!” Jessup screamed, pulling men to their feet. A few resisted at first, until they saw Bo moving out at a rapid pace. Stirred by an unexplained excitement, the tribe moved to follow. Rapidly they bounded down the hill, breaking brush and half running to keep up. Bill was bouncing on his stretcher like a rag doll, but no one seemed to notice.
Breaking into the clearing, a scene of utter devastation greeted them. Instinctively, they huddled together behind Jessup as he cautiously stepped forward. Never in their wildest dreams had they imagined such a thing could take place. The stretcher bearers dropped Bill without a word, falling in behind their leaders as something drew them like moths to a flame. In the center of the ritual fire pit was a newly erected tent pole, with Robbie’s head staked on its peak.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
There are many ways to strike fear into the heart of your enemies, and picking the correct one is vital to success. Choose wrong, and you only harden your enemies resolve. In Baghdad, Mike’s Task Force had opted for a long strategy. They would simply appear out of the darkness, green eyes guiding them through the night like monsters from a science fiction novel, exterminate whatever cockroaches needed killing, and leave before the local jihadis could mount a counter. It took a long time, but eventually the terrorists panicked about the unseen, silent death that stalked them. Executions and torture of suspected collaborators did nothing to stem the tide, and only served to help dismantle the organizations from the inside. They self-destructed on a national level, leaving only small warring factions that killed more of each other than the Americans did.
Africa was different. Over there, the name of the game was to match them brutality for brutality. The local allies Mike’s team was sent to help laughed out loud when he gave the US mandatory briefing on the Law of Land Warfare. What silly white faces these were, telling them they could not eat prisoners. A few weeks of witness to the atrocities of the Dark Continent shaped a new understanding. The UN peacekeepers sent before would break and run before they would gun down child soldiers. The Americans, hardened by years in the GWOT, had no such compunction. Military age male might mean grown man at a DC cocktail party, but out in the real world it meant anyone big enough to hold an AK-47. In the jungles of the Congo, you hit harder, pursued faster, and massacred without mercy the moment you had a chance. And always let one witness go, to tell the story.
In both conflicts, Mike was always struck by how easy it was to defeat any culture steeped in superstition. All the way back to fighting the Indians, the smart man looked for cracks in the armor. Comanches thought that if you died at night, your spirit wouldn’t be able to find the after world. Night attacks broke their will to fight. Arabs had the issues with pork and graven images, and the Africans had enough voodoo logic to fill an encyclopedia. Using the belief of whatever faction you face won’t break the leaders. High enough up the food chain, there is no such thing as a true believer. The people actually in charge only want money, power, expensive hookers, and top shelf booze. But the poor sap in the trenches, that is a different story. Take away his magic, and the ranks will shatter.
He didn’t see an easily exploitable Achilles heel in his present opponents, except maybe that they believed they were strong. Leaving a head on a pike should help correct that, and all he needed was to knock them off balance for a few precious minutes. Combined with the carnage he had wrought, he hoped it grab their collective attention long enough to finish them.
Immediately after hacking off Robbie’s head, he had set about gathering his own supplies. Enough to keep him combat effective for a few days, in case his plan didn’t work. No more freezing to death at night, or spending precious time trying to purify water, or catch squirrels for food. He could function a few days without food before incurring serious deficiency, but it wouldn’t be fun.
Next, he dragged enough assorted stuff out in the open to outfit several men comfortably. This was his honey pot, in case the tribesmen were smart enough to stay back in the woods. They might last a while, but eventually the lure of food and shelter from the elements was bound to drag them in to try for it. Known as a baited ambush, this was frowned upon by the Geneva Convention, but Mike wasn’t playing by anybody’s fucking rules anymore.
Turning his attention to the assorted vehicles, he located one with a spare key stashed under the fender. The rest of the keys might be in the bunkrooms, or some spare pants, or out with the goons pursuing him. It would be a waste of time to find out. Every car besides the one designated his escape hatch, he smashed a hole in the tank with a hatchet and slashed the tires. Can’t have someone getting lucky and driving off into the night. On a whim, he also snatched the registration from each one, in case he had to go find these bastards in the real world. A response by State Police or some other neutral party could still drive him off, but he wasn’t the forgive and forget type. Hell or high water, everyone here was going to pay. Robbi
e’s registration, he stuck in his dead mouth.
Last, after staking out his talisman on a requisitioned tent pole, he set the rest on fire. Collapsing the tents first kept the blaze contained. He wanted enough smoke to attract the attention of his quarry, but not enough to get noticed by the Forest Service. Wouldn’t they be surprised, driving up in a wild land fire truck? He didn’t want anyone spoiling the party early, there was still a finale to come.
Work complete, Mike found a vantage point with a field of fire covering the entire meadow. Deep enough in the trees to make this a very unfair fight, he surveyed his masterpiece. It looked sufficiently like hell on Earth. Robbie’s head was visible in the waves of smoke, illuminated by the embers of what had been a base camp. Breaking the windshields of the trucks left little doubt they had been disabled, but just enough hope some might run for them anyway. Everywhere you turned was ruin and devastation. Most importantly, there was nothing left to hide behind. Working the bolt on his Sako rifle had been like the caress of a lover after a lingering absence. It was over caliber for killing men at 400 meters, but it would do. Even with the bucking jolt of recoil associated with the magnum cartridge pushing a 230-grain bullet at 3,000 feet per second, he could manage three shots per second. This was a custom built extreme long-range gun, wholly unsuited for a relatively close range, multi target engagement. But the terminal effect would be like a hammer blow from an angry God. A hit anywhere would put a man out of the fight, and he could always mop up after. To further reduce the chance of organized resistance, he decided to ensure his first shot killed two men. If they bunched up, that was an easy enough task, and three wasn’t even out of the question with a bullet like this. He turned his scope down to the minimum magnification to expand his field of view. Happy with his position and set up, Mike prepared for the wait. Most of the men he was about to kill would never even know they were in a fight, and this would all be over inside of ten seconds once his first shot pierced the sky.