by Vince Milam
I moved fast, each of them now identified and locations pinpointed. Backtracked down the coulee and past my starting point. The sliver of moon and big-sky stars illuminated on and off as snow clouds passed low overhead. An occasional sprinkle of light hail, followed with drifting wet flakes. I circled west and worked along the opposite side of the hill from Irene’s assailant.
Three bedded mule deer leapt up at my approach. I dropped to one knee and let the environment settle. Wind, rustling vegetation, and a singular low, moaning howl. Answered by another. Wolves gathered.
I moved on and arrived at the mouth of the ravine I sought. My objective lay sprawled at the lip of the ravine with a clear view of both the rise in front of him and the deep depression to his left. My front pocket held a powerful high-intensity flashlight, small and military grade. It would do.
While he could see the broad bottom of the coulee, he couldn’t capture the near-vertical side he perched above. I moved with the gusts of wind. Used the rushing noise to mask twig snaps or sagebrush movement as I side-walled my way toward him, boot toes dug in.
Ten minutes of silent stalking and I stopped. Plastered against the steep sloping ground, hidden among tall dead grass and brush. Above, nearby, and night-scoping the terrain, he waited for me. I waited for a mistake. It didn’t take long.
He shifted on his belly, a sound lacking a sufficient location signature. Then the idiot cleared his throat. Ten feet farther down and above me. Stillness. The flashlight fished from my pocket and fist-gripped. I slid my arm over the lip of the coulee above my head, the flashlight pressed against the ground and lost among the bunchgrass. I waited.
Night-vision binoculars are marvelous tools—with one large soft spot. They acquired the minute ambient light of stars and slivers of the moon and magnified it multiple times, providing a huge advantage. Unless someone zapped you right in the face with a powerful light when using them. The blinding flash momentarily debilitated. And so I waited for another mistake, ensuring his location, tuned to every sight and sound.
I could smell him. The east wind rushed over his prostrate body, toward me. More light snow spit. He shifted again, this time snapping fallen sagebrush twigs with his movement. I had him nailed, close enough to spit on. My thumb pressed the flashlight’s button and he yelped with surprise and eyeball pain.
“Shit!”
His expletive broke through the night and demanded immediate action. I scrambled a few more feet along the wall. A firm toehold elevated me. I snatched the back of his jacket and jerked him over the edge. We tumbled down the steep side. With every other bounce I delivered a vicious punch to his face. I controlled the fall and ensured he was underneath me when we hit rocks at the bottom of the coulee. Two more jaw-crushing blows and he relaxed, unconscious. His assault rifle, pulled with him over the side, clattered down near us.
His cry would alert the remaining three. Duct tape pulled from the field bag, his mouth, wrists, and feet were taped. He came to in stages, gaining full recognition of his status with violent thrashes. It didn’t matter. The compound trio could neither see nor hear us in the bottom of the ravine. And they weren’t the type to head into the night seeking answers. They’d hunker among the trailers and vehicles, exchange wild speculation.
Warmth high on my chest, and a quick feel confirmed blood. The wound had reopened. I sat back, pissed. The lion’s share of my being said just shoot the three remaining bastards and be done with it. But Irene’s mental presence weighed heavy. The man at my feet flailed and flopped. A booted kick to the side of his head, filled with frustration, calmed those roiling waters. I lay back, stared at the changing sky, and sighed. I’d go handle the others, up close and personal. And try not to kill them. First, treat the arrow wound. Then take care of business.
Chapter 23
I re-closed the wound and stopped the bleeding with a cutoff piece of my undershirt and duct tape. The field medical kit would be pulled later. I stripped the man’s weaponry, rendering it useless. And considered an alternative plan. These were bullies and toxic filth and evil cowards. Always, at the end of the day, cowards. So I would offer the coward’s way out. It would require ugliness, inflicted on the guy at my feet. I retrieved the small flashlight and confirmed the swastika and knife neck tattoos. The scum who’d groped Irene, threatened her. While she cradled her dead pup.
An easy choice, and I became clinical. The wrist and hand held the most nerves. Kneeling on his back, I cut the duct tape binding his hands. Then re-taped one hand and forearm against his side, lifting him and passing the roll under his body. He fought back, but hammer blows to his kidney brought curling pain and easier manipulation. No words, no explanations for this sick bastard—his mind now filled with unfathomable poison and hatred and rage. He wouldn’t have registered cogent sentences. I slid off his back, knelt on his free upper arm. And snapped his wrist. He screamed against the tape, body shuddering.
I dragged him by the feet along the brush and rocks of the coulee’s bottom. Fifty yards later it opened on the compound. I pressed against the near side, out of sight. Pulled the slimebag against me, his bad arm dangling. He had a role to play, and it wouldn’t be pleasant.
“Hey! You three asshats hear me?”
I yelled into the night and worked my knife blade under the silver duct tape wrapped around the man’s head. He sat, eyes filled with venom. His useless free arm adjusted for the pain.
No answer. Not a surprise. They’d hide behind vehicles, weapons aimed my way. Hand signals and whispers and avoidance of full-on panic.
“Hey! Shitheads!”
“Yeah! We hear you.”
I waited for a lull in the wind.
“Then hear this.” I ripped the cut tape from my man’s mouth. He began yelling directives toward his men. I reached across his body and twisted his wrist. The yells turned to screams, loud and pain filled and horrific. I slapped the duct tape back across his mouth.
Silence reigned, time ticked.
“So here’s the deal, you pathetic assholes. I’ve taken care of two. And I’ll take out the rest of you soon enough. Unless you leave.”
Tape pulled off, wrist twisted, and ripping howls of anguish pierced the night.
Tape pressed against his lips, leaving muted whimpers and moans.
“So here’s the deal on the leaving thing. You’ve each got one chance. One. Head east. Now. Leave the state.” I waited out a gust of wind. “Go back where you came from.”
“Go to hell!”
I couldn’t discern which one of them made the offer. But a lower voice, directed inner-tribe, carried across the thirty-yard distance. “Screw that. I’m outta here!” Choice cursing, directed toward the deserter, and more “Screw you” returns. Feet ran, a vehicle door opened.
“Hold up, hold up!” a third voice called, unsure. He wavered, on the cusp of fleeing. I ripped the tape off and pinched the broken wrist. Sobs and howls of pain flowed.
Timing is everything. A second set of feet ran, a car door opened, and two doors slammed. The engine fired, gears ground, and an old sedan tore off. It bounced along the dirt road. Exit stage get-out-of-Dodge. The remaining voice continued a stream of yelled curses at the fading red taillights.
Two down. Not bad. I considered continuing the pain and suffering demonstration and decided against it. Only one of them left. And I wasn’t into cruelty. Quick kills, maybe. But I’d taken this far enough.
I taped my puppet back up, the sound of duct tape peeling off the roll interrupted, once, by the slam of a wooden door. The last dumbass had fled into Tannenbaum’s cabin. Where he now sat, freaked and armed, wondering about next steps. I’d help him with that.
I headed back into the coulee for a hundred yards and scrambled up the opposite side, circling the compound. I approached, dead silent, using one of the trailers to hide me from the cabin. The grounds—after less than a week of their arrival—were littered with trash and miscellaneous supplies. A couple of gas cans among them, each half-full. I tot
ed one around the corner of the trailer and eyeballed the cabin. One side lacked windows. So I strolled in, unseen, and silently poured gas on the outside wall and at the base. Then lit it. It didn’t take long.
“Coming out! Coming out!” Flames licked at the roof, smoke billowed, filling the inside of the small space.
“Toss your weapon first.”
He did.
“Now the pistol.”
It flew through the cracked-open door.
“Hands in the air.”
He stepped outside, hacking, wild-eyed. I instructed him to lay facedown. He, too, joined the ranks of the hog-tied. During the hands and feet taping he tried to explain himself and their cause. The coming revolution. I wasn’t in the mood and slung three wraps around his head, shutting him up. I dragged him away from the cabin and dumped him on the dirt. Retrieved Mr. Broken Wrist, dragging him into the mix. And then dragged my first prey, who had lain quiet and humble the last hour. The recent screams from his fearless leader tempered whatever enthusiasm he still held. The three of them lay together, casting looks of hatred and fear my way.
Checking their pockets, I found keys for the two remaining pickups. I moved both, pointed them toward the county road, and left the keys in the ignition. Next, a parting gesture. An unforgettable message.
It was past midnight, and snow swirled. The cabin continued to burn, casting wavering sheets of light across the scene. I began humming an old Doors tune. Opened the field bag and pulled the remaining rolls of duct tape, as well as the large bottle of superglue.
Each of their pants and undershorts were pulled below their knees. Muffled sounds, frantic and pleading, pressed against their gags. Nostrils blew harsh and loud.
“Now, I’m not prone to speeches. But it’s important you little shits understand a few things.”
The one from the burning cabin rolled across the ground, a panic-stricken escape. A pathetic attempt, but a good gauge of his mental state. I dragged him back among his tribe. A quick stomp, and a couple of cracked ribs halted further attempts.
The superglue nozzle was, as always, gummed shut. So I cut the nozzle off. I’d use the entire bottle.
“This is the last I’ll see of you. Ever.”
I poured glue over their privates and down their butt cracks, one at a time. A great deal of glue. Each struggled—not against me, but against the act. The violation. Ripping duct tape off rolls, I applied a tape diaper to each of them. Around and around, between their butt cheeks, a solid seal over their privates. Used an entire roll on each.
“Now, this is important, so listen up.”
Then I duct-taped their heads, leaving eyes and nostrils and ears exposed.
“If I do see you again, I’ll get upset.”
I was out of tape. Out of glue. I squatted near them.
“And here’s where an element of trust must enter our relationship.”
Three sets of eyeballs focused on my ground-level position, their breath hard. I waited and stared into each set of eyes. The cabin’s fire roared, popped.
“You’ll have to trust me when I say you don’t want me upset.”
I stood and put a boot on the head of Tannenbaum’s relative. Pressed hard, bent at the waist, and spoke in his face.
“If you upset me, I’ll get mean. And you’ll beg for a bullet. Understood?”
He moaned and attempted an affirmative nod under my boot. The other two mouthed muffled agreement.
I stripped the weapons cabin boy had tossed out the door and pulled the other firing mechanisms from my field bag. The whole lot was tossed down the outhouse one-seater, landing with a splash. I used the remaining gasoline and torched the lumber pile and the trailers. The night sky filled with sparks and smoke, mixed with blowing snow. The makeshift flagpoles, kicked over, joined the shack fire. Along with the flags. Flames and sparks shot upward. Their light cast rippled waves of orange and yellow. Trailers and lumber and the shack roared as they burned. I took my time and walked among them. Their eyes, filled with dread, followed me. One of the old cabin’s windows popped from the heat, and staccato crackling sounds drifted from the trailers. Welcome to the apocalypse, boys.
I retrieved the folding knife taken from the first man I’d taken out, opened it, and stuck the blade into the ground near them. They watched.
“So here’s the deal. One of you wiggle over here and use this knife. Cut your hands free. Free the others. I’ll watch from a hilltop.”
I squatted among them a final time.
“Then leave. Or I’ll get upset.”
The closest one nodded, mumbling something that resembled a “thank you.”
“You won’t want to try and remove those diapers without professional help. Available at a hospital in Billings. East of here. After Billings, you’ll keep heading east. Any questions?”
The three shook their heads “No.”
“Oh. And you’ll want to move fast. Those wolves you heard? They’ll look on this little scene and see pigs in a blanket.”
I walked down their dirt road, headed toward my fictitious property across the county road. Circled back and perched on a hilltop once removed from Irene’s property line. The binoculars provided sufficient detail. Massive trailer, lumber, and shack fires provided dancing light across the scene. The one closest to the embedded knife had wormed his way across the ground. He exhibited great caution sawing at the duct tape behind his back. It took ten minutes of concerted, focused effort. The outhouse caught fire, close by the trio. Sparks dropped among them, accompanied with jerking motions of burning pain.
Twenty minutes later they were mobile. A few quick, painful tugs confirmed the professional help needed for removal of their duct tape and superglue diapers. They unwrapped their heads. The pain of jerked-out hair sent loud and emphatic cussing across the hills. The hair ripping was too much for one of them, and he left tape dangling across his shoulders. They limped toward the two vehicles, cradling assorted body parts, hunched over. None paused to retrieve useless weapons. The man who molested Irene, curled over his broken wrist, slid into the passenger seat of the truck closest to me. But not before he paused and surveyed the area. His headshake, filled with resignation and humiliation and defeat, was sufficient for me. They rattled down the dirt track, turned left at the county road, and headed toward Billings.
Early a.m., and no reason to wake anyone. Besides, it was peaceful, the compound’s light show satisfying, and alone time required. Unwind. I hiked a mile, crawled through Irene’s barbed-wire fence, and found the lee side of a hilltop. The compound area, no longer visible, threw fiery light skyward. Snow continued spitting. Out of the wind, I pulled the medical kit and did a decent job of patching the arrow wound. Again. I crawled into the small bundled emergency sleeping bag, out of the snow and into warmth.
That little situation was handled. Over and done. Time to move on. Poignant thoughts of home came easy and tugged, hard. Mom, CC, the Ace of Spades. Lazy cruising on the Ditch. Warm nights and warmer days. Where time slowed and life healed. But first, two outstanding items. I’d take care of both after sunrise. Sleep blanketed, with dreams of rustling grass and controlled fury and howls, distant, in the night.
Chapter 24
Footsteps crunched, awakening me. Known footsteps. Marcus. He approached from Irene’s place. Work boots, Stetson, heavy ranch coat. And a large thermos of coffee. Gray dawn lit our world, skies cloudy but dry. Snow remnants patched the ground.
I crawled from the Mylar bag, shivered, and sat up. Without a word he approached and, accompanied with a light groan, joined me on the ground. One of his knees popped, the lone sound in the still air.
“Added French Vanilla and sugar,” he said, producing two insulated mugs from one of his cavernous jacket pockets. “Know you like it black. Forewarned, so no whining.”
“Well, I might like a little added flavor this morning. Help overcome your lack of coffee-making skills.”
He poured, we sipped. A column of gray smoke rose in the dis
tance. A thin stream of black smoke mingled and rose with it. Trailer tires burn a long time.
“You reckon they’re having a weenie roast?” he asked.
“I could riff off that pretty easily.”
“No, thanks.”
“Suffice it to say they have departed.”
He slurped coffee and paused.
“Any remains to help with?”
“Nope.”
There may have been bodies, but my reply inferred any of those were taken care of. There would be no more enquiries along those lines. We sat together, comfortable, cocooned in a world few on this good earth would understand. An issue addressed. And solved. Mission accomplished.
“As you may surmise, I came from Irene’s place,” Marcus said.
“How’s she doing?”
“Tough one to answer.”
“I bet.”
“Thought I might find you two sharing a comforter.”
“No such luck.”
He sipped, fished, and pulled a cigar.
“She told me.” He puffed, lighting the stogie. “Everything.”
“You pissed?”
“Pissed you know me so well.”
We shared a smile, genuine and deep. Had Marcus known of Irene’s assault, he would have gone ballistic. Without hesitation, he would’ve headed over the hill, the law be damned. And perhaps with deadlier intent than me. Hard to say.
“I sure wish you’d kick the thermostat to ‘Warm’ more often here.”
“BS. You’re homesick. For your tub. A home that smells like diesel and a stowaway’s armpit.”
“Martha Stewart speaks.”
“When you leaving?”
“Soon.”
The sunrise breeze started, brittle sound through sagebrush. Green sprigs peeked across the land, the air carrying renewal, new life. Marcus placed a hand on my shoulder, squeezed, and left it there. I patted it and held on for a couple of seconds. No words could interact better, no communiqué more powerful. It said it all and filled me with a warmth and sense of connectivity rare and precious.