World War Forever (Highway To Armageddon Book 2)

by Harold Bloemer

  “Gee, I never would have guessed,” I remark.

  “I like big women, too,” Ax says in a deep, baritone voice before making his way over to Krystal. He proceeds to grab her ginormous booty while Lesnar gropes her breasts. Krystal seems to be loving all the attention.

  “Oh yes,” she says lustfully, throwing her head back. “Oh hell yes.”

  Lance pretends to retch. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  I elbow Lance in the gut and say, “Be nice. Krystal hasn’t had much action lately. She’s allowed to have some erotic fun.”

  Lance glances at me out of the corner of his eyes. “We haven’t had much action either, you know. Maybe we should change that.”

  Lance tries to wrap his arm around my waist. I immediately shove him away. While Lance is insanely sexy, our relationship is at its best when it’s completely platonic. Things just get too weird between us when we try to be romantic lovers and bounty hunting partners. It has to be one or the other, and usually the ‘bounty hunting partners’ option wins out. After all, that’s what gets us the money.

  Pitbull turns toward Grenade and gruffly says, “If we’re going to work together as a team and flush Klaxton out of the jungle, we’re going to have to let bygones be bygones and start trusting one another again. Like we used to. I know we have some bad blood between us, Grenade, but I’m willing to set aside our differences and extend an olive branch of sorts.”

  Pitbull extends his robotic right hand. “Truce?”

  Grenade stares at Pitbull’s outstretched hand for a brief moment before spitting in his face. “I don’t make truces with scumbags like you.”

  Pitbull growls and socks Grenade in the face. Grenade falls flat on his back, groaning in pain.

  “Grenade!” I yelp, kneeling down to check on him. “Are you…?”

  Grenade spits out a mouthful of blood and grumbles, “I’ll live, darling. Jesus Christ, he about knocked my damn head off.”

  Pitbull cackles and punches his right hand into his left palm. “You spit in my face like that again, chump, and I will knock your head off.”

  Lance steps in front of Pitbull and says, “Alright, I think Grenade’s learned his lesson.”

  Grenade scoffs as he staggers to his feet. “ I ain’t learned jack-shit. Oh and Grenade… you still hit like a little bitch.”

  “You son of a…”

  Pitbull lunches for Grenade, but Lance and I stand our ground, blocking his path. Pitbull growls at us, but he doesn’t punch us out. It probably has something to do with his newfound respect for us. We did bring down a sitting president, after all.

  Confirming my suspicions, Pitbull says, “You kids are lucky I’ve taken a fancy to you. The old Pitbull would have snapped your necks for standing in between me and my prey.”

  “You’re my prey, bitch,” Grenade hollers from behind us.

  “Grenade, shut up!” I snap.

  “That was always your problem, Grenade,” Pitbull says with a sneer. “You could never keep your emotions in check. You were always the wild card on our missions… the one who always fucked shit up because you couldn’t keep your cool.”

  “I’m going to kill Montgomery for not telling me your ass was down here,” Grenade roars.

  Pitbull starts cackling again. “Montgomery?! That pathetic excuse of a Defense Secretary? He had no idea I was down here. LeBeau is the one calling the shots, not that pipsqueak. She doesn’t run anything by him because he’s an incompetent nitwit. He was against anyone coming down here to take care of the natives. Or the savages as I like to call em. Montgomery wanted to honor Klaxton’s stupid little jungle peace treaty. I honestly think LeBeau is on the verge of sacking his ass, just like she’s sacked most of Klaxton’s cabinet members. I don’t know why she hasn’t done it already.”

  “And I don’t know why you’re still alive,” Greande interjects. “So many people have wanted you dead over the years. It’s a wonder you’re still breathing.”

  “What’s with you two?” Lance asks before Pitbull has a chance to go off on a rampage. “You both have been going at it since the moment we landed.”

  “Your perpetually angry friend and I actually used to be good friends,” Pitbull says over Grenade’s feral-sounding growls. “We did special ops missions together, along with that jerk-off Montgomery. I was the youngest person on the team, and Grenade and Montgomery took me under their wing. They taught me a lot during those first few years. We went on a lot of crazy missions, killed a lot of bad guys, saved a lot of lives…. We become quite close. And then things… changed.”

  “Yeah, things changed alright,” Grenade snarls. Pointing his quivering robotic finger in Pitbull’s metallic face, he says, “We both ended up falling in love with the same woman. Her name was Rebecca Allison, a gorgeous African-American girl with the most beautiful hazel eyes. She was part of our black ops unit. She was an expert marksman, capable of shooting someone in between the eyes from over a mile away.”

  “How romantic,” Krystal says all dreamily. And the sad thing is, she’s not even kidding.

  “Wait, wasn’t Rebecca the name of your first wife?” Lance says. “The one who died in a car bombing about 15 years ago?”

  Grenade hesitates for a moment. I can see the sadness wash over him, like a monstrous wave breaching a sea wall and coming ashore.

  “Yes… next month will be exactly 15 years. Someone was trying to assassinate me… they rigged my flying car with explosives. But I was not the first person to climb inside the car that day. Rebecca was taking our son, Joey, to the babysitter. They never made it out of the driveway. If it wasn’t for Audrey, I… I wouldn’t be here right now, that’s for sure. Her love is what helped me get through that horrible time… it’s what’s kept me alive.”

  Grenade’s voice cracks near the end. You can tell he’s in tremendous emotional turmoil being forced to relive the loss of his wife and his son. It’s enough to break my heart.

  Pitbull growls and clenches his metallic fists. “I still can’t believe Rebecca chose you over me. We were perfect for each other, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not make her see what was so obvious. She made a terrible mistake when she picked you. It was a fatal mistake. She would still be alive if she had married me. I would’ve done a helluva lot better job protecting her.”

  Grenade unleashes a feral roar of pain and rage and lunges toward his longtime adversary, slugging him in the mouth. Pitbull staggers back, but does not topple over. His metallic face is apparently far stronger than Grenade’s metal hand.

  Pitbull punches Grenade in the gut and again in the face. Because Grenade has no metallic covering on his head, he is much more susceptible to such an attack. Grenade falls backwards into my arms, sending us both to the ground.

  “Stay down,” I whisper, sliding out from underneath him. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  “I think that’s sound advice,” Grenade grumbles, wincing from the terrible pain that must be wracking his face and gut.

  Pitbull towers over Grenade and points a dagger toward his face. “You pull a stunt like that again, and I’ll gut you alive and claim self-defense. My boys and girls will back me up on that one, right gang?”

  Snake-Eyes, Cobra and the rest of Pitbull’s happy-go-lucky crew of blood-thirsty warriors feverishly nod their heads. I have no doubt they wouldn’t hesitate killing all four of us.

  Lance steps forward and holds up his hands. “Everybody relax and calm down. We promise we’ll behave from now on. Grenade just need to blow off a little steam.”

  “No, what I need to do is blow out Pitbull’s brains,” Grenade mutters, pushing himself to his feet.

  “He’s, uh, just kidding,” I say meekly.

  Pitbull glowers at Grenade, but thankfully he doesn’t attack. Instead he sheathes his blade and says, “Now that the introductions are out of the way, how about I show you around your new quarters?”

  “That sounds great, I’m starving! You guys got any good food
?” Krystal says, making her way up the runway with her two new boy-toys.

  “We sure do, baby,” Ax says, caressing Krystal’s giant rear end. “We got whip cream, chocolate syrup, and nuts to sprinkle all over your delectable body.”

  Krystal giggles and says, “Oh Ax, you are ate up.”

  “Tonight I’m gonna eat you out for real,” he says, licking his lips.

  Krystal giggles again.

  Lance leans toward me and says, “Seriously, these guys must be desperate for some tail. Krystal’s gotta be close to 300 pounds.”

  I punch Lance in his arm, prompting him to shut up.

  We all make our way up the runway to the makeshift compound that will essentially be our living quarters for the next several days, weeks, or hell, maybe even months (depending on how quickly we locate our evasive target). As soon as we step through the compound’s sliding metal doors, we’re greeted with a blast of frigid air.

  “Ahhh, air conditioning!” Krystal exclaims, hurrying inside. “It is hot as hell outside! This feels absolutely marvelous!”

  “I’m gonna feel marvelous later tonight when I’m inside you,” Lesnar says as he and Ax continue groping Krystal’s voluptuous body.

  “Do they ever stop?” Lance mutters.

  I ignore Lance and enjoy the much cooler temperature. I didn’t quite realize how hot and humid it was outside until I felt the air conditioning. The stark contrast really puts it into perspective.

  The inside of the compound isn’t too terribly fancy. In fact, it’s pretty bare. But that’s probably the point. Pitbull and his ragtag group of psychopathic lunatics aren’t here on vacation. They’re here to do a job, namely the decimation of the restless native population. I obviously have major qualms with that objective, but I’m going to have to bite my tongue while I’m down here. Finding Klaxton is our most important objective. I can work on helping out the natives once we’ve staved off the looming apocalypse.

  I glance around the interior of the compound and notice there are several tattered couches and recliners surrounding a massive 200-inch holographic television in the main living room area. In the back of the main room are several long tables with multiple chairs. There are also a bunch of doorways on the left side of the room. I’m assuming those lead to the bedrooms and bathrooms. I glance out one of the small windows and notice the entire encampment is surrounded the 10-foot high electrified fence. It’s not the most secure facility on the planet, but I guess it does do a decent job of keeping out technologically-challenged natives armed primarily with spears and arrows.

  Pitbull and his crew pull out a bunch of canned goods and pass them around to everyone. They also pass out bottles of water. Lance and I sit with Pitbull at one of the lengthy tables. Krystal and Grenade sit a few tables away, along with Krystal’s new admirers, Ax and Lesnar. The rest of Pitbull’s crew plops down on the various sofas and recliners in front of the TV.

  Grenade keeps glaring at Pitbull and muttering under his breath. I think it’s best to keep the two separated as much as humanly possible. Pitbull for the most part seems willing to let bygones be bygones, but Grenade, not so much. That man will hold a grudge for all of eternity if he feels he’s been wronged. I wouldn’t be terribly surprised to wake up one morning to find Pitbull’s severed head stuck on a pike. I just hope we find Klaxton quickly so Grenade doesn’t burst a blood vessel attempting to contain his volcanic rage.

  “A feast fit for a king, eh?” Lance says with a smirk as he pops open his can of beans.

  “It ain’t fine dining, but it’ll keep you from having to feast on slugs and tarantulas,” Pitbull retorts as he scarfs down his can of potted meat. “Can you believe that some of the natives down here actually eat that crap?”

  I help myself to canned string beans and pineapple while Pitbull and Lance chit-chat. The beans are overly salty and the pineapple is drenched in heavy syrup that causes my lips to pucker, but I suppose Pitbull is correct about one thing; it sure as hell beats eating giant spiders.

  After Pitbull has had his fill of beans (and released his fair share of noxious methane gas), he heads over to the fridge and pulls out several bottles of whiskey, hard apple cider and moonshine.

  “Alright, that’s what I’m talking about,” Lance says, greedily rubbing his hands together as Pitbull pours him a glass of cider.

  “This stuff tastes fucking amazing,” Pitbull says, taking a sip of the cider straight from the bottle.

  Lance downs half his glass and says, “I agree. Now gimme some of the moonshine.”

  “Lesnar actually made it in his bathtub before we left,” Pitbull says, pouring Lance a heaping glass of the stuff.

  I stick out my tongue. “Ew, I hope he cleaned the tub first.”

  “Actually, he may have bathed in the moonshine,” Pitbull says as Lance takes a sip. “I think that’s what gives it such a rich flavor.”

  Lance spits out his mouthful of moonshine and says, “Are you freaking serious?!”

  Pitbull cackles and slaps Lance on his back, causing Lance to nearly flip over the table. (I don’t think Pitbull recognizes his own strength.) “You are easy to mess with, kid!”

  Pitbull pours a glass of whiskey and hands it to me. “Here, drink this. Maybe it’ll help you loosen up. You’re so damn uptight all the time.”

  I narrow my eyes and push the glass away. “No thanks. I prefer not to get shit-faced on the eve of an important mission.”

  “She’s very judgmental,” Lance says to Pitbull in a loud, slurred whisper. Lesnar’s moonshine must be pretty strong stuff to get him drunk this quickly.

  “Lance, I’d appreciate you not getting so liquored up,” I say sternly. “You know how rambunctious you can get.”

  “Let the kid have a little fun,” Pitbull says, pouring him another glass. “A little illegally manufactured moonshine never hurt anyone.”

  “Umm…,” is my response.

  Not wanting to get into another heated argument with Lance, I decide to ignore his excessive drinking and instead engage in a somewhat civil conversation with Pitbull with the intention of finagling some information out of him. The fact that he’s rapidly becoming quite drunk certainly helps my cause.

  “Soo… have you or Yang heard from, er, Machete lately?” I ask, hesitating before saying the name of the woman who utterly despises me. And really, she has every right to. After all, her son sacrificed his life to save my own.

  His words starting to slur from all the liquor, Pitbull says, “Nope. Haven’t seen her since that crazy night in Alaska. I heard you guys attended Arrow’s funeral and she about slit your throat. Woulda been pretty fucking ironic if his funeral became your own.”

  “Er, yes,” I say, not finding the events of that tragic day nearly as amusing as Pitbull.

  In between hiccups, Pitbull rattles on, “I did hear through the grapevine that Machete is on the prowl for Klaxton, just like we are. But I don’t think she’s too concerned about the $100 million bounty. I think she just wants the pleasure of butchering the woman who helped kill her son. Nothing I like more than a woman out for blood. ‘Cept, of course, when they’re out for my blood. Know what I’m saying?”

  Pitbull cackles as he slaps Lance on the back. Lance lurches forward, nearly smacking his face against the table.

  Pitbull laughs even harder and holds up his gleaming metallic hand. “Sorry kid, I keep forgetting I’m practically a robot now!”

  “It’s okay,” Lance says with a grimace.

  I had hoped Pitbull might have some information about Machete… maybe help provide some sort of closure. But the exact opposite has occurred. Horrific memories of that terrible night have come flooding back, inundating my battle-scarred mind. A profound sense of sadness has descended upon me, plunging me back into the deep, dark depression I worked so hard to overcome. I can see Arrow’s face, his mouth open in a silent scream as electricity crackles over his writhing body. I can still smell the stench of his smoldering skin… still see Rasputin’s snee
ring face as he races away from the scene of the crime, ushering Klaxton to their getaway helicopter. I can still hear Machete’s howls of anguish as she kneels beside her deceased son… I can see the hatred emanating from her eyes as she stares at me, as the realization that her son died saving me sweeps over her. I remember it all, and the agony of being forced to relive one of the worst nights of my life is too much to bear.

  Blinking back tears, I snatch the bottle of moonshine out of Pitbull’s hand and growl, “Don’t hoard all the liquor.”

  I take a deep, long pull from the bottle. Pitbull and Lance stare at me in surprise, their lips curling into approving smiles. Why some people think getting shit-faced drunk is such a cool thing to do, I will never know.

  Once I’ve had my fill, I slam the bottle back on the table and take a deep breath. “Damn, that stuff is strong! Yuck! Give me the apple cider so I can rinse the taste out of my mouth.”