by Joe Nobody
The older survivor had a nasty-looking, purple and blue egg on the side of his head, perhaps a concussion. The youngest had a broken nose, maybe a cracked jaw. Nick figured both of them would live. He didn’t expect Christmas cards from either.
While he waited on the two uninjured men to regain their senses, Nick set about building two stretchers from sapling trunks and cross-members secured by the prisoners’ belts and rifle slings.
By the time both of his bound detainees had gathered their wits, Nick was ready to put them to work.
“Despite my better judgment, I’m going to let you live,” Nick stated, glaring down at Greyson and his youngest. “That’s probably a mercy you wouldn’t have shown to me.”
Whether it was his throbbing head or a hurt pride, Mr. Greyson couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “You son of a bitch, I’m going to...” but he never got a chance to finish.
Nick swooped low, his huge hand closing around Greyson’s throat. With little effort, he lifted the prisoner into the air, pinning the struggling man against the trunk of a small pine.
With the older man’s boots dangling helplessly in the air, Nick’s voice was bone-chilling calm. “I don’t have the time for this,” the big man said, “I should probably snap your neck and gut the boy. Let the feral hogs have a high and mighty feast of your flesh.”
Nick could tell his new friend didn’t appreciate his plan. “Or you can shut your fucking mouth and perhaps live long enough to have breakfast. Your call.”
Ten minutes later, two of the Greyson men were dragging their kin out of the forest on the makeshift stretchers. They led Nick to their truck, which sparked an idea.
“Drive to Cartersville’s south gate,” Nick ordered the father. “Stop a quarter mile outside of town.”
Gospel and the chief were looking forward to breakfast as they walked through the Exchange. Both men knew instantly that the deputy running in their direction wasn’t going to deliver good news.
“Sir, you better come to the south gate… right away,” the breathless man stated.
“What’s up?”
“It’s the Greyson family, sir… or what’s left of them.”
After swapping troubled glances, both of the city leaders increased their pace toward the town’s southern entrance.
They found a huge crowd of people gathered both inside and outside the wall, most of the onlookers surrounding a pickup truck sitting directly in the middle of the two-lane highway leading into town. Half a dozen deputies were trying to maintain order and keep everyone back. One of the berg’s EMTs was helping two other men remove a body from the truck’s hood.
The chief immediately sensed an air of apprehension circulating through the muttering onlookers, and the lawman didn’t blame them. Greyson and his ilk were known as the best hunters and outdoorsmen in the area. They were tough, successful, and extremely well versed in taking prey. Now those men, well known for having taken dangerous game on every continent, were dead or bloodied. They had been deliberately left in front of the south gate, no doubt as a warning or message of ill intent.
By the time Mr. Gospel and the chief arrived, old man Greyson was sitting on the pavement, pressing a towel against his head while leaning against the front tire. Men were still cutting away his youngest boy, the kid pale with shock, like he’d seen a monster.
“We found them like this at dawn,” remarked a senior deputy. “Somebody parked the truck right here, all four of them tied across the hood like trophy deer. Two of them were dead – gunshot wounds to the chest and gut. Doc says these two will make it, but the youngest is going to be eating broth for a while.”
The chief digested his man’s report, nodding an acknowledgement and then taking a knee beside a clearly hurting Greyson. “Sorry about your boys,” he stated softly. “Was it the man we hired you to hunt down?”
Rage flashed behind the father’s eyes, but he didn’t say a word. Instead, Greyson threw down the blood saturated rag and struggled to his feet. “Man? Didn’t you say he was just a fucking man, Chief?” he shouted, the anger in his voice causing a hush to fall over the crowd.
The lawman rested a hand on Greyson’s shoulder, “Calm down… just calm down. You’ve had a rough night, and I….”
“Fuck you!” shouted an irate Greyson, poking his finger in the chief’s chest. “That wasn’t any gawddamn man! That was some sort of monster you hired us to kill, and you and Stan both knew it. How could you have sent anyone into those woods after a demon like that?”
A wave of astonishment rippled through the surrounding throng, hushed whispers and low murmurs exchanged among the onlookers. Some people were shocked by Greyson’s description, others voicing surprise that anyone would dare speak to the chief in such way.
“Now just a damn minute, Greyson,” Mr. Gospel said, stepping in. “We warned you he was dangerous, and you accepted the contract fair and square. You knew it was a risk up front. So I’d watch my mouth if I were you.”
Something came over Greyson, a placid expression of realization filling his face. His eyes changed their focus from Stan and the chief to the surrounding crowd. Nodding his head as if to indicate he agreed with Gospel’s assessment, he held up his hands to show his temper was in check.
He casually stepped away, picking up the towel and returning it to his swollen head. He waited a few moments, pretending to watch two deputies cut his oldest son from the truck’s hood. When he was sure Gospel and the chief weren’t looking, he strolled to the bed of the truck and stepped up to tower above the crowd.
“Listen to me!” Greyson shouted. “Every mother’s son, please listen to me! That man… that devil in the woods… he gave me a message… let me live so I could deliver it to all of you. He said he won’t leave until the people of Cartersville are free to come and go as they please. He’s staying in the forest, fighting for each and every one of you. And I believe hi….”
A single shot rang out, the onlookers startled back on their heels at the loud roar. Greyson clutched his chest in pain, staring down at the pistol in Gospel’s hand.
Dropping to his knees, the old man managed a smile as he met Gospel’s gaze head on. “He’s going to skin you alive, Stan, and my only regret is I won’t be here to listen to you scream.”
Greyson fell over, his head making a sickening thud as it struck the tailgate. Gasps of astonishment rose from the masses, but Gospel didn’t wait for any reaction to build. “Get these people back inside that gate,” he screamed at the nearby deputies. “Somebody get these bodies out of here before they stink up my town.”
Grim surveyed the security patrol, the obvious decline in their numbers causing the ex-contractor to smirk. Nick got it right, he thought. As usual.
He and the rest of the SAINT team had been observing the massive lots on the outskirts of Cartersville for the last two days. Each of the multi-acre sites was full of semi-trailers and patrolled by roving bands of armed sentries.
When Nick had first ordered them to circumvent the town and approach the oversized parking lots, Grim had been skeptical. “They must have used up all of the supplies in those semis by now,” he’d commented. “What makes you think anything is left?”
“There must be goodies still in those trailers,” Nick had countered. “They wouldn’t be wasting all of that manpower to guard empty boxes.”
The plan had been simple enough. Nick would draw off resources from Cartersville, rampage around the huge forest that bordered the south side of town. He would do his best to give a merry chase and pull away as many of Gospel’s men as possible. Once the heavily guarded yards were exposed, Grim and the boys were to execute the next phase of the plan.
And it appeared to be working, just as the big man had predicted.
Grim watched the two-man patrol trudge along the chain-link fence, their rifles appearing more of an annoying burden than a tool of the trade. Just a few days ago, there would have been six men working the same area, the additional manpower able to cover more of the
perimeter.
Not only were the patrols smaller, they were far less frequent. Checking his watch, Grim noted the time of this latest passing, entering the data into a small notepad that held his log.
After the two sentries had passed the corner, he rose from his hide and trotted back to their main bivouac. A quick bark let Kevin and Cory know he was coming in.
“Your dad was right,” Grim repeated to the other two. “Their perimeter is virtually unprotected now. Let’s go ahead and execute phase two tonight.”
It was good news for both men. This mission had seen them idling by throughout most of its duration, Nick handling the heavy lifting first in the town and now out in the woods. It would be good to finally take some action and see some progress.
“We’ll eat at dusk so the smoke from the fire won’t draw any attention. Cory, you enter the town. Remember what gear Nick said you’d need, and what is prohibited inside their wall. You’ll have to leave all firearms and radio here with us. Don’t forget ammo to barter with. Kevin and I will visit the trailers tonight, and uncover what the benevolent leaders of Cartersville are hoarding in their well-protected coffers.”
After shooting Greyson, Gospel and the chief had returned through the south gate and continued about their business of the morning.
For lunch, the two men sent Gospel’s assistant to the Exchange with money and food orders.
“I want to find that bastard, Chief,” Stan began. “I want his purple body hanging by a rope, right on the courthouse square.”
“Let him go, Stan,” the elder lawman replied. “We’ve lost enough men. Besides, I think you’re playing right into his hand.”
“Huh? What makes you say that?”
“He could have eluded our people and been 100 miles away by now. Why is he taunting us? Why is he playing this stupid game of cat and mouse? I don’t know the answer, but I can surely guess it’s not going to be anything positive for us.”
“He’s trying to sow the seeds of dissent. He thinks by making us look weak, our citizens will give his Alliance a chance. I think his plan is pretty unsophisticated, actually.”
The chief scratched his chin, contemplating his boss’s statement. “Could be. Your instincts have been right most of the time, but some of his actions the last few days don’t make any sense. He could have killed dozens of our guys by now. He could have easily killed all four of the Greysons. Why let them live?”
Gospel shook his head, looking at the chief as if he were a child that couldn’t grasp the simplest of concepts. “I think you’re overrating this guy - giving him too much credit. He’s just some ex-soldier that was sent as an errand boy. Yeah, he fights pretty well, and he has been lucky. But I’m convinced that we can nip this thing in the bud by showing his dead carcass to the people. Besides, it will make anyone else think twice about challenging our authority.”
“You are the boss,” the chief nodded between bites of homemade bread and string cheese. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want to fill those damn woods with every rifle we can find. That’s what I want you to do.”
Shaking his head, the chief replied, “Volunteers are getting hard to come by, and the situation will get worse after word gets around that Greyson’s clan was chopped to pieces. Our once proud and boisterous, southern men are now thinking twice about entering those woods.”
Gospel grunted, nodding his understanding. “Offer a reward and pull more of our loyal men from the yards.”
“That’s dangerous, Stan. We’re already stretched too damn thin out there. If a wandering gang of nomads finds those trailers, I don’t have enough people up there to fight them off.”
Waving his hand through the air, Mr. Gospel dismissed the concern. “When’s the last time we had a sizable, hostile group wander into our little slice of heaven?”
Peering down at the floor, the chief’s response was barely audible. “Six months… maybe seven since we’ve seen any kind of organized gangs.”
“See? I’ve been thinking we’re wasting too much manpower out there anyway. Reassign as many guards as you can and task them with eradicating this asshole. He is a real threat. It would be stupid to worry about something that might happen versus something we know is happening right now.”
The chief nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll see to it right away.”
Grim and the guys set about preparing the last hot meal they would have for a few days. A snared rabbit sizzled over the fire, the makeshift spit allowing the occasional drop of grease to crackle in the blaze. There was a helmet full of blueberries and three ears of corn they’d found growing in a legacy garden on the way to Cartersville. The lima beans, courtesy of the same plot, had been consumed at the previous evening’s meal.
Cory was readying his pack, nervous about approaching the town without his weapon. Nick had warned them not to bring radios either. The team’s least experienced member was to play the role of a random transient; poor, hungry, and bartering his way across the land. There would be no lifeline if things turned sour.
Kevin, as usual, was cleaning his sniper rifle. Nick’s son had blossomed into a naturally talented marksman, his father’s expert tutelage raising the young man’s skill level to equal any shooter in the world. Every member of the team was glad that long range capability was in their inventory.
Grim took a moment, wondering if Bishop was enjoying his time off. After the events of Brighton and Galveston, he had understood the need for a break. The rest of the team had been offered downtime, but all had declined. Keeping the Alliance territories and its ambassadors safe was a full-time proposition. Still, the mental, emotional and physical demands of the fledgling republic had been a drain on Bishop and Terri… and they all knew their leaders needed to get away to refresh their spirits.
Nick was more than a suitable replacement. The ex-contractor pondered the differences between the two team leaders. Bishop was far more laid back, slow to invoke force or violence. But when he did… Lord have mercy.
Nick, on the other hand, seemed more comfortable applying a constant pressure. The big man’s style was to keep the foe off balance… guessing… unsure. In contrast, Bishop would play nice, give the other guy every chance in the world, and then unleash absolute fury when nothing else seemed to work.
Taking his knife to the now browned hare, Grim decided both men were equally worthy of his loyalty and respect. He’d been lucky, serving with high-speed, low-drag individuals over the past few years. For a moment, his thoughts turned back to Deke, the face of his former superior and friend still clear in his memory. In all the years, all the campaigns, all the missions, Deke’s death had touched Grim in a way unlike any of the hundreds of good men he’d watched fall. Deke had been the ultimate warrior, an elite among professional operators. But in the end, it hadn’t mattered.
Grim could see the light fade from his friend’s eyes as if it were yesterday. Shuddering, he quickly pushed the images aside – that night in Memphis still haunted him.
“Haunted,” he whispered with a grunt, taking another slice of meat. “I’m using the word haunted while thinking about a fight to the death in a graveyard. That damn Bishop and his cornball way of looking at things are rubbing off on me.”
“What did you say?” Cory asked, wandering up to the flame.
“Oh, nothing,” he said, picking up a stick and poking at the campfire. “I was just thinking about Bishop and that sick sense of comedy. Sometimes I just want to slap him.”
Cory grinned, nodding his head. “Yeah, but when I first joined the team, his stupid jokes and innuendo made me relax. I would be scared shitless, and he’d pop off one of those little jewels. It helped me chill.”
Grim’s focus drifted off, his vision fixing on an empty point in space just inside the flickering campfire. Images of that night… the night Deke was killed by the grave robbers… of the bloodlust he’d seen in Bishop’s eyes. “Cornball or not,” he said in a low, serious voice, “I’m awful glad he’s on our side.”
It was soon Cory’s turn to stand watch, allowing Kevin to come in and eat. While the remote location of their encampment made discovery unlikely, it was standard procedure for one of them to always remain separate and alert. Grim was pleased to see his teammates perform the switch without thought or discussion. It showed cohesion and professionalism.
“I’m off,” Cory announced after wolfing down his meal. “If they kill me, please bury my bones in West Texas. I don’t like all of these trees and their gnarly roots.”
Grim smirked at the comment, “I think Bishop’s rubbing off on both of us.”
Cory threw on his ragtag pack, spinning once like a runway model so Grim could sanction his disguise. Nodding, the senior man said, “You look like a vagrant to me. We’ll see you tomorrow - if everything goes to plan. Good luck.”
And with that, Cory was gone, wandering into the darkness with his newly acquired, rambling gait.
Grim lowered the night vision monocle and peered at Kevin. “They’ve reduced the number of sentries even more. My bet is your dad must be kicking some serious ass.”
The kid merely nodded, as if to say, “What else would you expect?”
Using a combination of hushed whispers, curt hand gestures, and a small map drawn in the dirt via Grim’s finger, the two raiders quickly outlined their plan.
Patting the younger man on the shoulder to reassure him, Grim pushed off. Kevin watched the skilled warrior zigzag toward the high, chain-link fence surrounding what was essentially a massive parking lot filled with semi-trailers.
Grim managed the outside of the barrier without incident, quickly scanning up and down the fence line to make sure a patrol wasn’t in sight. Kevin was scanning as well, ready to warn his teammate if anything went astray.