by Brad Mengel
That left the two survivors of the dune buggy. Dalton handed his grandfather the rifle and slid down the rope on the side of the mesa. As he moved towards the men, the handle of his tomahawk beat a reassuring tattoo on his thigh. He had his gun ready for trouble like he’d been trained at the academy. The first man he came to was a curly-haired goombah with neatly trimmed moustache and a neck that bent at an unnatural angle.
Dalton moved carefully toward the last man. He looked a bit older. Dalton hoped that this meant he was the leader. The Apache moved closer. It appeared that the Italian was unconscious. Dalton moved in to check for a pulse. A fistful of sand flew into his face as the man leapt up. The cunning mobster had been playing possum.
As the grit of the sand buried itself into his hazel eyes, Dalton dropped his gun. As soon as it hit the desert floor, the Apache avenger knew that he had made a mistake. He sensed, rather than saw, the tough mafioso dive for the weapon. Acting on some primitive instinct within his Apache blood, Dalton pulled the tomahawk and sent the blunt side of the axe smashing into his opponent’s temple. The mafioso dropped like he’d been deboned.
The mobster returned to consciousness with a pounding headache, not helped by the hammering he heard. The smell of a wood fire wafted into his nostrils. The man tried to sit up, but he found that his arms and legs had been staked out. The sun beat down on his naked body. He felt a heat on his thighs that was too hot even for the desert sun. Antonio “Tough Tony” D’Allesandro was suddenly very scared as he craned his neck to see around him.
An old Indian sat between his feet. Between the hammering sounds Antonio heard chanting. The hammering stopped, and an Indian face covered in war paint appeared in his field of vision.
“Wh-what’s happening?” stammered the Mafia hard man.
The Indian smiled with no warmth or humour. “Let’s call it an Apache truth ceremony. There’s a small fire between your legs which will get larger. Hot coals will be placed onto your body, searing through your skin.”
As if on cue, a couple of sparks leapt from the fire to his hairy belly. Tough Tony squirmed. “You’ll get nuttin’ from me,” he said unconvincingly.
“That’s fine,” Dalton continued, his face impassive. “The fire will roast your prick, and your balls will burst like popcorn kernels. I’ve bet the left one will go first.”
The blood drained from Tony’s face as he thought about his reputation. No woman would want a man with a fried pecker. With that, Tough Tony burst like a dam, spilling all the information about his boss’s operation, including Scambini’s meeting the next night at the construction site on Indian School Road.
Tough Tony wept as he felt the fire being extinguished and his bonds cut. Dalton helped him to his feet. “Phoenix is that way. Tell Scambini I’m coming to get him.”
The construction site on Indian School Road was a mob operation. The concrete foundations contained the bodies of a snooping journalist, a stoolie, and a club girl who had rejected Scambini’s advances. During the day it was a hive of activity. At night it became a clandestine meeting ground.
Two low-level soldiers stood guard. Sol the Shiv had brought a Thermos of hot coffee to ward off the chill night air. He shared it with Mikey the Mooch.
“I can’t see nuttin’,” the Mooch complained, as he downed his third cup of java.
“John Wayne said that’s when you have to worry about an Injun.” The Shiv’s hand hovered over his pistol.
“I thought that was Clint Eastwood,” said the Mooch. Regardless of who gave the advice, its accuracy was soon proven as an arrow pierced Sol’s right eye. The Mooch dropped his coffee and fumbled for his revolver, but an arrow made its way into his heart.
Dalton moved swiftly and silently onto the construction site, his pistol ready for almost anything. The sound of voices wafted on the night air as he moved through the partially completed building, seeking the men responsible for the death of his family.
“Are you sure it’s not that asshole from California scalping my people? I heard he likes to leave arrowheads, and he hit Vegas recently,” Dalton heard the angry voice of Don Scambini growl.
“Lou, I told you it can’t be. The FBI had reports of him in New Orleans, and they say he doesn’t scalp people,” replied a familiar voice. “I think we have a renegade Apache running around.”
Captain Vern O’Sala. Dalton stopped, stunned at the revelation. The gruff older cop had never been overly friendly towards him, but to think that he would sell out his team for some extra cash was nearly impossible. Dalton felt his blood boil. His anger overtook his common sense, and he let loose an Apache war cry. He dived and rolled into the area where the two men stood. The Indian’s first shot barrelled into the forehead of the Mafia chieftain, ending the life of the man who ordered the death of his family.
As the Indian lawman turned to deal immediate justice to his former boss, he found himself on the receiving end of a vicious punch. Dalton’s head spun, droplets of blood spraying across the room. He lost hold of the gun. It skittered along the floor, coming to rest in a corner.
“I should have known you wouldn’t be dead,” the captain declared as he raised his leg to launch a brutal kick at Dalton’s ribs. O’Sala had come up from the streets, and his time behind a desk had not softened the man. The steel toes of his boots struck the younger man hard.
“You should have taken the money and joined us.”
It hurt Dalton just to breathe as he rolled away from another kick. His vengeance trail seemed to be at an end. He cursed mentally that his grandfather was watching for intrusions from outside.
Dalton pulled his tomahawk and used it to block the captain’s next kick. The sharpened axe bit deeply into the captain’s right calf. Sinews and tendons parted under the force of the blade, which only stopped with a sickening thud as it struck bone.
The strength of the blow sent the captain off balance, and he collapsed to the floor. Dalton was on the warpath, taking all his rage and grief out on the corrupt officer who sold his family’s future to line his pockets with blood money. His hands wrapped around O’Sala’s throat and tightened. Several minutes later, Dalton relaxed his grip and returned to his senses. He’d never know if the older man bled to death or if he had suffocated. He didn’t really care. Dalton stood painfully and retrieved his tomahawk. He then undertook the grisly task of scalping both men. These would be the final two scalps he would claim in his war on crime, but not the last lives.
Mark came down from his sniper’s nest. He remembered that riding the vengeance trail was a lonely path, and he would help Dalton in anyway he could. He found Dalton standing over the bodies of the two men.
“It is done,” the old man intoned.
Dalton knew it was not. He could never return to conventional law enforcement as long as there were criminals willing to subvert and undermine justice, to tear apart and destroy families with their actions. He vowed on the scalps in his blood-soaked hands that he would fight on.
THE END
Brad Mengel works in Australia’s criminal justice system. His book Serial Vigilantes of Paperback Fiction: An Encyclopedia from Able Team to Z-Comm (McFarland 2009) was the first book to examine vigilante fiction of the ’70s and ’80s. He has also contributed stories to Tales of the Shadowmen, Pro Se Presents, and Pulp Obscura anthologies.
L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T. (The Boat That Goes on Land)
in
L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T. (The Boat That Goes on Land)
By Chase Verdugo
(discovered by Oren Brimer)
Prepare for a punch to be not pulled. Chase Verdugo never shied from hot-button issues, and with subtlety and nuance, he weaved his opinio-facts into a tale where boats can talk and crime lives on the high seas. At the beginning of his career, Verdugo struggled to find a publisher. Yet, always resilient, he refused to take no, “Hell no!” and “Why would we ever publish this crap?” for an answer. Instead he got creative, as creative writers do, turning to corporate sponsorship to get his novels
out to the public.
OREN BRIMER found L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T. in the desk drawer of a Carnival® cruise line cabin, right next to the Bible and a brochure for Nicaraguan timeshares.
Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Indigo. Violet. Boat fuel painted a refracted spectrum onto the surface of the cool Caribbean water. But the gasoline rainbow only had one to one-and-three-quarters moments to play in the sun before it was dashed by the wake of a matte-black speedboat. A speedboat named L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T.
Brick Argus’ sun-bleached shoulder-length hair whipped behind him as his wrap-around polarized Oakley® sunglasses expertly shielded his eyes from the mist and also the UV rays. He adeptly guided the steering wheel of L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T., weaving the vessel through the chop like some sort of weaving machine, a loom maybe, set to fast.
“L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T., proximity?” Brick asked his boat.
“Thirty-seven meters until contact with the target. The target being drug runners smuggling drugs.” said a robotic voice from ultra-sonic projection speakers.
Brick commanded, “Activate thrusters, initiate high-velocity rudder.”
L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T. calculated. “Ocean current analytics calculate that we have a ninety-five percent chance of capsize if we hyper-thrust.”
Brick smiled. “I like those odds.”
A small screen in the dashboard crackled awake. “Don’t even think about it, Argus!” said the angry, eye-patched man on the screen.
“Ferce,” Brick spat.
“The eXperimental Yachting Laboratory Organized to Promote Heroism and Operations in Nautical Equality didn’t spend three decades building that boat to have some hotshot destroy it on its first mission.”
“It sounds like the head of X.Y.L.O.P.H.O.N.E. prefers that these drug runners get away.” Brick said defiantly.
“You and I both know that’s hooey,” Ferce cursed. “Don’t turn your rage into stupidity, Argus. I know what you’re going through.”
“How could you? How could you know what it’s like to have amnesia, to not remember anything before a year ago, except for the occasional memory which comes flooding back at the most inopportune times?” Brick foreshadowed.
“Don’t forget who’s in charge here,” Ferce countered. “Me. I am in charge.”
“Well, last I checked, drugs still flow into America nonstop and until our nation’s leaders wake up and enact tough legislation, it’s my job to stop these drug runners the old-fashioned way: with a talking boat.”
Ferce hesitated, then spoke. “You’re right, Argus. You’re a true American—”
The screen blinked off, Brick’s hand on the “screen off” switch.
“Whatever,” said Brick. “Activate thrusters, L-B.” A panel on the aft of the boat slid open and a class-6 jet propulsion hyper-engine slid out smoothly. Brick got a semi. “It’s drug stopping time.”
Blue flame burped out of the jet engine. L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T. sliced through the water like a samurai sword through water. Brick’s trained hands conducted a symphony of speed in the key of fast, the drug runners’ cigarette boat growing in size. It wasn’t actually growing in size, but as they got closer, the perspective made it seem like it was getting larger. That could only mean one thing: they were getting closer.
The drug runners’ boat was a shiny white number with chrome detailing to match the white suits and silver guns of the criminals onboard. One fat drug runner drove and the other, skinny, sat on a pile of black duffel bags surely filled with addictive drugs. As L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T. neared, the drug runners’ boat screeched to a halt.
L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T. slowed and Brick eyed the criminals. Beneath their cheaply constructed aviator sunglasses, which lacked even the most basic scratch-resistant coating (standard on every pair of Oakleys®), they wore smiles.
Scientists have concluded that there are five senses: smell, sight, sound, taste, and touch. Brick had a sixth: the sense of danger. A blessing and a curse, the sharp realization that danger had reared its dangerous face could save your life or make you want to take a long nap. Longer than two hours, even. A forever nap.
Brick felt this sixth sense, the danger one, stab him in the gut as two more cigarette boats closed in. They looked dangerous; each piloted by a crew of maniacal gun-toting drug runners and equipped with a machine gun turret ready to clear its throat of lead phlegm. And, unfortunately, the machine guns had just come down with a cold. And they were all out of tissues. Brick, on the other hand, had plenty of tissues, a box of Kleenex® Puffs™ he kept under the dash whenever he needed soft comfort.
Brick steeled himself. “Thanks for coming, gents. Let me slip into something ... more comfortable.”
“Like a pair of Champion® sweatpants?” The drug runner called out.
“No,” Brick responded. “Nothing is that comfortable.”
With the whir of servos, L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T.’s arsenal presented itself. Two high-capacity sub-structure Gatling guns shot forth from the fore. A liquid fire launcher, complete with indo-destructor fuel cells, erected itself from the stern. Turbo-steel mesh plating clanked all around. Then, a section of the deck slid away, and out rose a laser-guided helix missile rack loaded with ultra-infrared–guided hollow-core warheads.
“Is that a laser-guided helix missile rack loaded with ultra-infrared–guided hollow-core warheads?” the skinny drug runner asked in slack-jawed awe as a cigarette dropped from his mouth.
“Is it?” Brick asked L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T.
“It is,” L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T. said to Brick.
“It is,” Brick said to the drug runner.
“YAAAAAAAAAH!” The drug runner fired his chrome AK-47 at L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T., each bullet ricocheting off the turbo mesh steel plating. The flanking boats tore off, circling, preparing to attack. L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T. rotated towards the stationary boat. Two lasers found their home on the fat and skinny drug runners.
“You guys seem like fish out of water.” Brick grunted through gritted teeth. “Let’s fix that.”
Gatling guns whirred a metal storm, replacing the drug runners’ bodies with red Swiss cheese. There was no time to pair the cheese with wine, maybe a Boone’s Farm® Bordeaux or a Chianti depending on what dish followed the cheese (although Boone’s Farm® wines were delicious with any meal). One of the other cigarette boats was approaching fast, the silver-toothed drug runner onboard aiming an RPG straight at L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T. He wasn’t only aiming it; he was also shooting it.
The rocket rocketed towards L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T., and with aquacatlike reflexes, Brick roared the super-thrust fuel-cell hydro injection engine and turned one hundred and eighty degrees, sending a huge plume of water into the air, knocking the RPG off its path and into the deep.
“Thanks, water,” Brick said.
Facing the oncoming boat, Brick manned the liquid fire launcher and fired fire, a hot melty stream of napalm arcing in an arc of pain towards the boat. The cigarette boat ground to a halt, the napalm landing on the surface of the water in front of it, burning harmlessly.
The silver-toothed drug runner laughed. “What’s the use of a fancy boat that shoots fire that burns on water if you can’t aim? Huh? What’s the use?”
Brick scoffed at the drug runner’s ignorance. Of course he was ignorant. He did drugs. He hit a large red switch.
A muted pop filled the air. Then, silence.
“Is that it?” screamed the drug runner. And then he and the driver laughed. It would be their last. Yet, Brick was the one having the last laugh. And he wasn’t even laughing.
Suddenly, a giant wave rose and freight-trained through the napalm. The wave mixed with the fire-liquid, causing what was once a simple wave of water to transform into a not-so-simple wave of flame.
The drug runners’ cigarettes dropped from their mouths as hellfire charged them like a bull seeing all the kinds of red. Dark red, light red, middle red, and maybe even a pink or two. The criminals were instantly melted. The duffel bags of drugs exploded, releasing a cloud of drug smoke into the air.
“It’s not
the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean,” Brick whispered to himself and any psychics listening in.
He turned to the final boat, whose occupants stared slack-jawed at the carnage, their cigarettes falling from their mouths. The driver cranked the engine and fled the scene.
L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T. and Brick gave chase, quickly gaining. The fleeing boat’s motor was no match for the pure power of hyper-jet propulsion.
Brick thought of his amnesia. “I hate my amnesia. I have amazing boat-driving and combat skills, yet I don’t know where, or even how, I got them. Hopefully,” he hoped, “these clouds will part and my memory will return.”
Brick’s thoughts were interrupted by L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T.’s digi-voice. “Brick! They are surrendering!” The boat that goes on land was right. The fleeing drug runners’ boat had stopped and their hands were raised to the sky.
“Surrendering, huh?” Brick asked rhetorically. The laser guided helix missile rack loaded with ultra-infrared–guided hollow-core warheads swiveled towards the drug runners. “What about the countless children who have surrendered to the ravages of the drugs you provide?”
“We are just filling a niche created by the failure of your government to crack down on the flow of illegal drugs into your country,” said the drug runner.
“I agree with you there,” Brick responded. “But until the day where our nation’s leaders wake up, which is why we’re paying them with our hard-earned tax dollars, it’s missile time.”
L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T. gave Brick a status update. “Missiles engaged, ready to fire.”
“I was born ready,” said Brick.
Brick looked up to the drug runners one last time. Something was amiss. There were those smiles again. Their cigarettes were still in their mouths.