The Devil Knocks

by Frank Rich

  "No, no music!" Bruce shouted, lunging over the seat to slap George's hand. "Yes. This is Mobile Strike Force Liberty again. No, don't hang up!"

  "We're going to have to stop for more beer," I told George.

  "Next town I'll pull over."

  "Danger!" Bruce warned. "Abort! Situation critical! Abort!"

  "He doesn't have any faith in us," I said.

  "What? Who? Why? Okay, goddamn it." Bruce shoved the handset at me. "Control Station Liberty wants to talk to you, dickhead."

  I took the handset. "Rogue Quixote here."

  "Is that you, Jake?" It was Marlene's voice.

  "Rogue Quixote is my tag now. What's shaking, baby?"

  "Why is Bruce so upset?"

  I cupped my hand around the receiver and whispered confidentially. "I'm afraid he's completely wigged."

  "What? What happened?"

  "We're not completely certain, but I suspect it has something to do with all the booze he's been drinking."

  "Bruce has been drinking?"

  "Like there was a fire in his belly. Don't worry, though, we're about to put him under heavy sedation. We'll make it."

  "Do whatever you think is necessary to complete the mission. Take care, Jake, er, Rouge Coatie."

  "That's Rogue Quixote and I'll take it any way I can. Rogue Quixote out."

  I waited until the connection went dead, then handed the handset back to Bruce.

  "What did they say?" Bruce demanded.

  "Oh, secret stuff mostly," I said. "But I can tell you they gave me full authorization to do as I see fit." I looked thoughtfully out the window. The rolling hills of the Piedmont Plateau raced by. "There just might be a few radical changes around here."

  I could feel Brace's fevered eyes on me. I could smell his fear. "Okay," he said. "It's time to let you both in on a little secret of my own."

  I smiled indulgently. "What little secret is that, Brace?"

  He grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands and ripped it open. "This!"

  "That's not much of a big secret, Brace. A lot of guys don't have chest hair."

  "No, this!" He pointed at a black disk, about the size and shape of a small pancake, strapped over his heart.

  "What's that?" George asked.

  "It's a Johansson suicide rig," I said. "Corporate assassins used them during the wars."

  "Very good," Brace said. "It's a potent explosive targeted off my heartbeat."

  "So," George said, "you're saying if you somehow die, we get blown up, too?"

  "That's right."

  There was a momentary silence.

  "What's the blast radius on that model, anyway?" I asked.

  He looked at me suspiciously. "What's it to you?"

  "Just curious."

  "Let me die and you'll find out."

  I nodded and turned on the stereo. The tinny hillbilly voice was clearer than usual and I could make out some of the lyrics.

  Don't know if I've lied to the angels,

  Don't know if I've lived in sin,

  But when Devil comes a knockin',

  You just gotta let him in.

  9

  "This Remi guy is one mean bastard," George said from the passenger seat as he studied the manila folder on his lap. He'd immersed himself in the packet the moment I'd taken the wheel outside Asheville.

  "I'm sure they'd like us to believe that," I said.

  "No, really. If there was ever a Big Brother, this is him. His secret techpolice persecute anybody that speaks against him. He has the whole town wired with bugs and cameras, and there are ID scanners under the sidewalks and streets, so he can keep track of his citizens. And he tells everyone where to live in Denver. You can't move unless he gives you permission."

  Bruce spoke up. "It's part of his labor-force management plan. Putting the people near their workplaces."

  "Doesn't sound like such a bad idea," I said, stretching. Night had arrived and fatigue was creeping in.

  "C'mon, Jake," George said. "If the City was like that, you'd be assassinating public officials from the word go."

  "If he's so horrible, why hasn't anybody shot him yet?" I asked.

  "Believe me, a lot of people want to," Bruce said. "But Remi is fanatical about security. He rarely leaves the Party tower, he doesn't need to. The building is a huge self-contained complex. Besides being Denver's administration, law enforcement, communication and media center, it houses Remi's technology development laboratories. He controls everything from inside."

  "An evil wizard in his black castle," George mused, staring at a picture of a gargantuan black skyscraper.

  "Is there anything good about this guy?" I asked.

  "Denver has the lowest crime rate of any metropolis in North America," Bruce said, "accomplished by ruthless crime-control techniques."

  "Well, that's nothing to scoff at," I said.

  "You sure got a soft side for tyrants, don't you?" Bruce snarled. "But you did fight for the Party once, didn't you?"

  "We both did," George said. "But things were different then. There weren't any good or bad guys."

  "Is that right?" Bruce scoffed.

  I looked back at him, suddenly angry. "Where were you when all the shit was going down? Hiding in the gym?"

  "I served, asshole."

  "You were a waiter?"

  "I was fighting in Detroit just six months ago."

  "Yeah? How'd you rebels do?"

  "We kicked ass."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah."

  Something buzzed, and Bruce snapped the handset or the radio to his face. "Mobile Strike Force Liberty!"

  He listened and said okays over a five-minute span. He replaced the headset.

  "What did Control Base Freedom have to say? "I asked.

  Bruce smiled. "Nothing at all." He laughed a sinister laugh, and I didn't feel sleepy anymore.

  "Not even a love message from Marlene?"

  "You know, she doesn't really like you. She's just doing her job."

  "Liar!"

  * * *

  The SIGN SAID Packer, Tennessee. Two Miles.

  "Pull over there," Bruce ordered.

  "Why?" I asked.

  "I want to get breakfast."

  I shook my head solemnly. "You had your chance to get breakfast at the motel, son."

  "You bastards didn't wake me up."

  "We thought you had run away," George said. "How were we to know you snuck into the car in the middle of the night?"

  "You'd have left me if I hadn't," Bruce accused.

  I looked back at Bruce. "What makes you say that?"

  "Screw you. Pull over, I have to take a goddamn piss."

  "Bladder control is a test of manhood," I informed.

  "We're almost out of beer," George said.

  "We better pull over," I said.

  George took the exit and followed a deteriorating road into a grove of cedars. Packer was comprised of a single structure that claimed to be bar, restaurant and alcohol station all wrapped up into what looked to be a boarding house for wayward hillbillies. The Rebel Roadhouse, a crude plywood sign nailed to the sprawling shack said. Famous Rebel Stew, Strong Liquor And Hi-Octane Fuel.

  "Gruel, fuel and bar stools," George observed as he wheeled into the gravel parking lot.

  Bruce slammed the car door and marched inside.

  George leaned against the hood and shook his head. "That Bruce sure talks a lot of shit."

  "What do you mean?"

  "His war story about the rebels kicking ass in Detroit. I have family in Motown. The rebels didn't kick ass six months ago — they got stomped like rats in a barrel."

  "Yeah, sounds like he was talking shit, all right."

  "He probably hasn't even been near Motown." George appraised the wide blue sky and slapped me on the back. "Well, shall we have a drink, old friend?"

  "Why not?"

  The ramshackle exterior predicted the dingy interior. The rough-hewn floor was a small improvement over bar
e earth, and sunlight peeked between the slats of the wall boards. A trail of exposed wire connected dim bulbs whose light fluctuated with the rumble of a generator somewhere outside.

  Three shaggy crackers sat at the far end of the bar. Two appeared to be twins. The trio traded gibes with the bartender, a husky man whose red beard hung all the way down to his protruding beer belly. Facial tattoos and missing teeth seemed to be the fashion. George took the stool nearest them, I took the next, Bruce the last.

  Redbeard showed his black teeth. "What'll it be, boys?"

  "What's the house poison?" George asked amiably.

  The barman pulled one of the many fruit jars of clear fluid off the shelf behind him. A mean-eyed skull was scrawled on the label.

  "Liquid lightning," Redbeard said. "We brew it right out back." He leaned closer and smiled. "It ain't for sissies."

  "Question not our manhood and pour us three glad shots, friend," George said. "And I am starving for a he-man-sized bowl of your famous rebel stew."

  The barman poured three shots into dented aluminum cups while sadly shaking his head. "I am afraid that we are plain dry of stew." He set the cups in front of us. "But we're expecting a fresh shipment very soon."

  "Well, we'll just have to make do with this fine elixir." George raised his cup to mine. "Here's to the magnificent cause, it's bigger and better than all of us." He looked past me. "C'mon, Bruce. Raise a toast with us."

  Bruce looked around anxiously. "Go to hell."

  "Ah. Oh well." George saluted the cause and we drank.

  The fire started in my throat and burned a path to my belly. "Is this the same stuff you sell for fuel?" I gasped.

  The barman smiled. "As a matter of fact it is. It'll eat the carbon right out of your carburetor."

  "I think it's eaten the enamel off my teeth," I said.

  "I thought it excellent," George said breathlessly.

  "Would you like another snort?" The barman gestured with the jar.

  George flinched. "No, no, I don't want to spoil myself. We'll switch to your fine amber ale, thank you."

  After the barman had poured us two pints of beer and moved down the bar, George leaned close to me. "You know, Jake, I've been putting a lot of thought into this revolution thing. I think you got a good thing going."

  "You think so?"

  "Sure I do. I mean, you're doing something really magnificent here. Something big and important, something that can change the face of the entire world."

  "Is that what you think?"

  "Of course. Goddamn, I envy you. You're right on the front lines of justice, manning the barricades, fist raised in defiance. You're the man wielding the righteous hammer, striking a ringing blow for the side of good."

  I finished my beer and ordered another. "So, you really think there's a difference between the two?"

  "The two of what?"

  "Good and evil."

  George laughed. "Well, of course. You're too cynical, Jake. I guess it comes with the job. I don't know, maybe it takes an outsider to see the full beauty of the thing." He picked up his drink and stared into the amber depths. "You know, Jake, ever since I got out of the service I've been searching for my purpose, my raison d'être. I was deathly afraid of dying before I fulfilled my destiny, whatever it was."

  "And now you think you've found it?"

  "Yes! Battling evil tyrants! Ripping down the rotted structure! Giving the mantle of power to the truly deserving! That really excites me."

  "Is that right?"

  "That's right." George ordered another beer and looked around. "So," he said in a loud, congenial voice, "am I right in assuming you gentlemen are rebels?"

  The wild-eyed white trash at the end of the bar turned. The largest of the three scratched his chin, yawned and finished with a big yokel grin. "Right down to the bottom of our Party-stomping feet," he drawled.

  "Excellent! We're revolutionaries ourselves, the urban variety of rebel." George leaned toward them. "So, how goes the struggle?"

  "Oh, fine, jes' fine."

  "We're passing through to Denver. Any Party activity around these parts we should worry about?"

  The crackers and the barman all enjoyed a good hoot. "Hell," the big cracker said, "there ain't been a spif in these parts for going on five year." He laughed again. "So why y'all going to Denver, anyhow?"

  George looked around the room, then bent his head low in confidence. "We're going to overthrow Denver," he whispered.

  "Is that right?" The big cracker raised his eyebrows and looked back at the twins, who held back giggles. "The three of you?"

  "Well, we have some help waiting for us, but we'll be doing most of the key work."

  "You're jes' waggin' ol' Leroy's willy!"

  "Nope. Wouldn't wag your willy, Leroy."

  "Huh. Well, the way I hear it told, ol' Remi has a pretty tight hold. The word I get says him and his secret police got the whole game in their pockets with time enough to laugh."

  "Your information is incorrect, friend," George explained. "Denver is so close to the edge a breath of wind will blow it over. And we…" George threw his head back "…are that breath of wind."

  The incredulous crackers traded wild looks and held back belly laughs. George politely turned away from their disbelief and leaned to me. "I'm building rapport with the local comrades," he whispered.

  "I see that."

  The front door slammed open, and a lanky hillbilly backed his way in. A young mulatto woman struggled in his arms.

  "Look what I got!" the man yelled. "A yellowbone, and ain't she a pretty one!"

  "Get your hands off me," the girl cried, writhing in his grasp.

  "Wild as a bobcat," one of the twins said.

  "Where'd you find that darkie, Willy?" Leroy asked.

  "She and a friend was pokin' around that big monster car out there. I caved in her beau's head with a rock and figured she was mine."

  "Well, don't just stand there," Leroy said. "Bring her on over."

  Willy began working her toward the howling clan, giggling as he went. A mean drumbeat pounded at my temple. I stood up and George laid a hand on my shoulder.

  "They are rebels, Jake," he said quietly. "They're on the side of good."

  "I got news for you, George. There are monsters on both sides."

  "I suspect them posers anyway," George said, and jumped off his stool. "Unhand her, swine!"

  Willy stopped in front of us, and the three crackers slid off their stools like alligators off a slimy bank.

  "We don't share with strangers," Leroy announced.

  "How dare you make the assumption that we would join you backwater cretins in any unsavory activities," George said. "In the name of rebel honor, set the young Creole free at once!"

  Leroy took a step toward George. "What if we don't?"

  George enjoyed a hearty laugh. "Care, knave! You know not what hellish predicament you're getting yourself into." He took a side step and directed a hand to me. "My comrade, Jake, here, is an expert in unarmed combat, a highly trained professional fighter. If you don't heed my command this instant, I will have the extreme pleasure of watching him thrash the lot of you within a bare inch of your miserable lives."

  They guffawed and I bowed to George. "Thank you for that worthy and true appraisal, but if it's the same to you," I said, drawing my gyrapistol, "I'd rather shoot them."

  My pistol had just cleared the holster when cold steel pressed against the back of my neck. "Come out easy with that hog leg, mister," a quiet voice said. "Real slow and easy."

  I brought it out slow and easy, and Leroy walked over and took it. I looked over my shoulder. The red-bearded barman held a single-barreled .12-gauge shotgun against his shoulder. "Didn't see me there, did you?"

  "Can't say I did," I said.

  "Well, well." Leroy grinned. "Looks like we got ourselves the makings of a party here. Where do you think you're going?"

  Bruce froze in his tracks. "I'm leaving. I don't even know these bastards.
"

  "That's okay," said Leroy. "You're invited all the same."

  "Let's show 'em to Pa!" Willy said.

  After relieving Bruce of his automatic, they herded us into a room behind the bar. The large, dimly lit hovel was unoccupied save for an ancient white-bearded man sitting in a rocking chair. He rocked slowly, staring into the open belly of a fat wood stove. A monstrous cast-iron pot squatted atop the stove, whispering steam.

  "Pa!" Willy roared into the old man's ear. "We caught some flies in the web. Rebel flies."

  "Well, what're you waiting for?" the old man croaked loudly, coming to life. "Cook 'em up!"

  "Now I know what they mean by rebel stew," I said.

  "That's right," Redbeard said. "You're the meat shipment we was waiting for."

  After tying George's, Bruce's and my hands behind our backs with twine, Leroy took a step back and rubbed his chin.

  "So, who do we eat first?" he wondered, looking us over.

  "Let's save the girl for last," Willy said. "We gotta have some fun with her."

  Leroy squeezed George's biceps. "This one's the plumpest, I expect."

  "Y'all better cook somebody up 'fore I get my strap out and whup the tar out of y'all!" wailed Pa.

  "Well, don't throw a conniption," Leroy said. "I got one picked out. Willy, take this gun and watch the rest of them." He handed my pistol to Willy. "Red, fetch the ax. Clyde, you get a bucket for his guts. Fetch a big one, this boy is chock full of innards." He poked George's belly with a finger.

  I leaned over to the girl. "Don't worry," I said in a stage whisper. "The silly bastard has the safety on."

  "I heard that!" Willy said. He searched the gyrapistol until he found the safety switch and flicked it. He smiled slyly.

  "Me and my big mouth," I said dejectedly. The girl frowned.

  One of the twins came around with a bucket, and Redbeard handed Leroy a gore-splattered pickax. The twins each took one of George's elbows as Leroy hefted the ax. "Hold on tight now, boys. He's gonna kick like the devil once I split his head open." He brought the ax up high over his head.

  "I wouldn't do that," I said.

  Leroy froze with the ax suspended near the ceiling. "What?"

  "Unless you want us all blown into the next county, I wouldn't do that."

  Leroy lowered the ax. "What on earth are you jawing about?"