Incredibly awesome?
You bet your sweet ass.
“Friends of yours?” MacCawill asked, throwing a couple stray Krugers off him and getting to his feet.
“Yep,” I replied, willing the shotgun into my hand and very thankful that neither Stoner nor Coop were wearing pleather pants.
“Unconventional,” he muttered, clenching a fresh stogie between his teeth and casually flogging a group of dirt clones with several cracks of his whip. “But I like their style.”
Tearing through the campsite with reckless abandon, the Magic Bus traversed the network of trails with Dukes of Hazzard precision as the Kruger army frantically scurried about the woods like frenzied varmints getting smoked out of their burrow. It was priceless.
In classic A-Team fashion, the unlikely assault vehicle pulled a hard right and roared toward me and MacCawill only to power slide to a dramatic stop right before running us over. Before I had the chance to shit myself or go blind, the passenger door flew open and Rooster, Caveman, and Tango sprung out with a rather impressive collection of brawny weapons at the ready.
“Happy to see us?” Rooster said, taking my left flank and spraying a healthy burst of bullets into the fracas with a tricked out AK-47 assault rifle.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I replied. “That happens to be a shotgun in my pocket.”
“Awkward,” Tango muttered, flashing past me in a cloud of whitish-green smoke while dismembering countless Kruger clones with a blinding torrent of kukri knife strikes.
Pulling up on my right flank in sweat pants and a grey hoodie while forcefully swinging his oversized battle axe into the midsection of a charging assailant, Caveman said, “Dizam, bromando. Looks like you made some new friends.”
“You know me, Mick. I’m nothing if not popular.”
“Yeah, man. Being on Heaven’s Most Wanted list will do that. Hey, do you really have a shotgun in your pocket?”
As I momentarily contemplated whether or not to answer that, Coop launched himself from the roof of the Magic Bus like a redneck ninja and effortlessly landed with cat-like dexterity right in front of me.
Hacking a healthy wad of tobacco spit on the ground, he said, “Hey hoss, you mind ducking for a quick sec?”
“Ah, sure.”
And then he simply drew back on his otherworldly long bow and sunk a trio of arrows into the respective heads of three bad guys perched in a nearby tree ready to pounce on me.
“Dagum, I’m good,” he said, appreciating his handiwork.
“That’s what she said,” I muttered, more than pleased that the crew had shown up when they did and turned the tables. “Where’s Crockett?”
“Grand Canyon. Tracking a lead on the anakim hide out.”
“Speaking of tracking, how did you guys find me anyway?”
“They didn’t,” Erin Kelly replied, casually emerging from behind the van while dropping Krugers from an easy hundred yards out, with alternating shots from dueling H&K pistols. “I did.”
“Doc?” I scoffed. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Glaring at Rooster, I said, “Why did you bring Erin here?”
“Ah, for the record — she brought us,” he replied. “Who do you think was driving?”
“What?” I grunted at her. “Why aren’t you at the Quartermaster?”
Still squeezing off rounds, she said, “The better question is why are you in a Tennessee trailer park getting your ass kicked by the buff, grown-up version of the Backstreet Boys?”
“Long story,” I grumbled, cocking the shotgun lever and sending a couple Judgment fire blasts into the quickly retreating mass of dirt soldiers.
“Okay, and how is it that all these guys look the same?”
“Because they’re not a they — they’re a he,” MacCawill grumbled, joining our impromptu battle position with grenade launcher at the ready. “His name’s Cyrus Kruger. He’s a terramorph. And a mercenary working for the halos. And an asshat of epic proportion.”
“Guys, meet Roy. Roy, meet the crew. And the Doc.”
“MacCawill,” Rooster muttered, as his eyes flashed a blazing red in clear indication that he was less than pleased to see the peculiar bounty hunter.
“O’Dargan,” Roy coldly responded in turn.
“You still have my robot?”
“You still pissing in a bottle and telling people it’s beer?”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“He’s with me,” I said, jumping in before they started slugging each other. “He’s helping.”
“Wait — freaking what?” Rooster scoffed. “You’re working with him?”
“I’ll explain later,” I said, pointing across the campsite. “But right now, me and MacCawill need to get to that log cabin.”
“What the hell for?” Rooster said, raising a ginger eyebrow.
“Because there’s a shitter I need to visit.”
“Not a great time to be burying the elf,” Stoner barked, from his perch atop the the yellow magical mystery machine.
As I momentarily contemplated why I was the only one who didn’t seem to know what that term meant, I said, “The shitter — it’s a portal.”
“A portal? Where the hell are you going?”
“To get some frigg’n answers.”
“Ah, y’all,” Coop interjected, gazing across the campsite. “The party ain’t over. I’m thinking now would be a nifty time to make like a tree and get out of here.”
And although it first appeared that Kruger and his merry band of derelict dirt doppelgängers were cutting their losses and exiting stage left, it seemed that wasn’t exactly the case. For, as the surviving members of the decimated clone battalion huddled on the far end of the campsite surrounding the log cabin, the rest of the woods erupted in a swirling mass of man-sized funnel clouds.
“Fuck,” both MacCawill and I muttered in unison.
“Ah, guys,” Erin said, slamming new magazines into her pistolas. “What the hell is happening?”
“Nothing good,” Rooster grumbled.
And before I had the opportunity to drop another series of heartfelt expletives, the cyclone barrage dispersed to reveal a new and improved batch of Krugers. Lots and lots and frigg’n lots of Krugers. Like the entire goddamned woods was filled with the bastards.
More disturbingly, it seemed there was no way in hell I was fighting my way through them to reach the aforementioned inter dimensional toilet stall.
As I pondered that for a second, the swarm of bad guys quickly conglomerated into a massive horde and began to charge at us like it was it was a god-damn scene out of Braveheart.
“Dagummit,” Coop grumbled.
“So, that just happened,” Tango muttered, fluidly morphing from smoky haze back to his signature metrosexual with cute hair look. “What now?”
Grabbing Erin and tossing her in the van head first, I said, “You guys need to get out of here. Now!”
“Everybody in the bus,” Stoner declared with commanding authority as he executed a wizardly combat roll off the roof and slid into the driver’s seat. “Fucking pronto, ladies!”
“Get in,” Rooster said, glaring at me.
“You guys have done enough. I’ll make my way from here.”
Pointing at the incoming stampede, Stoner barked, “Get in, Robinson. Unless you plan on growing some frik’n wings, there’s no way in hell you’re getting through that shit show. I’ll get you and the Outlaw Josey Wales where you need to be.”
Shrugging his shoulders, MacCawill looked at me and said, “Axl’s got a point, mancho.”
“Fine. Let’s go.”
As everyone except for Caveman hastily crammed into the cargo bay, Stoner coaxed the engine to life and spun the yellow mirth mobile around to face the rapidly approaching incursion force.
“You coming, Mick?” He grunted.
“Nah, I’ve got my own ride,” Caveman replied, holding his fingers to his mouth and letting out a hellaciously loud wh
istle. “Lil’ D! Time to go to work. It’s rhino time, buddy.”
“Rhino time?” Erin asked.
“Rhino time,” Rooster replied.
“Is that a code or something?”
“No. It’s a pig — or something.”
Right on cue, the ground began to quake and a haunting series of guttural snorts rang out from the depths of the woods behind us. The windows of the Magic Bus rattled to the point of shattering as the relentless pounding of large hooves steadily increased to a feverous pace. Spinning around and looking out the window, I couldn’t help but smile as the great white war pig streaked past the van with the speed of a locomotive moving at full tilt. Roughly the size of a pick up truck, the ivory white beast, covered in rhinoceros-like armor plating, was on a determined collision course with the Kruger militia.
Ripping off his hoodie to reveal a furry, muscle clad chest, Caveman neph’d out and fluidly transitioned from a mellow humanish mansquatch into a predatory, and much hairier, canine-hybrid über warrior. Effortlessly jumping on Duncan’s meaty back like a skilled rodeo rider, he gallantly raised his oversized battle axe high in the air and let out a blood curdling howl while somehow still showcasing his razor sharp teeth.
It was terrifying.
And amazing.
And very well choreographed.
As Lil’ D lowered his meaty head and positioned his jagged, elephant sized tusks just above the forest floor, the obscure duo busted through the center of the enemy formation like the parting of the Red Sea. Eviscerating Kruger clones like a hot knife passing through butter, the rabid hog o’ war and his furry jockey continued to barrel through the charging mob until they simply disappeared in a mammoth cloud of reddish-brown dust leaving a wide path behind them.
Seeing our opportunity, Rooster yelled, “Punch it!”
To which Stoner replied by slamming the Magic Bus into gear and going from zero to sixty in about half a second. Making the mental note to ask him what the hell he had under the hood at some point down the road, I grabbed onto my seat for dear life.
MacCawill, on the other hand, made the mistake of grabbing onto to Erin, which earned him a stiff shot to the dangly bits, compliments of Doc’s elbow. Haha.
“Hands to yourself, Young Guns,” she barked, pushing his big ass toward Tango.
Crossing the few hundred yards in no time at all, Stoner literally stood on the brakes as we nearly careened into the log cabin. Throwing open the side door of the van, I jumped out and immediately waylaid a few bad guys waiting for us at the entrance with my metal fists of fury.
“Thanks for the lift,” MacCawill forced out, delicately cradling his twig and berries as he slowly exited the van and staggered through the front door of the cabin. “We should do this again — like never.”
“I’ll be in touch,” I said, nodding at the crew. “Thanks for saving my ass. Now, get the hell out of here.”
“I’m coming with you,” Erin said.
“No — you’re not. And unfortunately you can’t go back to the Quartermaster either. The seraphic court will know you helped me. You’re fugitives now — with targets on your back. All of you.”
“No worries, hoss,” Coop chimed in. “I’ve got a place we can lie low for a few hours. Ain’t nobody going to find us at the Farm.”
“Is it off the grid?”
“Hid better than a tick in a steer’s ass.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Depends on whether you’re the tick or the steer, I reckon.”
“Right,” I muttered, trying to clear yet another Cooperism from my mind.
“You don’t need to do this alone,” Rooster interjected, with a sharp edge.
“I don’t intend to. But first, we need information.”
“What’s your plan?” Tango asked.
“I’m going to see a man about a horse. You guys need to disappear. I’ll contact you in a few hours and we’ll plot our next move.”
“Make it snappy,” Stoner barked, glancing at his watch. “It’s 08:15. Less than twelve hours and counting until the shit starts flying again.”
“Be careful,” Rooster added. “We’re in unchartered waters.”
“Don’t do anything stupid, Dean,” Erin said with a hard gaze.
Glancing at the mammoth albino hog rampaging through the surrounding forest while mangling aluminum motor homes and obliterating other-worldly beings conjured from dirt, I muttered, “I’m thinking the bar’s set pretty low at this point, Doc.”
Chapter 14
In the ranking of things I never envisioned myself doing — squeezing into a trailer park shittery with a guy in a rawhide duster, with both hands wrapped around his smooth criminals, was definitely up there. While arguably not quite as outlandish as the thought of skinny dipping with laser-beam retrofitted mako sharks — it was close.
Damn close.
“So, not that I’m not enjoying being crammed in a crapper with a dude that’s fondling himself — but, I’m seriously not enjoying being crammed in a crapper with a dude that’s fondling himself. You plan on firing up the portal anytime soon?”
“Need a minute,” MacCawill winced.
“Grope your grapes on your on time,” I muttered. “We’ve got shit to do. Figuratively …that wasn’t toilet humor. Just so we’re clear.”
“Well, if your girlfriend hadn’t seen fit to drop an atomic elbow on my nethers—”
“I thought you had balls of steel. Or is that just your arm?”
“Fuck off,” he grumbled.
“And for the record — Doc isn’t my girlfriend. It’s complicated.”
“Who is she then?”
“No one really. Combat medic. Cardiothoracic surgeon. Pint-sized badass. Jaw dropping minx. Red Sox fan. Good with pets. And she pours a mean black and tan.”
“She’s totally your girlfriend.”
“Don’t make me whiny, Roy. You wouldn’t like me when I’m whiny.”
“Whatever,” he said, removing his hands from his pants evidently satisfied that Elephantiasis of the nuts wasn’t in his near future. “Let’s get out of here before your not-girlfriend comes back.”
“Oh, is it time to leave? I didn’t realize your solo afternoon delight was finished. It’s not like I’m in a big fucking rush or anything.”
Grumbling something of an unpleasant nature under his breath, he murmured a few words in Enochian then flushed the toilet three times. As the swirling water produced a brilliant flash of white radiance, we instantly transitioned from one shitter stall to yet another one. A much, much smaller one. Typical.
And judging from the surrounding clamor of disgruntled voices set to a horrific soundtrack of labored grunts, rapidly flushing toilets, and intermittent running water, I suspected we were in a rather bustling public restroom. A suspicion that was quickly confirmed as my nostrils were mercilessly assaulted by an unfortunate potpourri of greasy fast food ass interlaced with tropical fruit air freshener and a lingering hint of piss.
Awesome.
“Anytime you feel like letting us out of here would be really great,” MacCawill muttered, hunched over the toilet and pinned like a contortionist against the back wall.
“Right. Standby.”
“And lose the cape before anybody sees you.”
“That won’t be a problem,” I grumbled, awkwardly rotating around in the claustrophobic space until I faced the door. “Nobody sees me.”
Fumbling around for a second or two, I felt the latch disengage causing the door to swing open. No longer pinned in place like a sardine, I rather clumsily staggered out of the stall, slipped on some toilet paper, and executed a perfect face plant onto the grimy restroom floor.
Not awesome.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, shortly after I got a face full of gummy restroom tile, I got manwiched by two hundred and fifty pounds of arcane bounty hunter.
“Frigg’n oaf,” I grunted pushing MacCawill off me and scrambling to my feet.
“Lo
se — the — cape,” he muttered as we both stood upright to find a host of seriously disturbed looks from the long line of dudes waiting their turn on the porcelain throne.
“They’re all looking at me. Why can they see me?”
“Because you’re wearing the talisman, douche wagon. Lose the goddamn cape.”
“Well, this is awkward,” I murmured, willing the cloak, gauntlets, and arsenal of unnatural weaponry into retreat.
Facing the audience, I said, “Ah, hey, fellas. I wouldn’t go in there for a few more minutes. Pond’s filled with brown trout if you know what I’m saying. My buddy here had Mexican for lunch. Might want to light a match or something. Okay. Good talk.”
“Let’s go, slick,” MacCawill said, pushing his way through the crowd while pulling his Stetson down over his face. “We’re late.”
Reluctantly following him, I exchanged a few uneasy pleasantries with the collection of gawking patrons, and we quickly emerged from the bathroom to find ourselves in a bustling corridor of frenzied people.
Quickly assessing the scene, I said, “Is this an airport?”
“The world’s busiest. Hartsfield-Jackson International in Atlanta. Terminal V. Home of Variant Airlines. Rendezvous point is at Gate 13. Hopefully my employer is still there.”
Now granted, airports are generally a shit show in their best of hours but this — this was a whole new level of insanity. Glancing up and down the massive terminal, bathed in obnoxious fluorescent light, it had the distinct appearance of a full-on third world refugee camp that had run out of food and water weeks earlier. Every gate was absolutely overflowing with gaggles of people in varying stages of shock, despair, and rage.
All the TV screens hanging from the ceiling were flittering with news reports featuring images of smoking carnage and global ruination accompanied by the latest accounts of ‘giant man’ sightings and doomsday scenarios.
An incessant, almost deafening barrage of undecipherable announcements rang from the loud speakers in various languages causing people to frenetically race to new gate assignments — or just completely lose their shit and start screaming.
Conversely, other folks didn’t seem to care anymore and were simply sprawled out on chairs, suitcases, and makeshift camp sites strewn about every inch of available floor space.
Wrath of the Fallen: The Guild of Deacons, Book 2 Page 12