by Adam Bender
“Slim?”
The other Red Striper had arrived. He had a Breck 17 in his belt, while Martin found himself yet again unarmed. For a while, the two men stared at each other, refusing to budge from their positions. Then, miraculously it seemed, the Red Striper bolted. Martin went to the window and watched the gangster get on his bike and zoom away from the station. With a sigh of relief, the sheriff snatched his phone and called Joe Lin.
“The Gang?” repeated Lin with a tremor.
“Get everyone you can together and bring ’em over here right away.”
Hanging up, Martin stepped back toward the unconscious Slim. It was funny how much he looked like the Wanderer. Martin was sure now he wasn’t, though. The Wanderer and the Red Stripe Gang mixed like oil and water. Grabbing the gangster’s ankles, Martin dragged the body toward the stairwell. At the edge, Martin gave a push and Slim tumbled the rest of the way down on his own. He heard the gangster’s head bounce against a few of the steps, but it didn’t appear to crack.
“Oh my God!” gasped someone down below.
Martin reckoned it was the attempted bank robber. “Shut the hell up, or it’s you next!”
When he reached the basement himself, he was dismayed to find that Dougie’s murderer had survived the fall. He opened the last available cage and dragged the bastard inside. He locked the door, but it didn’t feel like enough, so he spat at the still body through the iron bars.
The basement was full of scum, and the scum kept coming. These lawless freaks needed to be punished, made into an example. Yet what was he doing? Feeding them? Giving them water? What good did that do anyone?
“Why don’t you just kill us, too?” bawled the bank robber.
There was a glint in Ben Martin’s eye as he smiled. “Better get some sleep,” he said. “Sun up tomorrow, you get your wish. We’re having us an old-fashioned execution.”
Martin headed back up the stairs to wait for his militia. The station stunk with death, so he went outside and stood by the front entrance. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a crumpled tissue and wiped some of the blood off his face. A ghastly squeal and heavy flutter of wings snapped the sheriff’s attention to the gangster’s motorcycle in the parking lot. Perched on its handlebars was a large black bird with a bald head. As the vulture gave Martin a sidelong stare, he echoed the words of his late deputy. “They always seem to know.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
This Is Madness!
The morning was still dark as Jackson Veras sped down Main Street in a blue Chevrolet sedan. He’d been rudely awakened by a phone call from Father James just after four in the morning. One of his parishioners, a member of Martin’s Militia, had just informed the priest there was going to be a public execution in the town park at the crack of dawn. There were three men — a bank robber and two Red Stripers — who’d be killed. Ben Martin, this parishioner said, had gone mad.
There was no one at the park yet, so Jack turned the car around and drove to the police headquarters. The lot was full of flatbed trucks and SUVs, and the station glowed yellow with light. Jack parked somewhere near the back. Opening the dash, he pulled out a Breck 17 handgun and stuffed it in his pocket. He didn’t usually carry, and not even Rosie knew he had a gun. He’d bought it after the shooting at the Walmart.
Jack jogged up to front entrance, passing a large white police van used for transferring convicts. The station door was open so he let himself in.
The station was buzzing like the old days. Men and women were rushing around in police uniforms, creating a white noise of chatter. He was surprised how many there were. Jack thought Martin had collected maybe five or six hicks from the town, but here there had to be twenty, maybe more.
“I thought I told you to call first,” came the familiar drawl of Ben Martin. The sheriff flashed a half smile, blackened by a wad of chewing tobacco. Jack noticed a blood stain on his shirt.
“Is it true, Ben?” he asked. “An execution?”
Martin looked at his watch. “We’re just starting to call everyone up and let them know to come down to the park, if they want to see.”
“You can’t just kill these prisoners of yours!”
Jack felt the heat of many eyes and realized a crowd was beginning to form to listen to the exchange.
Martin looked at him like he was joking. “Don’t you see, Jack? These lawless folk need to be made an example of. Otherwise they’re just gonna keep on comin’. This execution is just the start of a return to civilization!”
Just the start? It was true. Martin had gone mad. Well, Jack still had to try to reason with him. “You talk about the law as if you’re bringing it back. But according to the law, these men deserve a fair trial.”
Martin scowled and for a long moment held his head in hands. When he peered up at the lawyer again, there was a dark look to his eyes. “It’s too late for a trial.”
Years of lawyering had taught Jack that when one argument failed, it was time to try another. “From what I’m told, you’ve got two members of the Red Stripe Gang. Have you thought about what happens when you kill them? You think the Gang is just going to let that go?”
“I ain’t worried, if that’s what you mean. I can take care of myself.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about, Ben. It’s the whole town that could pay the price!”
“Martin’s Militia will protect Liberty.”
It was clear the man wasn’t going to listen, and Jack had run out of arguments. “Then I’m going to have to stop you,” he said, reaching into his pocket. Unfamiliar with the gun, he struggled to bring it out quickly. There were at least ten handguns on him before he could finish the threat.
Ben Martin laughed. “That’s pretty stupid, son! Bringing a loaded gun into a police station! Oh, my lord!”
“This isn’t a police station,” said Jack, gritting his teeth, “and you’re not police.”
The sheriff walked up real close, so close that Jack could almost taste the tobacco on his breath. Martin bared his incisors and squirted something black and wet onto Jack’s glasses. The lawyer lunged for the sheriff’s neck, but someone strong tugged him back by the ponytail, making Jack wince with pain. More of Martin’s Militia pushed him down to the floor on his stomach, pulled back his arms, and shackled his wrists.
Stuck like a pig on the barbecue spit, Jack hollered, “You going to kill me, too?”
Martin crouched down to look him in the face. “No. You’re not worth the trouble, and frankly, I like Rosie too much to kill her only brother. But I am afraid you will miss out on today’s festivities.”
“Today’s murder, you mean.”
Clicking his tongue in pity, Martin stood up and gestured to two members of his militia. “Lock him up.”
A man and woman who Jack recognized as former police officers Elroy Wolfe and Alyssa Carey lifted him up to his feet and pushed him toward the stairs. Twisting his head back, Jack roared, “So you finally get to throw another Veras in jail! Huh, Martin?”
The sheriff marched up to Jack, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and growled, “You know very well how I tried to be there for you and Rosie after your pa went to prison.”
Jack laughed absurdly. “Is that right? You were there for us? Then where were you when my boy got shot?”
The sheriff turned red. “I … I stopped the shooter!”
Through angry tears, Jack screamed, “You were too late! Why weren’t you there sooner, Ben? Why did you allow a monster like that to come into our town?”
“No, that’s not —! I’ve done everything I —”
Something inside the sheriff’s head seemed to snap. Jack caught just a glimpse of Martin’s fat fist flying toward him before everything went black.
*
The sun shot rays of red from its hiding position, crouched beneath the dark hills overlooking Liberty. Father James ran hard down Main Street toward the park. He could already see the crowd of people. Ben Martin was looking down on them from h
is perch on some kind of crate.
The Catholic priest shivered. He was losing his flock. Oh, God, maybe they were already lost.
“— no room for lawlessness in Liberty!” Martin’s voice boomed.
Father James fought his way through the crowd. At first, they resisted, but the wall broke when the people saw it was their preacher coming.
“Stop!” he cried out to Martin.
The sheriff cut off his speech and peered down at the priest. Without his usual Army hat, Martin’s unkempt hair came up in two tufts like horns. Father James looked around wildly for the prisoners. Was he too late? No, there they were sitting on the ground, bundled in rope. He gasped — each of the three men was tied to the back bumper of a truck — one to a Ford pickup, another to a Chevy SUV and a third to a Jeep. The engines were running.
“Come to hear their last words, Father?” asked Martin.
“This is madness!” Father James turned to face the audience. “People of Liberty, please don’t listen to this mad man! This is not God’s way! He teaches forgiveness. Thou shalt not kill —”
*
The gun blast gave way to a collective gasp of horror among the gathering. Ben kept his Breck 17 trained on the body of Father James, who now lay sprawled out on the grass.
“He’s … he’s dead,” stammered Joe Lin.
Ben Martin leveled Joe a cold stare and holstered his gun. “Then we can continue.” There were still murmurs of conversation among the gathered, so he said it louder. “Then we can continue!” When there was silence at last, the leader of Martin’s Militia turned toward the condemned men and gave the signal. The trucks took off for the desert, leaving streaks of red between the tracks of their tires.
*
The conclusion of the execution left the militia frothing for more Western justice. Ben Martin reckoned he knew just where to find it.
There were seven of them with him: Larry Wilkins, Elroy Wolfe, Deon Douglas, Ryder Klein, Alyssa Carey, “Mad” May Mackenzie, and Rico Velasquez. They pulled up onto the well-watered front lawn of the mayor’s mansion in four trucks, including the three from the execution. They came out of the vehicles carrying a few different guns — mostly Breck 17 pistols, but Martin brought his Pilgrim, and Mad May rolled up with a Yossarian automatic.
Joe Lin would have come too, but he’d excused himself because he thought someone should return to the police station to watch Jackson. Martin agreed it was a good idea. Lin seemed like a good man. Martin was thinking about making him his new deputy.
The door swung open before the sheriff had made it halfway up the walk. Onto the porch stepped the butler in his dark brown suit. “You can’t park there!” the butler shouted, waving the brush end of a broom in the air. “What is the meaning of this?”
There was a blast and a high whistle as a bullet ricocheted off the porch. The butler yelped and ran back inside, slamming the door behind him.
Annoyed, Martin swiveled around. “Who did that?”
Eyes turned toward Ryder Klein, and the sheriff stopped the inquisition as Klein looked guilty as hell. “Dammit, don’t fire until you get my say so!” Martin ordered.
There was a gunshot. Klein screamed out in agony.
“Sniper on the roof!” yelled Mad May, unloading a volley of automatic fire at the top of the building. Martin looked up in time to see a man in black security garb fall two stories onto the lawn.
Klein was still screaming. He was lying on the ground now, shirt soaked with blood, as useless as an injured horse.
“For God’s sake,” said Martin, “would someone please put him out of his misery?”
May aimed her Yossarian.
“No, no!” yelled Klein.
There was a short burst of fire followed by relieved silence. With a puff of impatience, Martin trotted up to the door and knocked. “Now listen here! I apologize for my man back there, but you’re going to have to let us in. I told them not to fire anymore. I just want the mayor.”
There was no answer. Martin tried rattling the door but found it locked tight.
“Fine,” he said flatly. “Have it your way.”
He took a few steps back and leveled the Pilgrim at the keyhole. It took only a couple trigger pulls for the door to swing open on its own accord. Martin stepped inside and smiled smugly back at the portrait of Thomas Jefferson hanging over the foyer. It was quiet. The butler had gone into hiding. Maybe the mayor, too.
“Stop!” yelled a guard, coming down the stairs with a Breck 17.
Martin fired the Pilgrim. The guard fell forward, rolling down the final six steps in a crumpled heap. The sheriff tapped him with the barrel of the shotgun to make sure he was dead. He was.
Martin’s Militia piled through the entrance behind him, but they all still managed to stand comfortably in the foyer. The sheriff directed the women to secure the ground floor while he took the other four men upstairs to look for Mayor White.
About halfway up the steps, Martin had to stop to take a few wheezing breaths. “Damn stairs,” he muttered. “I remember you now.”
At the top, there was a long hallway with many doors. Martin directed his men to spread out and check each one, while he headed directly for the room where he had met White previously.
In the study, the big TV was on with a live feed of the Arizona state legislature. Martin saw the webcam’s light was off and took a few cautious steps inside.
“What — what do you want?” a small voice cried from the mayor’s desk.
Ben Martin pointed his Pilgrim directly in front of him and did a quick sidestep around the table. He found White cowering on the other side, covering his bald head with trembling hands.
The mayor peeked up at him. “Sheriff? There’re some men outside — I heard a gunshot. Are you here to help?”
“I am.”
White sighed gratefully. “I can’t tell you how much of a relief it is to —”
The Pilgrim went off in Ben Martin’s hands. With a cry, Mayor Alex White fell backward onto the blue carpet. He wouldn’t shut up so Martin shot him again. In silence at last, Martin watched a dark red circle expand slowly from the edge of the politician’s American flag pin.
The other militiamen rushed into the room. Martin turned to them with a wide grin and declared, “The mansion’s ours!”
He stepped toward the room’s east-facing window, pulled open the blinds, and looked out upon Liberty. Something in the lower half of his vision caught his eye. It was someone running away from the house in full business attire. The butler had cleared the lawn and was making a dash for the desert. Martin was just about to say something to his men when he heard a long grinding blast downstairs. The butler fell flat on his stomach with arms and legs spread out in all directions. From the second floor, he looked to Martin just like a squashed cockroach.
*
Jack couldn’t believe his ears. Not only had the execution gone off as planned, but now Father James was dead and Ben Martin had set out after the mayor.
So said Joe Lin, firefighter turned jailer. He was a man who Jack couldn’t quite figure out. He’d been one of Ben Martin’s first recruits for the militia, but yet here he was confessing to Jack how uncomfortable the priest’s death had made him feel. Jack wanted to tell him he should have thought of that before joining up with Martin, but it didn’t seem like the smartest play given that Lin was the one holding him in jail below the Liberty police station.
It was difficult to wrap his head around the simple fact that Father James was dead. They’d known each other since they were kids. They were never great friends, but as schoolmates they’d often chatted about tests, teachers, and of course, Jack’s sister. Jim and Rosie had been pretty serious in high school. The priest, who wasn’t a priest then but wanted to be, told Jack about his plans before he told Rosie. Maybe he thought Jack could convince her to be the one to end the relationship. As if Jack could ever convince his sister of anything!
“This is all my fault, you know,” continu
ed Lin. “The militia was my idea. I convinced Martin to start it up.”
The confession startled Jack. All he could say was, “Why?”
“I was at the Walmart with my wife. She was pregnant and we were going shopping for baby things. We were just coming out of the car to go inside when … when …”
“I know,” Jack replied gently. “I was there, too. I lost my son.”
Tears burst from Lin’s eyes. “This isn’t what I wanted!”
“Then let me out, Joe. You don’t want Martin to kill me, too, do you? You know he will. It’s just a matter of time.”
Lin scratched his head. “I reckon you’ll be all right. He just wanted to hold you so you wouldn’t interfere earlier. He’ll let you go when he gets back.”
“Yeah, maybe. But, I mean, if you think so, why can’t you just let me go now? The execution’s over, right?”
Lin glanced at the ring of keys lying on a desk on the other side of the room. “I don’t know. I think I should wait for Ben to get back.”
Jack rubbed his face in exasperation. “My son — he’s in a coma at the hospital. I need to go make sure he’s all right. You need to let me go.”
Lin took a step in the direction of the keys, but then walked past the desk and up the stairs. “I’m sorry, Jack. I … I probably shouldn’t be talking to you.”
WANDERER BREAKS UP BRECK GUN TRADE WITH GANG
By Rosa Veras
The Wanderer and Kid Hunter on Tuesday intercepted a Breck Ammunition truck bringing Yossarian assault rifles to Union, a Red Stripe town, as part of a trade organized by Gerard Breck for protection services from the Red Stripe Gang.
Now the Wanderer has said he will come to Breck Ammo headquarters in Vegas to put an end to the CEO’s reign and his unholy alliance with the nation’s worst criminals.
If there is an unofficial capital to the New West, it has to be Las Vegas. It started out as “Sin City,” and things only got worse from there.
As laws loosened across the country, the scum of Vegas tightened their control of this city of casinos, strip clubs, and debauchery. The place has become a safe harbor for industry giants like Breck Ammunition to do as they please, and for organized crime to take care of business without fear of indictment.