The Rabid Brigadier

by Craig Sargent

  “Well thanks, mister,” one of the hardfaced colonels sitting next to him said. The rest seemed to have relaxed a little at Stone’s expression of gratitude. All men like to be complimented. “And welcome to the New American Army if anyone hasn’t welcomed you yet. You look like you’ll be a great recruit—once you can move your hand again.” They all laughed. “I heard you near got yourself bitten to death.” The colonel grinned. “A heroic way to go.”

  “Recruit?” Stone asked between bites. “I didn’t know I’d volunteered.”

  “Oh, all able-bodied men are strongly suggested to join the NAA. Why, it’s an honor to serve under General Patton III. Only one man in five can even meet the standards he’s set. Besides, I would think you’d want to join up with the only official U.S. force trying to establish law and order in America. Help us create a future. If you’ve been out there, you’ve surely seen what it’s like.”

  “Maybe he’s on the wrong side,” a colonel said, a reddish scar running along the side of his face from ear to chin. He stared at Stone like he wouldn’t have minded shooting him dead on the spot. “I mean, he is a biker. And from what I’ve seen, bikers are scum. Why, we’ve already taken out nearly a hundred of the bastards.”

  The others stared at Stone to see how he would respond to the insult.

  “Just because I ride a motorcycle,” Stone answered, letting his fork drop to the side of his bowl, “doesn’t mean I’m a murderer. It seems a little absurd to judge a man by his mode of transportation.” Several of the faces grinned. They weren’t all against him. “As to what side I’m on. That’s hard to say. I’m still not sure exactly what side all of you are supposed to represent. So it’s a little hard to judge myself, as you apparently find it so easy to do.”

  “The amount of armaments you carry on that motorcycle,” the scar-faced colonel went on, spitting out every word like they were curses, “make it appear that you’re capable of wreaking heavy destruction. Just what have you been using them for?”

  Stone didn’t like the third degree, but he wasn’t in a position to do what he felt like, which was to slam a fist into the son-of-a-bitch’s face. “Look mister,” he said, talking slow and cold, “I’ve just been trying to survive, that’s all. I’ve been battling the same assholes that you have. Just traveling around this part of the country is like being in a full-scale war. What would you have me do—carry a little white flag and give out flowers to everyone who tries to kill me?”

  The colonel’s face flushed and the jagged scar on his face seemed to turn three shades redder, virtually throbbing like a thing alive. His mouth twitched a few times and then he rose, addressing the rest of the table.

  “Well, you can all stay here if you want, but as for myself I won’t eat with scum like this. This biker”—he said the word with a most insulting inflection—“has no place sitting at a table with honorable men, or even being inside our walls. He sullies the very honor of our army.” With that he threw his napkin to the table with a dramatic flourish and walked quickly away. Stone stared after him, his own heart beating fast. It might not have been the greatest thing after all to have been rescued by these guys.

  “Sorry about that,” the major across from him spoke up. “Colonel Matheson is a little quick to jump to conclusions. My own philosophy is, don’t judge a man until you’ve seen him on the battlefield.” He looked at Stone expectantly.

  “Right,” Stone answered, lapping up his food with quick angry strokes. “Nor the character of a man by the number of wheels beneath his ass.”

  CHAPTER

  Eight

  “MATHESON’S NOT really a bad sort,” the major who seemed somewhat friendly said. “He’s with I&CE, Intelligence and Counter-Espionage, so he’s always on the alert for saboteurs and troublemakers. Sees them coming out of the woodwork sometimes. But it’s his job, that’s all.”

  “I’m surprised that anyone would even attempt to mess around in here,” Stone said, sopping up the last of his gravy with a thick slice of excellent homebaked rye bread. “You guys look like you’re ready for World War IV.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” the major replied. “There’s a lot of criminal groups who’ve tried to find out what we’re doing in here—and stop it. We’ve had three infiltrators in the last six months. They didn’t last very long. As I’m sure you’ll find out, our security system is quite foolproof.”

  “I look forward to it,” Stone said, not quite enjoying the fact that all twelve pairs of vacuum eyes were still glued on him.

  “Tell me Mr.—uh—” one of the colonels asked, an old hawk-faced fellow with all kinds of medals and insignias adorning his uniform on chest and shoulders.

  “Stone, Martin Stone,” he answered suddenly, wishing he had a calling card to hand out to all the stiff bastards with their razor-pressed uniforms, their chests covered with bright trinkets. Something lewd perhaps—one of those 3D women whose clothes came off as you turned her holographic image. Something about their stern military demeanor made him want to shock them, shake them up, see their tight white faces turn red. Maybe because they reminded him of his father, Major Clayton, whom Stone had fought will-to-will against from the time he was seven years old and began resisting the major’s plans to mold him into a mirror image of the old man.

  “Yes—Mr. Stone—how exactly did you end up on a Harley Davidson in a raft floating down the Green River about to go over Whitewater Falls?”

  “You really want to know?” Stone asked with a kind of smirk as he looked quickly around the table. Their curiosity aroused, Stone decided to let them have it.

  “Well, let’s go back about five years,” he said, taking a deep breath. “It all began when my father, Major Clayton R. Stone, took me and the rest of the family into a bombproof shelter he had built in a northern section of Estes National Park in Northern Colorado.” Stone told them the whole damned story, whether they wanted to sit there or not. From the five years inside the mountain fortress to his father’s death by heart attack and the subsequent leaving of the hideaway to see just what the hell was out there. He told them of the family being attacked by bikers—of his mother’s rape and mutilation, Stone’s being left to die, wounded in a hundred places, and his last-second reprieve when he was rescued by a tribe of nearby Ute Indians. And then how he had set out to find April, his sister. He told them of the bikers he’d faced and killed, of the Dwarf, that hideous quadriplegic killer, the Mafia crime lords he’d taken on, the firestorm of Denver, the destruction of the Last Resort. Martin Stone sat there, looked them all right in the eyes and told them every wretched second of the hell he’d been through.

  “And that’s how I ended up heading toward the goddamned waterfall,” Stone finally finished his rap. Every face was glued to him, every set of eyes riveted to his. The tale of blood had gone on over half an hour, but not one had left, or even taken another bite of their now cold food.

  “Either you’re the biggest goddamned liar who ever walked the face of this planet,” the colonel who had asked him to speak said from across the plate and tray-covered table, “or you’re one tough, brave son-of-a-bitch. In either case let me shake your hand.”

  He stood up and reached across the table with a big hand and took Stone’s firmly. “I’m Colonel Edgely, they call me the Hawk, though never to my face, because I’m in charge of supplies and I watch them like one. But I’m a fair and honest man. And I think you’re one too. Besides, you’ve got the blood in you. Military blood. Your father, from what you say, was a fine fighting man. You’ve got to carry on his line. You’ve come to the right damned place. I’ll tell you that. There’s plenty of fighting to be done here.”

  Colonel Edgely sat back down with a thump as his large frame banged down onto the wooden chair. “Here, let me introduce you,” he said, pointing with his right hand around the table. “This is Major Terkins, in charge of training—I expect you might be seeing a lot of him. And here—Lieutenant Connors, our communications coordinator, and this—” The
colonel went all the way around the table, though Stone had forgotten the first name by the time they reached the second man. He nodded to each one, trying to force some sort of thin smile. He’d been out in the hell lands so long—where the faces were about as friendly as the muzzle of a loaded .45 and a smile could get you killed—that Stone had almost forgotten how to bend the mouth upwards at both ends into something approximating the proper expression. Now was as good a time as any to start practicing if he was going to work his way back into “polite” society. Some of them looked vaguely friendly, others not. None of them returned the smile. But he wasn’t going to worry about that. Since most of the folks he’d met recently had been trying to kill him, a few nasty looks felt like hugs and kisses.

  “But tell me,” Stone asked curiously, when the intros had been completed. “What kind of military operations do you men carry out? I mean, aside from looking like the D-Day invasion force.”

  “We’ve been fighting, son, fighting the bikers, the warlords and the crime organizations who’ve divided America up into a goddamned bloody pie, that’s what,” Colonel Edgely said, leaning forward and slapping his fist on the top of the table so that half the dishes and silverware did a little quick dance in the air and then slammed down again. “For two years now, the Third Army under General Patton III has been out kicking ass, trying to get things sorted out. At the beginning there were just a hundred of us—all that was left of army training exercises in the Utah mountains. But after the Third World Alliance and the European forces shut things down, and the president fled the capital, we all just stayed out there.

  “It was tough at first, but General Patton III isn’t like other men. He’s… a military genius; he kept it all together, gathered supplies and slowly built us up into what we are today—over a thousand men spread over three different states. Someday history will judge him to be one of the greatest generals of all time, a man whose name will be spoken in the same ranks of Napoleon, Caesar and his illustrious namesake General Patton, who kicked Nazi ass all the way back to the Berlin bunker.” Col. Edgely’s face grew redder and his eyes blinked open and closed like windshield wipers, so enthralled did he become with his own description. Stone couldn’t help but be impressed. The colonel, all of them, seemed to almost worship this general, ready to do anything for him.

  “Why, just this year, we’ve made three major search-and-destroy sweeps, taken out over five hundred mountain bandits, thugs, cannibals and all the other indefinable slime that’s out there. Slowly, slowly we’re clearing the way. And now General Patton is planning his boldest move of all—to wipe out the entire Mafia and Guardian of Hell operation in Colorado and Utah, to attack them at—”

  “Colonel Edgely,” Major Townsend, whom Stone somehow remembered from the introductions to be in charge of strategic planning, directly under the general, spoke up sharply. “May I remind you that what you are saying is top security information, and should not even be spoken of outside of the War Room!”

  Edgely looked like he was going to blow a gasket for a second and then thought better of it and let the air slide out between his teeth with a low whistling screech. “Of course, of course, you’re right, I forgot myself in the enthusiasm of the moment.” Edgely said, trying to look as if he wasn’t pissed off by the attack from a lower rank.

  “It’s okay,” Stone said, looking at the fat, doughlike face of the protesting major, his cheeks like a squirrel’s filled with nuts for the winter. “I’m not a spy, saboteur or a cannibal, I can promise you that. Setting yourself to go over one-hundred-foot waterfalls with about two seconds to spare is not exactly the ideal mode of operation for a well-trained spy. Or so I would imagine.”

  “Well, suffice it to say,” Colonel Edgely coughed, daring anyone else to say a word, “that under General Patton the New American Army will reclaim the U.S.A., return her to her days of pride and glory. We are the wave of the future, Martin Stone. We will win, make no mistake about it. We’ve got the equipment, and the know-how to do it. We are all strong, patriotic men, willing to give the rest of our lives to the task.”

  He looked around the table with a smirk as the hard faces of the hardest of men stared back. “I don’t care what any of these old bastards think,” Edgely said, knowing that his high rank and regard by General Patton (with whom Edgely had served all the way back to Vietnam) gave him a privileged status—a nearly invulnerable position—at least from those back stabbers trying to rise from the below.

  “You could join with us,” he said with an almost religious fervor, as he stared directly into Martin’s eyes with his own glowing orbs. “Rise with us as we fight the good fight. You’re a smart lad, and tough—if your story is the truth. You could rise to the top. All of us are old here. I’m seventy-eight, Colonel Barrow is in his late sixties. Most of us have been around too long, though none of the others here would admit it.” The rest of the officers looked down angrily. “We need fresh blood. Rather than keeping out men like you, we should encourage you to enter our ranks. You could well be the general of tomorrow, a senator of the new America. Whatever you want could be in your grasp. In ten years we’ll control America. And those men who know what they’re doing, men who can really think rather than just follow orders. Those men will rule, Stone, will create the new world. The question is: could you be one? Do you have what it really takes or are you just talking?”

  “I’m not sure if I want—” Stone began to protest, when waiters suddenly appeared from everywhere, handing out large steins.

  “Ah, beer time,” Colonel Edgely exclaimed, grabbing the froth-topped stein and holding it to his lips. “Drink up, Stone, it’s our own—brewed right here in one of the warehouses. Best damned beer in the West. Ain’t like the cow piss you buy at some of these backwater taverns.”

  Stone took his and gulped down a few swallows. It was good. With a home-brewed sour taste that was not at all unpleasant. After a few minutes some of the soldiers seated around the hall began singing. Patriotic songs. Songs of America’s past, and of her glorious future. They stood and swung their steins and sang their hearts out.

  “I think I’d better leave,” Stone said after about ten minutes, leaning over toward Nurse Williamson. The beer and the food had hit his still recovering nervous system like a ton of bricks. And he just wanted to get out into the cool night air. She rose and they walked down a side aisle past the singing, red-cheeked troops of the NAA. Stone couldn’t help but notice how young most of the men seemed. Hardly out of their teens, many of them. But they seemed decent enough people. Stone felt moved by the proceedings in spite of himself. He had always had a sharp distrust of the military, growing up under his father’s semi-tyrannical reign, yet these people all seemed basically good. It was hard for him not to be cynical about humanity after all that he’d seen. But if anyone really gave a shit, these guys had his vote for most likely candidates so far. Yet he felt oddly ill at ease about something. And he hadn’t the slightest idea what it was.

  “So how’d you like our staff, Mr. Stone?” Nurse Williamson asked as they walked out into cricket-cracked silence, as a cold mountain breeze raced down the central street and hit them both in the faces like ice water. Stone liked it, as it somehow woke him up from a stupor he had been starting to fall into. She shivered and edged subconsciously a little closer to him.

  “They seemed well-intentioned enough,” he replied, and then looked over at her with a quizzical expression. “Tell me, what exactly do you get out of all this. I mean, aside from the opportunity to help kill America’s enemies and all that?”

  “I get a place, Mr. Stone,” she said without breaking stride, without looking up. “I was… alone, to say the least. My mother and father were killed in a not very pleasant fashion which I won’t go into right now.” Her eyes began tearing up slightly, Stone could see from the little slivers of reflected moonlight that shimmered across her cheek. “And I was on my own. I hid mostly during the day in a cave I found and came out at night armed with a butche
r knife to rummage for food. I was attacked numerous times—barely survived. To tell you the truth, I was pretty much thinking of ending it all, of killing myself, and was just trying to think of a relatively painless way to do it—I could never stab myself. And then scouts from the NAA showed up. They could have killed me. I attacked two of them with the knife, thinking they were going to rape me again. But they disarmed me and after seeing I wasn’t a mental case or sick from radiation poisoning they brought me back to their camp. I’ve been here ever since—about eighteen months now. And I won’t ever go back out there—on my own. Not until it’s all changed. I can sleep in here. Without having nightmares. Can walk around without being half crouched over, holding a blade in my hand. It’s a life, Mr. Stone, a real life, where I have a roof over my head and food in my stomach and most of all where I have a purpose.”

  “I see,” Stone said softly. They all spoke so highly of the New American Army. Everything was wonderful. He just wished even one person would be vaguely critical. He was just a troublemaker—that was his problem.

  “Excaliber!” Stone suddenly exclaimed, stopping in his tracks. “I’ve got to—”

  “Where do you think we’re heading right now,” she answered, taking a left turn as they approached an intersection. Stone could hear the barking from a block away. The unmistakable sounds of a dog pound and, as they grew closer, the thick pungent smells of animals, a shitload of them. They entered one of the wide two-story warehouses that seemed to be the main building design for the entire camp and Stone stared around in amazement. The place was filled from top to bottom with cages, all loaded with dogs of one kind or another. Everything from Dobermans to Newfoundlands to German shepherds—most of them settling back down to sleep after some disturbance had riled the place up. The two handlers on duty were walking up and down the pens, calming them down.