by Ts Alan
After retrieving a chair and J.D.’s backpack, Peter held his daughter’s hand as J.D. gave her a cursory exam. Victoria was remarkably physically sound, considering the physical abuse she had endured—though he could not render a diagnosis on her mental welfare. With no apparent broken bones or lacerations—though recent bruising was evident—Peter, aided by his daughter, put his attention to Edward Stone. After dragging Stone from the armory across the compound and to the fencing, Peter retrieved a ladder and long rope from the armory, tied the double-braid nylon cord around Stone’s chest and under his arms, stood atop the ladder and looped the free end over the top parallel pole of the chain link fencing, and then pulled it back to where J.D. was seated. It took both them to hoist Stone into place, though J.D. barely felt like he had helped. Sitting in his chair with bleeding legs, struggling to pull back on the rope, he had been the anchor as Peter prepped Stone for a crucifixion.
After lifting the now naked Stone onto the fencing, but unable to raise him so that his feet were off the street, Peter lashed the child molester meticulously to the perimeter fence with heavy cable ties and rope, directly across from and facing the armory entry—Peter Shumacher, Jr. and Richard Barlow had been hung on opposite entry gates, bodies facing toward the street, as a warning. Peter then began a few body modifications.
When the deed had been done, and Peter satisfied with his work, he stood with his daughter by his side, and stared at his mutilated enemy, enjoying the moment. Except Peter’s minute of triumph, of satisfaction, was disrupted by his daughter’s abrupt outbreak of sobbing again. In her father’s arms she let loose the months of pain and suffering she endured, the perverse sexual cruelty and sadistic torture that Stone took great pleasure in dispensing.
Then through broken cries, as she held her father tight, Victoria revealed the fate of the other captives. A fate that both he and J.D. believed had been cruel death. Through mutterings, both out of exaltation of being with her father again and emotional distress over her long ordeal, she told him that, only a few blocks away, there was a van.
With pistol in one hand, his daughter holding the other, Victoria led Peter to where the vehicle was parked. Seeing the waiting windowless, full-body cargo van perhaps 15 feet from the intersection, Peter made his move. Bold and angry, Peter approached the two men standing outside the vehicle in full view with pistols drawn. Before Stone’s men had a chance to raise their weapons he shot both of them twice in the chest. The driver’s door burst open, Billy Miller moved to exit, but Peter was upon him before he could exit. Peter Dunne unleashed his fury in a hail of gunfire. Blood spattered on the interior of the van’s cab, sending a crimson coating onto the windshield and driver’s door. The scraggly blond haired man slid out of the vehicle, but Peter’s anger had not been quenched. He finished off the ammunition magazine into Miller’s head.
At first, in his blind fury, he had been deaf to the screams and cries of the children who were locked behind the cab’s heavy metal mesh partition. As his rage subsided the cries of the children became clear. They were locked in the cargo area. Peter climbed into the vehicle and removed the keys from the ignition. He attempted to unlock the dividing wall, but there was no key on the ring that would unlock it. He quickly exited and went to the back door. The only windows on the van, with exception of those found on the front of the vehicle, were on the rear swing out doors. However, the windows were barred with the same mesh as the partition and the doors were also secured with a heavy padlock. The side cargo door had also been secured.
Victoria had waited, crouched and hidden in a doorway near the intersection. When the gunfire had stopped, she waited a moment before she emerged from her hiding place to see if her father was safe. Peering around the corner she saw Peter moving to the back of the van. As she approached she called out to him, “Poppa. Poppa. I’m sorry, he has them. He always has them. He’s the only one,” she cried.
Peter understood. Stone had the keys with him. They must be in his clothing that had been stripped from him. They hurried back to the armory.
Out of twenty-three children—boys, girls, and young women—only eleven had survived. Peter’s daughter told them the others had been killed for disobeying him or being used up; this was what Stone had told her.
8
Operation Spoiled Brat
J.D. sat in a chair on the street facing the compound fence. He cut open his left pant leg with his survival knife and then jabbed a syringe into his upper left leg in several different places. He grimaced in pain. He poured isopropyl alcohol over his wounds, and as he did, he let out a howl of pain from the overwhelming burn of the astringent. The local anesthetic hadn’t taken effect. His self-operation was about to begin, anyway.
Though J.D. had the ability to heal quickly, however his cellular regeneration would not happen unless the bullets were extracted. He would have normally slit the three wounds open with a scalpel, and then taken a pair of Kelly forceps and removed the slugs. Except today, he was without surgical instruments. Instead, he took his knife to make the incisions, and then used the talons of his index finger and thumb of his right hand to dig deeply into the bleeding hole and pull out the first bullet.
Only two slugs had to be removed from his left leg. One gunshot wound had exited out the back of his leg. After applying the brown rusty-red colored topical antiseptic solution Betadine as an antibacterial, he gauzed and wrapped his leg, securing the bandaging with camouflage cohesive wrap. He then removed the bullet from his right leg, another painful procedure.
Richard Stone began to wake. J.D. looked up at the bloodied, naked man. Stone muttered, but words failed him. Two fleshy, bloody globs fell from his mouth.
“Now that was truly disgusting,” J.D. commented. “By the way… those were your balls.”
Stone tried to look down to his groin, but his head had been secured to the fence by razor wire. The fine, near surgical sharp metal strips sliced into the thin flesh of his forehead. Terror and panic seized him. His eyes lit with fear. He was bound to the fence; arms extended and feet together. He wanted to know if he had been castrated. Were his precious testicles truly laying in a lumpy mess upon the street?
As Stone struggled with the realization of his situation, J.D. continued. “I know Stone, you’re dazed, confused. Wait til the pain sets in—another five/ten minutes, perhaps—when the morphine wears off.”
Stone tried to speak, but his tongue and mouth failed him.
“You must have a lot of questions. Like why the lack of speech? Let me explain… No, there’s way too much. Let me sum up… You were about to slit Victoria’s throat. You thought I couldn’t stop you… but as I once told you, you’re pretty stupid if you think there’s no one watching my back… He’s a short guy, a lot of tattoos, you cut out his tongue, made him watch while you sodomized his daughter,” J.D. reminded Stone. “He had my back. You see not only did you scar him physically, but you also scarred his soul. You took that from him what he cherished most, all that he had left in the world—and destroyed it. I promised him that he would have his revenge.”
J.D. pulled out a bottle of Bushmills Malt 16 Year Old Irish whiskey. It had been in the backpack that Peter had retrieved from the armory. David had given the liquor to J.D. as a belated birthday gift, just before departing for Mechanicville.
“It’s a shame,” J.D. told Stone, “Such a fine whiskey as this, and I can’t even get a buzz from it. An unfortunate side effect of my mutation. Well at least I can still enjoy the flavor.”
J.D. suddenly slumped into momentary unconsciousness.
“Seems I’m a rude host,” J.D. said, as he awoke, and then tore open a bag of beef jerky that David had also gifted to him. “Another side effect,” he said, as he spoke with his mouth full. “Higher metabolism demands constant nourishment. So where was I? Yes. Victoria. Your balls… Strange about Victoria,” he spoke, wiping his mouth. “You’d think after all she’s been through sh
e’d be so traumatized she’d be a shell—quite the opposite. You see Victoria was the one who requested your privates be removed, though she wanted your cock cut off and shoved up your ass. That was until I explained that cutting off your cock would cause you to bleed out too quickly. I couldn’t have that. Balls in your mouth was her alternative. She’s got some issues. But don’t we all?”
J.D. grimaced in pain.
“Strange about pain and me, it makes things so much clearer. I thought it didn’t matter if I lived or died, as long as I took you out, except it does.”
J.D. looked at his watch. Time was running out. “Shit. Gotta speed this up.” J.D. continued. “Not enough room in the Humvee for me and all the children.”
Stone’s eyes lit up with hate, he squirmed trying to get free.
J.D. took another swallow of whiskey.
“Oh, did I forget? Yes, we found them. They’re gone. Far away.”
There were two other reasons why Peter took the children and fled, and Stone was about to find out.
“Time’s running out, Stone, for both of us. So, I should finish.”
Stone kept squirming, trying to speak, but only making gurgling noises.
“Having difficulty speaking?” J.D. picked up a fleshy lump that had been resting between his legs and beheld a tongue. He held it up momentarily, skewed upon one of his talons, long enough for Stone to comprehend, and then J.D. casually discarded the discolored mass to the pavement like a used tissue.
“Just fuckin’ with ya. It’s Barlow’s,” J.D. said with a grin. “You’ve been injected with a mega dose of Procaine. Peter wanted your tongue but I said I have a better use for it. As for your missing eyelids… Well, I wanted to make sure the last thing you would see in this life is the last thing you’ll never have—the armory.”
Stone struggled again. Anger welled up in his lidless eyes, hot with the heat of hatred.
“There is no good way to kill you,” J.D. spoke again. “No torture that would be long enough to equal the pain and suffering you have inflicted on so many. All the lives you have destroyed. However, I swore I would find you and make you suffer, even if it meant my own life. Can you feel the drugs wearing off, the pain welling up in what’s left of your nut sack? By the way, you see that crown of razor wire upon your head? That was my idea. Hail to the king!”
J.D. looked at his watch again, and then gulped down the last of the caramel colored liquid. He lobbed the empty bottle at his adversary. It struck Stone squarely in the chest. Stone winced. “C’mon, bitch, start screaming. We’re running out of time.”
The pain began to return to J.D.’s legs. He pulled out a vial of morphine and a hypodermic syringe from his backpack, prepped it and then injected himself in the thigh of his less wounded leg. He paused, looked up into the clear late summer sky, and waited to feel its effects. He knew that injecting deeply into his skin, it would take five minutes for it to take effect.
When the morphine began to relieve the pain, J.D. rose from his seat and hobbled to Stone, and looked him in the face. “I wanted to make sure you never hurt another child again. I wanted to make sure you got a royal ass-fucking. So, I made an arrangement in case I failed.”
***
“I’ll grant you anything you ask for—as long as it’s something I’m willing to give.” Kermit had told J.D.
What J.D. had asked for, though, was not in Kermit’s power to grant. It was something only his superiors could carry out.
“And if they agree, how will they know you got out?”
“They won’t.”
Kermit shook his head in disagreement. “I don’t like it. There’s no margin for error.”
“If I’m not out by then, then I’m already dead. And it won’t matter, will it? But I will not allow that murderous pedophile to have free reign over this city or any other. If I fail then that’s what will happen. The children are lost, gone. At least let the grieving families have the consolation of knowing that sick fuck got it in the end.”
Kermit could not argue with J.D.’s statement. No one, even with the smallest of moral conscience, would want to allow such evil to continue.
***
“However, that’s not even the best part,” J.D. told Stone. “I lived. And there’s still time! Now how’s that mouth of yours?” J.D. grabbed Stone’s face with his hand and gave it a hard squeeze, digging his talons into the man’s cheeks. Stone let out a whine of pain. “Not quite there yet,” J.D. commented.
Stone began to whimper and cry. He realized that he was not going to be able get free.
“Oh, no, no, no. Don’t cry,” J.D. told him, and then damped away Stone’s blood accented tears with his shirtsleeve. “It’ll be over soon, when our guests arrive. Well, not too soon I hope for you.” J.D. looked at his watch again. “Plan B,” he announced, and then hobbled back toward his chair. As he did he asked, “Ever come across any of those day mutants? You know the ones who always seem to be attracted by loud noises?”
J.D. retrieved four stun grenades from his backpack, and then turned back to the restrained man. Stone saw the grenades. His face lit with fear and panic.
“Eyes closed, cover your ears,” J.D. said to him. “Oops, sorry. I forgot,” he sardonically apologized.
One at a time J.D. tossed the grenades toward his foe. One at a time they released a bright flash, but more importantly a loud invitation.
J.D. moved onto the first landing of the armory entry, just under the portico. He didn’t have to wait long for a response to his invite. From the ajar south gate came Four Fingers and his mutants. They moved cautiously into the compound. They saw the panic stricken man strapped to the fence. The group wanted to move quickly to the free meal, but Four Fingers was hesitant, he held his followers back. With suspicion he looked to his foe, who stood at the armory’s entry, and then pointed an index finger at him.
J.D. goaded him. “Yeah, here’s one for you, too,” he told Four Fingers, as he flipped him the bird. “You want a piece of me? You want a piece of J.D. Nichols?!” he shouted at Four Fingers. “Well, here I am! What are you waiting for?” J.D. let out a piercing screech. However this time Four Finger’s and his half-mutes didn’t seem to be too intimidated.
Four Fingers returned a shrill, angry cry, and then waved to his followers. They beset upon Stone, ripping the flesh from his bones so fast that the man never screamed out.
“That was a total disappointment,” J.D. said as he watched them quickly butcher the restrained quarry.
When the group was finished with shredding Stone, Four Fingers called to them like he was giving an order, motioning his hand to the exit. The mutant minions began to depart.
“Hey, Four Fingers, that’s it?” J.D. taunted, hoping to provoke the half-mute leader. “C’mon. All these months of stalking me, trying to kill me every chance you could find. Now here I am all alone and you pussy out?” However, Four Fingers ignored him, as he fell in behind the last of his group.
Nonetheless, J.D. refused to let it go. The creature had brutally murdered Ann-Marie as an act of revenge for something that had to do with a heart-shaped pendant. The pendant that Four Fingers had displayed to J.D. after the Chinatown attack, and the one that he had discovered stuffed into the mouth of Ann-Marie’s severed skull.
J.D. threw the pendant at Four Fingers. It hit the leader in the back of the head. Four Fingers looked down to the jewelry and then picked it up. He let out a piercing cry, and then turned back to J.D.
J.D. could see the hate and anger in his eyes. He had definitely gotten Four Fingers’ attention.
“That’s it,” J.D. said, as the half-mute leader moved toward him. “I’m the man. J.D. Nichols. The one who did whatever it was to piss you off.” J.D. was anxious, adrenalin pumping as he slowly backed up the last set of stairs as Four Fingers made his way up toward the portico. “That’s right. C’mon,” J.D. shouted,
trying to bait him so he would follow him into the armory.
As Four Fingers crossed under the portico and to the first step of the second set of stairs he stopped. He paused momentarily to probe the dim lit entry to where his foe had disappeared. Four Fingers cried out, and then turned and fled.
J.D. emerged from the armory, kukris in hand. The mutant did not fall for J.D.’s trap. The creature was much more intelligent than he had anticipated. The adrenalin and morphine began to wear off, and the burning pain came again to J.D.’s wounds. J.D. took a step and his legs faltered. He tried to stand but he couldn’t. He needed more morphine. He grabbed his pant leg for more, but the pocket was empty. He looked out to the compound to where he had been seated. His backpack was still by the chair. The morphine was in the backpack. He looked at his watch. His countdown timer read, 33 – 32 – 31 – 30….
“Buddha’s balls,” he muttered. He was out of time.
9
The Future is Unwritten
“The life of J.D. Nichols is an extraordinary one,” David spoke aloud to the crowd, from behind a lectern at center stage. “One of dedication, loyalty, love, humor, and above all—friendship. Except try as I may I cannot find the words to honor him, to do justice to his life. Luckily, I had help. Today, on this our first anniversary, let us not only honor those who gave their lives in our service but also honor those men and women amongst us that made it possible for us to be here today. The following are the names of those men and women who did not die in the line of service, but are alive today, because of John David Nichols’ extraordinary courage, uncommon valor, steadfast devotion to duty, unrelenting perseverance, and unselfish acts of bravery…
Colonel James Alexander, Lieutenant Colonel Ryan Duncan, Chief Warrant Officer Five Kermit Brown, Chief Warrant Officer Four Peter Dunne, Chief Warrant Officer Two Paul Wiese, Sergeant Major John Lott, Master Sergeant Katie O’Hanlon, Staff Sergeant Liz Hudson, Staff Sergeant Jonas McGann, Sergeant Stephen Drukker, Sergeant Taylor Hanson, Sergeant Michael Panton, Corporal Christina Custode, Corporal Oneil Andrews, Corporal Kenneth Feldman, Private Brian Mann, Private Tupper Thomas, Private Peter C. Brown, Private Jamie Conlan, Private Brian Dye, Private Keith Crawford, Private Jason O’Rourke, Julie Chen, Marisol De La Garza, Barkley, Maxamillian Nichols, canine extraordinaire—and myself, Sergeant First Class David DiMinni.