Ever Onward

by Wayne Mee

  Later that same afternoon they happened upon a likely lad. Bruce ‘Rambo’ Chillis. Bruce was shooting empty beer cans outside a gun shop. He’d chug a brewsky, set it on the top of a nearby car, go back to the arsenal he had in the back of a new, red jeep, carefully choose a weapon, and blast away. Bruce, however, was either a lousy shot or the beers were taking their toll, for most of the cars on the street had their windows shattered and sported large holes in various parts of their anatomy. Still, a hell of a lot of Coors cans had also bit the dust.

  His marksmanship aside, Mr. Chillis looked the part of the recently late and certainly great movie-star whose name he had taken on. He was dressed in laced combat boots, camouflage pants held up by a belt from which hung a .45 automatic and a knife best described as a short sword. A black sleeveless shirt strained over bulging muscles and a red headband encased long, curly black hair. For one mad moment One Arm thought he was looking at the real thing. When the drunken soldier-of-fortune fired a burst from a semi-automatic rifle in their direction, he was even more sure of it. The bullets punched several holes in the pick-up’s radiator. Steam hissed out like the breath from an angry dragon.

  “Holy shit!”, The Kid, (soon to be christened Straw Hair by Rambo), half yelled, half squeaked. “That crazy fucker nearly killed us!”

  Slamming on the brakes, One Arm’s pock-marked face stretched into a predatory smile. His gold tooth gleamed. “Could have too, Shit Head. That ol’ boy missed us because he wanted to.”

  Getting out of the dying truck, One Arm prudently left the shotgun on the seat. “Stay here and shut up,” he growled at the Kid, then, flashing his golden smile, he approached the big man with the even bigger gun.

  “Getting in a little practice, I see. Mind some company?”

  The man’s eyes, and the barrel of the long gun, tracked his approach. Back in the cab, The Kid reached slowly for the shotgun.

  “They call me One Arm,” he continued, moving the stump that ended just above his left elbow. “The young asswipe in the cab I call The Kid.”

  Dark eyes danced from the speaker to the youth in the truck. The gun followed. “Tell him to show his hands or you can call him Dog Meat.”

  One Arm yelled over his shoulder. “Show your hands! And make sure they’re empty!”

  The KId thrust his hands through the open window like a demented faith healer.

  “Satisfied?”, One Arm asked.

  Rambo’s clone snatched a can of beer out of several cases piled on the curb and tossed it to One Arm. Catching it deftly, he flashed his gold tooth and used it to pull the tab. Warm suds foamed over his beard. “Tastes like warm piss, but it hits the spot.”

  The man joined him. “What’s with the woman?”

  One Arm glanced back at the truck. From where he stood he could only see a head matted with tangled brown hair. The rest of her was wrapped in an old car blanket. “Just a little distraction,” he said, winking slyly. “You interested?”

  The stranger didn’t bother to respond, so One Arm pressed on. “Me and The Kid were planning a little boat trip. Thought we’d pick out one of those big mothers down at the marina and chug over to Burlington. Maybe even cruise on down the lake. Hell, the fucker’s over a hundred miles long! The three of us could make a party out of it! What do you say?”

  The man shrugged and nodded at the truck. “She coming along?”

  One Arm’s grin widened. The key to getting this walking weapons factory on his side had just dropped into his hand. “If you want, though we’ll probably pick up a dozen better than her as we cruise around.”

  “Aint interested.”

  One Arm’s patience was starting to wear a tad thin with this fucker. Laconic was not a word One Arm was familiar with, but he sure as hell knew a stuck-up, mightier than thou attitude when he saw one. A sudden urge to shove a knife into this tight lipped bastard flooded through him. His good hand even started for the Boot Knife he kept strapped to his left ankle. ‘I’ll cut this wise-ass dog turd a new smile from ear to ear!’, he thought.

  Then he felt a slight nudge in his stomach. Looking down he saw that the tip of the man’s long knife was already lost inside the folds of his shirt. The serrated fangs along the top spine looked like giant fish hooks. A flick of the wrist and One Arm’s steaming guts would spill out all over the ground.

  “Well, are you going to do it or not?”, One Arm managed to say. To give him his due, there was only a hint of tremor in his voice.

  The man held his gaze for several heartbeats, then smiled. The mini sword seemed to have magically returned to its scabbard. “You might be shy an arm, but you aint missing any balls. I like that. How about another beer?”

  One Arm willed his hand not to shake. Something told him that he’d just come a whole lot closer to dying than he had in all his wayward years put together.

  The stranger waved a beer in The Kid’s direction. “ Hey Straw Hair? Want a brew?” The Kid was out of the cab like a shot. It seemed he’s gained a new name as well as a new friend.

  After they’d downed a few more Coor’s, the Rambo look-alike had Straw set the empties up on a smashed Toyota across the street. When Straw returned, the quiet stranger handed the youth a .45 and nodded at the cans. Straw, looking like the kid with a new toy, grinned from ear to ear. Three shots later the cans still sat atop the Toyota, only now the car was minus a side window and sitting on a flat. The .45 was passed on to One Arm, who at least hit a couple of cans before returning the empty pistol.

  “Your turn, Mister Rambo,” Straw grinned. The half dozen beers he’d downed were starting to give him a pleasant little buz.

  The man spit, then walked over to his jeep. When he returned, he was carrying a stubby little cannon that made Straw think of what one of his heroes, Arnold Swatzinager, had used in Terminator II. The bandoleer of elephant size enemas slung over his shoulder completed the picture. The stranger snapped open the short cannon and inserted one of the large shells. He then raised and fired in one fluid motion. A second later the Toyota blew up --- literally. The car seemed to leap into the air, do a half gainer, then flopped down on its roof, flames and black smoke pouring out the shattered windows.

  “Ho-leee-fuck!”, Straw beamed, slapping his thigh like a rube at a barn dance. “You ARE Rambo!”

  The man’s stern face creased into a sly smile as his hard eyes washed hungrily over the excited youth.

  One Arm knew that look. During his little sabbatical up in the Utica pen he’d seen it aplenty. Some of the toughest, meanest cons would get that look in their eye whenever a new, young prisoner came in. ‘Fresh meat’ they called them. They didn’t, however, stay fresh for long.

  Content that he had at last found the key he needed to control this walking cannon, One Arm belched and reached for another Coor’s, his gold tooth aglow in the Toyota’s flames.

  Now, a month after meeting Straw and Rambo, One Arm’s nasty little group had more than tripled. The 35 foot yacht he’d liberated from Plattsburg Marina was now crewed by six full-blown psychos, led by a greasy haired man missing one quarter of his limbs and four quarters of his conscience. The Dirty Half-Dozen he laughingly dubbed them. A carefree bunch of good ol’ boys, each and every mother’s son of them loaded for bear and, just like the song said, ‘looking for love in all the wrong places’.

  Now and then they take on an extra crew member. Gleaned from hamlets scattered about the meandering shore of Lake Champlain, these shell-shocked survivors would gladly join the motley crew. Men and women alike, but since this was far from the Good Ship Lollipop, few lasted more than a couple of days. There’d be a quarrel over a bottle or a woman, (as One Arm had promised, there were always plenty of women), and then someone would die. A bullet in the head or a knife in the back was a simple way of solving social problems.

  Besides, One Arm was more than a tad superstitious, and seven was his lucky number. The number of women on board didn’t seem to count one way or the other.

  “Hey, Boss! Loo
ks like we got another live one!”

  Straw Hair, standing on the bow of the 35 foot yacht, pointed at the old pick-up pacing them on the road running alongside the lake.

  From the large seat atop the yacht’s wheelhouse, One Arm sat up. Pushing Cindy-Lou or Betty-Sue or whatever the fuck her name was off him, he squinted into the westering sunlight. Sure enough, he saw an old green pick-up slowly driving along the shore road.

  “Hand me the glasses, Bitch!”, he growled.

  Cindy-Lou/Betty-Sue hastened to obey. In the week she’d been aboard the good ship Sadistic, she’d learned to move her ass in more ways than one. Either that or Captain Stump, (that’s what most the girls called One Arm behind his back), or worse, that walking piece of dog shit, Rambo, would decide a little ‘correction’ was in order. Both were pretty liberal when it came to handing out ‘correction’.

  Through the powerful binoculars One Arm saw that the driver was a big man in his late fifties or early sixties. An old hat hid most of his features, but by the way he was casually hanging his arm out the window, it looked like he wasn’t too scared.

  “I’ll soon fix that!’, One Arm said to himself. Pulling the stubby .38 out of the clamshell holster clipped to his belt, Captain Stump fired four shots at the old truck. Laughing, he watched the truck speed off down the road.

  Doug Shellings stuck his long, thin body out the wheelhouse window and looked around for a body. Peter Welter looked up from his game of Solitaire, scratched his thinning hair and then went back to cheating himself out a red queen. Sitting in the head, ‘Weasel’ Weasilski continued drooling over an old Playboy’s centerfold. Too preoccupied with shooting his own load, Weasel never even heard One Arm’s little impromptu target practice.

  Several of the women began clucking away, wondering who was dead and glad that it wasn’t one of them.

  Rambo, however, knew exactly what had happened. He was on his bunk, absorbed in cleaning one of his numerous guns

  when he heard the four distinctive little ‘pops’. One Arm got his rocks off shooting at strangers.

  ‘Asshole’, he said to himself. This sentiment was not brought on by any humanitarian reasons, rather it was because of One Arm’s poor choice of weapons. In Rambo’s view, the only thing a Snub Nosed .38 was good for was giving someone an enema.

  “Look at the old bugger go!”, One Arm laughed.

  Cindy-Lou/Peggy-Sue smiled sweetly. She was scared shitless not to.

  “The crazy old fart probably won’t stop till he runs out of gas!”, One Arm grinned, reaching out and pulling the girl to him. The .38 felt like a jagged piece of ice on her bare back.

  Cindy grinned, preying the one armed maniac wouldn’t decide on a target more closer to home. She need not have worried, for the captain’s gaze was on the cluster of buildings still more than a mile away.

  “Hey, Straw! What’s that little shit-burg up ahead?”

  Straw pulled a nautical map out of his open shirt. After a moment he called up. “Some town called Crown Point. Says there’s a ‘historical fort’ there. Someplace called Mount Hawthorn is right behind it. Map says there’s a large park there. A ‘wildlife sanctuary’.” Straw prided himself on being able to read the charts and keep them off the sandbars. So far they’d only run aground twice.

  “’Wildlife’?”, One Arm repeated, giving Cindy’s bare ass a little squeeze. “That’s the way we like it, eh Bitch?”

  Cindy looked up and smiled, secretly wishing she had the Clap, just so she could give this limp-dicked bastard a double dose.

  One Arm banged on the railing. Doug Shellings long, thin head appeared out the window below him. “What’s up, Boss?”

  “My dick up her ass!”, One Arm grinned. “But while I’m ramming home the beef, point this tug toward that town up ahead. We’re going to have us a real ‘wild time’ tonight!”

  Deadly Doug grinned and vanished back inside. A moment later the large diesel engine revved up a few notches and the good ship Sadistic began to surge forward. From five knots to ten. Its top speed was twenty, but full out the bitch gobbled fuel faster that a whore gobbled sailors on shore leave. They’d filled up back at Port Henry, but already the fucking tanks were just a little under half. Deadly Doug smiled to himself. No worries, mate. The town up ahead looked like it had everything they needed.

  Willard Spinner was pissed off. It took a lot to get the big farmer riled, but the assholes shooting at him from that fancy boat had done it. Willard now had the old Ford’s peddle to the metal and was ripping down the Lake Road at a speed somewhere close to Warp I. (The speedometer hadn’t worked for years, but, just like Willard himself, the old gal had a lot of get up and go left in her yet!)

  Sadat, the little Turk sitting beside him, wasn’t pissed off. Sadat was scared shitless. A slug from One Arm’s .38 had passed through one open window and out the other, taking the little Turk’s straw hat with it. Looking over at the small foreigner, Willard noticed that Sadat’s usual dark, swarthy complexion had lightened up considerably. Another few shades lighter, he noted, and the little sheep farmer might even pass for a ‘real American’. Willard also noted that if the bullet had been a few shades lower, Sadat would now be dead. He liked the little man, and the thought of seeing his Turkish brains splattered all over his cab made him even more pissed off.

  Over the past month quite a few strangers had passed through Crown Point. They’d come in ones and twos, looking lost both in mind as well as body. Most didn’t stay and that was just fine with him. It seemed to Willard that of the few people left after IT happened, the vast majority weren’t worth a bucket of pig slop. Not like the folks back at Hawthorn. No sir-ee!

  Still, some were decent enough folks, and most of those had gladly stayed on when Doc asked them; like Jim Shell and his wife, Marcy. Oh, everyone knew that she wasn’t really his wife, but that didn’t seem to matter much anymore. Then there was Fred Perkins, plump Thelma Wiggs, Tom Leeson, and the two young women, Betty Sinclair and Jenny Hiller. Even the dark little Turk, Sadat Something-or-other was okay, though Willard hadn’t trusted him at first. The swarthy little ex taxi driver was too foreign for Willard’s tastes. Christ! He wasn’t even a Christian! But after the little fellow had willingly pitched right in when Willard’s best mare was having a breach birth, the big farmer’s somewhat narrow views had widened considerably.

  He and Sadat had been on their way into Crown Point for more feed for the horses when they first saw the boat. Looking out over the two miles of sparkling water, Willard had been surprised to see a large, white boat cruising down the lake about 100 yards off shore. A ‘yawt’ the city-folk called them. Willard didn’t know much about ‘yawts’, except they always looked sort of sissified to him. Plus they cost a hell of a lot of money. A boat for him was something you could go fishing in and not worry about spilt beer or fish guts. He’d slowed down to take a better look. Then the shooting had started.

  “Smart-assed, yawt-driving city-folk!”, he cursed as he swerved around a sharp curve. “I’ll show ‘em to fool around with honest, hard working folk!” Suddenly it came to him just how he was going to do it. Willard glanced over at Sadat sitting wide-eyed in the passenger seat, then up at the gun rack behind him.

  Willard had always loved firearms. Ever since his daddy had given him his grandfather’s 410 Poacher’s Gun he’d loved them. Not handguns though. Handguns were meant for only one thing --- killing other humans, and Willard had no truck with that shit. But longuns now, they were something else. Not counting old Earl Handcock, Willard had one of the biggest collection in upstate New York.

  His old 12 gage was in the rack, along with the new long rifle he’d picked up a few weeks ago up at Ben’s Ammo in Chimney Point. It was a 444 Marlin, one of the most powerful long bore rifles made. Fitted with a good scope and a maximum load, just a few days ago he’d brought down a deer from just over 300 yards. 317 yards to be exact. He’d proudly paced them out on his way to collect the fresh meat for the Family.

&nb
sp; Looking up at the 444 Marlin, Willard knew exactly how he was going to pay back them trigger-happy ‘yawt-fellas’

  Chapter 26: ‘AN AFFAIR OF HONOUR’

  Lake Champlain

  New York August 5

  A good quarter mile outside of Crown Point, a rocky, pine covered finger of land thrust itself a hundred yards out into Lake Champlain. Willard brought the pick-up to a screeching halt and shut off the motor.

  “Why are we stopping here, Willard?”, Sadat asked. “Are they still shooting at us?” The little man’s eyes were wider than ever.

  Willard grinned, reached up and handed his daddy’s old double barrel to his new friend. Sadat took it as though it was hot.

  “No, but we’re going to do some shooting at them. Come on, Saddy, get that low slung ass of yours in gear!”

  Of the fourteen people now living in Mt. Hawthorn, (not counting the still absent Josh Williams and his roving band of adventurers), twelve of them now lived up in the Park. Doc Gruber’s place had gotten too small to hold all the newcomers, and there were several large old houses up there, each one equipped with fireplaces, iron stoves, gardens, barns and woodsheds. Each was located on a vast, rolling estate bordering the two central lakes. The lakes were stocked with bass and trout. A river, complete with waterfall and functioning grist mill, connected the two lakes. The Shire, Doc had called it, after the home of some funny little fellows in a famous book he’d once read. To Willard the Mount Hawthorn Nature Reserve would always be just ‘The Park’. Whatever its name, the dozen survivors had taken it over, setting up their own little community. Willard’s farm bordered on it. Sadat had chosen to stay with him. The little Turk had said it was because he liked being close to the animals. It reminded him of when he was a boy in Turkey. After the business with the mare and her colt, Willard hadn’t minded a bit.