Ever Onward

by Wayne Mee

  Jessie sighed. “And I suppose I’m one of the watchers?”

  Flame ruffled the boy’s long blond hair. “You’re too young to drink, Jess. Besides, someone’s got to look after Og.”

  The hound’s head lifted at the sound of its name.

  Cobb shrugged. With a trained team, his plan was the best. But this was far from a trained team. “Sounds good. Now, who goes where?”

  “Eddy and I go in first,”, Josh said. “You and Flame follow. Bobby goes round back with Jess.”

  They all nodded, checked their weapons and left the van. Jess, Og and Bobby went up the alley beside the bar. The other four crossed the street and made for the front door.

  “We’ll wait right outside for five minutes,”, Cobb said, “then come in quietly, one on each side of the door, backs to the wall. That is unless something goes wrong. Gunfire of you yell…”

  Eddy attempted a smile: ‘I don’t give a shit’. Josh likes that one.” He checked the loads on his sawed-off shotgun slung under his long coat, then adjusted the two revolvers he had on him. Flame moved up close to Josh. “Watch yourself, Lover. These are real mean bastards. You carrying enough firepower?”

  Josh touched her cheek, smiled and showed her Snake’s heavy Rugger .44 Super Redhawk stuck in his belt. That and the Berretta in his shoulder holster, a .32 in the small of his back and a snub-nosed .38 strapped to his ankle seemed more that enough. Then he and Eddy stepped through the door.

  The smell hit them first. Stale smoke, cheap liquor and unwashed bodies. Though bright outside, inside was dim and the room seemed to gather shadows. Above the bar a Colman lantern cast out its harsh light. The tables held guttering candles. Several people moved about, most of them half-naked girls. From a battery powered stereo The Stones cranked out ‘Satisfaction’.

  “What’ll it be, gents?”, a male voice asked. Josh saw a balding man grinning at them from behind the bar. A girl of about thirteen materialized at Eddy’s arm.

  “A bottle of Vodka and a quiet table,”, Josh replied.

  Benny’s eyes narrowed. “What’ve you got to trade?”

  “What’ll you take?”

  Benny pointed to a large, hand painted sign over the bar.

  TAKEN AS TRADE

  GUNS, DRUGS & PUSSY!!!

  GOLD, COINS & WHEELS

  ALSO ACCEPTED

  Absofuckinglootly

  NO PAPER MONEY

  NO CREDIT

  &

  NO ASSHOLES!

  “The girls might take jewelry,”, Benny grinned. “Diamonds and shit like that, but for booze I got to follow the sign.”

  Josh drew the Super Red Hawk and hefted it. Benny’s eyes widened at the sight of the mini-cannon. “Christ! For that you get a couple of bottles and a half dozen blow-jobs!”

  Josh shoved the long revolver back in his belt and took the .32 from the small of his back. The small five inch gun gleamed in the harsh light. “Let’s start with the bottle for now. I’ll let you know about the rest later.”

  “Sure thing,” Benny grinned, already thinking of what he could trade for the Red Hawk. Guns were fast becoming scarce, and a piece like that could buy a hell of a lot of jolt.

  “We’re looking for a friend of ours,” Josh said as Benny brought over the Vodka and two dirty glasses.

  “Ya? What’s his name?” The .32 vanished inside Benny’s pocket.

  “He’s a big guy,” Eddy put in, his grip tightening on the shotgun under his raincoat. “Wears a patch over one eye. You seen him around? Travels with a one armed fella.”

  Benny’s smile vanished quicker than the .32 had. He glanced quickly at Bruiser. The sitting mountain shuffled to his feet. “Maybe. Who wants to know?”

  Josh laid the heavy .44 on the table. “Like I said, an old friend. He likes guns. This one’s for him.”

  Benny made an effort to relax. He nearly made it. One Arm was bad enough, but Rambo made his skin crawl! “’Like’ ‘em? Rambo’ll come in his pants when he sees that beauty!”

  Josh smiled. “That’s Rambo alright. Loves his guns. Is he around?”

  Benny waved Bruiser back to his seat then pointed at a door at the far end of the bar. “But he aint in a good mood. Been drinking for two days straight. My boss, the one armed guy you mentioned, had some trouble down south a few days back.” Benny leaned down and dropped his voice. “Some farmers blasted the hell out of ‘em. The boss needs some new men. You two look like you can handle yourselves. You interested?”

  “Could be,” Josh said. “This boss of yours around?”

  Benny shook his head. “Naw. He took off yesterday. Be back in a couple of days. But Rambo’s here. I’ll tell him you want to see him.”

  Just then Cobb and Flame came in. Flame moved to the left, her green eyes sweeping the room, her Smith & Wesson drawn and ready. Cobb moved to the right. Bruiser rose up behind him like Goliath, his biceps rippling. As one meaty hand grabbed his right shoulder, Cobb pivoted and slammed the heavy barrel of the 12 gage Defender into the big man’s gut. Air whooshed out, along with saliva and a belch of bad breath. Apparently Bruiser was partial to sardines. Cobb swung the stockless shotgun up and in, catching Bruiser under his bulldog jaw and smacking his windpipe. He slid down the wall, his surprised face already turning purple.

  A girl started to scream. Flame moved forward, the hammer on her S&W clicking back. “Shut up, Bitch! On the floor.”

  The girl dropped like a stone. Others did the same. Benny was reaching under his apron for a snub-nose .38 when Josh shoved the Red Hawk in his ear. Benny froze and the room fell silent.

  “Now,” Josh said calmly, though his heart was pounding. “Let’s you and I go see our old friend Rambo together, shall we?”

  It was an offer Benny couldn’t refuse.

  While Cobb and Flame covered the room, Josh walked Benny towards the closed door. Eddy followed, his shotgun out and cocked.

  “Call out friendly like,” Josh whispered. “And make it good.”

  Benny licked his suddenly dry lips and sucked in air. “Hey, Rambo! Some guys out here want to see ya!”

  Nothing. Josh nodded and Benny called out again.

  “Who the fuck is it?”, a slurred voice replied beyond the door.

  “Friends of yours. One’s got a nice piece says you’ll like. It’s a real beauty!”

  “Ya?”, the voice said. “Where they from?”

  “Mount Hawthorn,” Josh said, his voice like a cold wind.

  The sound of a chair falling reached them. Then a clicking noise, very much like the slide of an M-16 being pulled back. “Hawthorn, eh? Well ‘come on down’!”

  Josh looked at Eddy, then at the doorknob. The ex-carpenter shook his head. Josh flicked his eyes at Benny, then back to the knob. Eddy smiled and slowly reached out his hand. As the door swung inward, Benny found himself standing in the opening. Automatic fire filled the room. Rambo had his weapon on continuous burst. Full Rock and Role. Holes sprouted in Benny’s stomach and chest, turning his dirty apron crimson. While Benny did the Dance of Death, Eddy thrust his shotgun past the standing corpse and let go with first one barrel, then the other.

  The sound was deafening, all the more so because it was followed by complete silence. Then came the sound of breaking glass. Josh yanked the dead bartender back and dove into the room, the Red Hawk spraying its heavy magnum loads. A mirror shattered. A hole you could put your fist through appeared in the far wall. A picture fell. Smoke and the smell of cordite hung in the air.

  Eddy came in, his Colt held in a two-handed grip. Flame was right behind him. Cobb still covered the girls and patrons sniffing the floorboards. Bruiser still lay gasping for breath.

  “Gone!”, Eddy growled. The word came out like a curse.

  Josh rushed toward the gaping window. It overlooked an alley. He was about to climb through when Eddy hauled him back. More automatic fire came, splintering the frame close to Josh’s head.

  Flame fired three shots into the alley, then three more. W
hile she was reloading, Josh was already half-way to the back door. Jess and Bobby his mind screamed! He was just stepping outside when he heard more shots. The boom of Bobby’s Python, mixed with the rat-a-tat-tat of the M-16. The sharp sound of his 30-30 cut through the rest.

  “Jessie! Jessie!”

  “Here, Dad!”

  Og ran up to him. Jess and Bobby followed. Bobby was holding his thigh.

  “He got away, Mr. Williams! We think we winged him; at least there was some blood --- but the bastard got away down the alley!”

  Josh hugged them both. “It’s alright. We’ll get him. Right now, let’s look at that leg.”

  Rambo, adrenaline pumping, crouched behind some crates and reversed the double-clip in his M-16. The pain in his shoulder hadn’t reached his booze-soaked brain yet, but even when it did, he could handle it. No pain, no fucking gain! And Rambo was an expert on pain. About the only thing he knew better was guns.

  He knew something else too; those goddamned farmers had followed him! Followed him all the way from their shitty little burg just to blow him away. 'Christ! Who would have thought a bunch of hicks would have the balls?!

  Something moved in the shadows. Rambo raised the M-16, a cold sneer on his scarred face. “Come on, come on,” he whispered.

  A cat walked out into the sunlight.

  “Fuck!”

  'Get a grip, asshole!'

  He crossed the alley to a side door and went in. His jeep was waiting, gassed up and ready to roll. In the back was the heavy trunk he’d lifted from the National Guard Barracks. As well as spare pistols and rifles, it held his

  H & K mini-cannon, a grenade launcher and several other assorted weapons of destruction.

  He grinned wolfishly as the motor roared at the first try. With the peddle to the metal, the garage doors splinted as he raced up the street. He knew exactly where he was going. On a farm several miles out of town a few military survivalist types had set up a commune. One Arm had the hots for one of the sluts living there. Though they didn’t much like city folk, they cautiously traded with One Arm and himself. Once there, he planned to pick up supplies and put as much distance between himself and Mount Hawthorn as he could get. If One Arm and anyone else wanted to tag along, okay. If not, he’s head west alone. In the past few days he’d had more than enough of freaked-out farmers coming after his ass.

  An hour later he was stopped at the first of several check-points. “Keep your hands where we can see them!”, a tall man in army fatigues ordered. Two others kept their assault rifles trained on him.

  “Christ, Dutch. You know me. I was just up here the other week with One Arm.”

  Dutch spit a wad of tobacco into the dirt and smiled. “Sure I know you, Rambo, but that don’t mean I like you. What do you want?”

  “To see One Arm.” Rambo was in no mood to chit-chat. Despite the uppers he’d dry-swallowed on the way up to the farm, the slug in the fleshy part of his left arm was giving him hell. But Dutch was a real hard-ass who liked jerking people around.

  “Why?”

  “That’s between me and him.”

  Dutch smiled, showing a row of tobacco stained dentures. His cold eyes went to the wound in the scarred man’s shoulder. “Ya? Well, you know the rules. Guns, ammo or canned goods to get in. Preferably ammo and preferably 9 mil.”

  Rambo frowned. “Want a blow-job too, or is Whitey there still doing you for free?”

  Whitey, one of the other two guards, tensed, his hand tightening on his weapon. He and Rambo had tangled once before, and since both were still breathing, neither one considered the matter settled.

  Dutch grinned, savoring the tension. “A box of shells will do for now. I’ll let you know about the other later.”

  “Sloppy seconds, eh? Not my bag.”

  “That’s not what I hear,” Dutch drawled. He spoke into a walkie-talkie, then motioned for Rambo to continue up the road.

  “Thank you fucking much,” Rambo growled, tossing Dutch a half empty box of shells, then grinding the jeep into first and shooting up a shower of dirt.

  “They WHAT?”, One Arm said, pushing the Dolly Parton clone away from him.

  Rambo felt like kicking the stupid cripple in the balls. Instead, he repeated what had happened, including his plans for heading west.

  “Goddamned farmers!”, One Arm swore. “Should have offed every mother’s son of them!”

  “We tried that,” Rambo snarled. “The crazy bastards are like hornets; the more you swat them the madder they get.”

  “So you’re running?”

  Rambo suppressed another urge; this time it involved One Arm’s balls and a rusty blade. “I’m planning a strategic withdrawal. Those bastards have already blown away our best men. What’s left round the bar aint worth shit. What about these pussies? Any want to throw in with us?”

  One Arm glanced at the peroxide blonde still lounging on the bed. Overlarge breasts strained against a undersized tank-top. Tight jeans and cowboy boots made up the rest of her attire --- along with a .38 Special in a clamshell shoulder harness.

  “Wanda, go get Straw.”

  Wanda stretched like a cat, then headed for the door. Half-way there she stopped. “Hank and Vinnie might want to join up. Marla and Carie too. Butch and his Nasty Nazis are becoming a drag. West sounds pretty good. Especially south-west. I’ve always wanted to see California.”

  “Now!”, One Arm growled.

  Wanda shot him the finger and left.

  Rambo reached for the bottle. “The bitch may have something there?”

  “What?”

  “California,”, Rambo replied, taking a long pull of Johnny Walker. “L.A’s a hell of a lot bigger than Plattsburg, and a fucking long way from Mount Hawthorn!”

  One Arm frowned, then grinned, holding out his glass for a refill. “One for the road, good buddy. One for the road.”

  Both men laughed.

  ‘THE KINGDOM OF FEAR’

  (Ten months A.C.)

  Chapter 37: ‘KING JOCCO’

  The Fortress (formerly U.C.L.A)

  Beverly Hills, California,

  May 7th 1-AC(First Year After Change)

  Jocco, resplendent in a silk robe the color of spilt blood, sat on the raised dais and gazed down at the line of officers like a hungry hawk. Gold sparkled on his fingers and from the jeweled circlet on his brow. The pearl handle of a Colt .45, strapped over an elaborately worked bullet-proof vest, showed through the open robe. His black hair, much longer now, was pulled straight back and held in place by a golden pin. The fashion had quickly caught on, though by royal decree, the officers’ pins must be silver and copper ones for the common soldiers. Gold was reserved for royalty.

  He raised his bejeweled hand and the large room fell silent. King Jocco the First was about to hold court. Everyone in the hallowed university hall, now dubbed ‘The Fortress’, knew their place --- or bloody-well better!

  In the ten months since The Change, Jocco had come a very long way; from leader of a few rag-tag survivors to the virtual ruler of his own little kingdom. A kingdom run on fear. The Army of the Dark Stranger now numbered in the hundreds. The small but growing towns and villages all around Southern California were forced to send him tribute. In return for this, King Jocco was supposed to protect his subjects from the numerous bands of thieves and robbers that roamed the vastly depopulated land.

  Sometimes he did and sometimes he didn’t. It was whispered that Jocco

  often took tribute from the thieves themselves and that, for the right price, an enterprising individual could buy a ‘Permit to Pillage’. None of this, however, was whispered very loudly, for to speak out against the King Jocco was to invite a rather long and lingering death.

  With the sudden demise of the modern world, the passing of such a flimsy thing as democracy quickly followed. Jocco had revived a much older and simpler way of doing things: the Feudal System. Fear of King Jocco and his army made the scattered population offer him their crops, their animals an
d their daughters. It had worked for thousands of years in the past, so why not in the glorious future?

  As Jocco’s power spread, however, collecting all this tribute became a nightmare. Distances to be covered, the transporting people, goods and animals, communities reluctance to pay, poor communications, the need for punitive reprisals against those tardy with their payment. The list of problems went on and on --- until Walter Pinkton, ‘retired’ Lieutenant of the United States Army, found the solution. It was, like the best of plans, very simple. His rather twisted brain came up with what he called ‘the Temples’.

  For a building to be considered for a ‘Temple’ something imposing was needed, something ‘regal’, for it was not just size of the structure --- any run down warehouse or aircraft hanger could provide ‘space’, but a Temple was a place where ‘pomp and circumstance could hold sway’. A ‘majestic’ place, with hand cut stone covered with centuries of ivy, with towering trees and sunlit courtyards, yet big enough to hold the ‘tribute’ being brought in at the contributor’s own expense.

  Though farmers, workers and craftsmen up and down the coast and scattered throughout the San Joaquin Valley might grumble at the amount they were forced to give or the distance they had to travel with the tribute, few found the actual ‘giving’ totally unpleasant. In a life reduced to daily drudgery, many even looked forward to it.

  Pinkton’s genius was that he found a way to turn the ‘giving’ into a pleasurable event. With ritual, costume, food and music, and a whole lot of booze, drugs and sex, ‘Going to the Temple’ became an event, and adventure, a milestone in their monotonous lives. While temple harlots spread themselves to receive the eager ‘donations’, tax priests sorted and tallied the goods already deposited at the door, sending the choicest tribute on to The Fortress, the former site of U.C.L.A.

  And little Walter Pinkton controlled it all. High Priest in charge of Tribute. He had even gotten Jocco permission to recruit and train a special unit of Tax Guards. Now, dressed in a robe only slightly less regal than Jocco’s, the ex-quartermaster stepped up to the dais and bowed.