by Wayne Mee
A young private led him over the university grounds to the marble steps of the faculty building. Two more guards checked his pass, frisked him once more and showed him through the massive doors. A female orderly led him to the main hall, announced him, then left. He’d never been to one of Jocco’s little shin-digs, but he’d heard the rumors. Now he saw first hand that what he’d heard was true. King Jocco the First was a real party-animal.
A long table, littered with the remains of a meal, dominated one end of the room. Despite the warm night, the fireplace was blazing. Generators had been hooked up to run the lights. Rock music blasted. Several people, all semi-dressed and completely whacked, danced around. A dozen other people just lounged about. All were laughing and drinking and doing dope. One couple was humping away under the table.
Then a man with wild hair and wilder eyes was beside him. A long bayonet in a gilded scabbard hung from his camouflage webbing. He’d seen Pussbag before, but only from a distance. Up close he was even more off the wall than he’d thought.
“Come. He’s waiting.”
Scar followed the weird looking man down to the far end of the room. Dancers, drinkers and naked women parted before them like Moses doing his thing at the Red Sea. Even the noise seemed to fade away.
And there, on the far shore, sat Jocco.
Scar held the other man’s gaze for what seemed like an eternity. It wouldn’t do to show any weakness here.
“Should I kneel, kiss your ring or what?”
Pussbag, standing beside the throne, stiffened. Jocco’s wolf-gray eyes never flinched. “What do you want to do?” The voice was as cold as the eyes, yet strangely soft.
Scar looked around. “Have a beer.”
Jocco nodded to an aid, then turned back. “How did you get those scars?”
“A hunting accident.”
“And the eye?”
“Same way.”
“I’m told you were a military man. What was your rank?”
“Drill sergeant, Fort Bragg.”
“Were you any good?”
Scar shrugged. “I work for Lord Walter now. Ask him.”
Jocco leaned forward. “I’m asking you.”
“Ya, I was good. Still am.”
“And these tax guards you command, are they up to your high standards?”
Scar glanced at Jocco’s officers before responding. “As good as anything you’ve got.”
“Really?” Jocco motioned for Roy Heller to join them. “You know Major Heller?”
The scarred man shook his head. “I’ve heard of him”.
Jocco’s eyebrow shot up. “And just what have you heard?”
Something that might once have been a smile crossed his scarred features. It was not a pretty sight. “That his troop kicked a lot of ass during the draught down south.”
Jocco sat back, looking the one-eyed man up and down. “Major Heller and his men are going on another little mission for me. They’re objective is to find a rebels camp and eliminate it. I was thinking of sending some of Lord Walter’s tax guards along. Interested?”
The beer arrived and Scar took a sip. “That depends. What’s in it for me?”
Jocco leaned back, ready to set the hook. “The usual. Fame and fortune.”
Scar grunted. “Shit, fame is for assholes. As for money, Lord Walter already pays me more than I can spend.”
Taken back, Jocco frowned. “A man of few appetites, or at least, not the usual ones. Tell me captain, what is it that you do want?”
For the first time during the interview, fire came into Scar’s good eye. He jabbed a thumb at his mutilated face. “What I want is to get the bastards that did this!”
His interest pricked, Jocco again leaned forward. “I would have thought, since you now command Lord Walter’s tax guards, revenge would be easily come by.”
“Not when the bastards are over three thousand miles away!”
Jocco’s eyebrows creased. An interesting twist this. Now, how best to use it? “And just where are these ‘bastards’ you seek?”
“In a little shit-burg way outside of New York,” Scar growled.
“New York City?”, Jocco asked, disbelief heavy in his voice.
Scar nodded and drained his beer.
“In a world gone mad, you traveled three thousand miles, wounded and alone? You expect me to believe that?”
“Believe what you want, Lord. All I know is that it took me over four months to cross the country, fighting every step of the way. There was over a dozen of us at the start --- even picked up some others on the way. None of them made it but me. Hell, if some of your boys hadn’t found me, I’d be dead too.” Scar glanced around, holding up his empty can. “Any more beer?”
Suddenly insight struck Jocco like a bolt from the blue. A plan began to form in his mind; something that, until now, would have seemed too grandiose even for him. Grandiose, yet simple at the same time. Control of not only the west coast, but the east as well! His mind’s eye began to lay it all out before him; the Army of the Dark Stranger rolling eastward; through the mountains, across the plains and on into the booty-rich cities along the Atlantic. From Miami to New York --- his for the taking! Like a modern day Alexander, he would carve out not just a petty kingdom, but an empire! The cost would be enormous, but then the guns, slaves and coins they would bring back would pay for the trip a thousand times over!”
Jocco mind was awhirl. Such a scheme would take a great deal of planning. Scouting parties would have to be sent out, intelligence gathered. Roads still passable, airfields still usable. Weapons and men and food and transport. Any resistance met along the way would have to be dealt with. Treaties made, bases set up. The task was enormous, yet Jocco came alive at the very thought of it.
Lately he’d begun to loose interest in things. The excitement of the first six months had drained away, leaving only an endless treadmill of bureaucracy. There were no worthy adversaries left, no obstacles to overcome. More and more ruling the realm was left to Lord Walter and his tax priests. Life had become stale and predictable again. Down deep he had secretly welcomed the rise of the rebels. At least they added a little spice to life. Now, with this glorious new dream of conquest, the rebels were suddenly reduced to mere flies that must be quickly brushed aside so that he could get on to bigger and better things.
He made a mental note to engage a historian to chronicle the formation of his empire. Christ! He’d need a dozen of the little bastards!
Bobby-Joe Burlis coughed, bringing Jocco back to the present. The rest of his officers were watching him closely. Jocco straightened and crooked his finger in Scar’s direction. The one-eyed man moved closer.
“Go with Heller. Wipe out the rebels. Destroy their bases. Do this for me and I’ll see you get your revenge.”
“How?” The word was more a demand than a question.
Jocco’s own eyes were now afire. “I’ve decided to send a large force to the east coast. You could be one of its generals. Once there you could handle these ‘bastards’ of yours as you saw fit. But first, my rebels in Bakersfield must be dealt with.”
Scar didn’t know whether to take this asshole seriously or laugh in his face. Still skeptical, he decided to play it safe. “Why east? Haven’t you got enough here to keep you busy? Christ, you’ve got your own fucking kingdom here!”
Jocco leaned forward. “Man does not live by bread alone, captain. Besides, I’ve never been satisfied with being a big fish in a little pond. I want it all, and you can help me have it.”
‘This crazy bastard is serious!’, Scar thought. ‘And he’s just crazy enough to pull it off!’ His mind’s eye saw himself rolling into Mount Hawthorn at the head of a long line of tanks and his face stretched into a hideous grimace. “For a chance at the fuckers that did this to me I’ll bring you the rebel leader’s head in a basket!”
Jocco laughed coldly. “Do that, captain, and I might just fly you to New York in a bomber!”
Chapter 39: ‘JOCCO’S JU
STICE’
Los Padres National Forest
California, May 9th
Two days later Scar found himself bouncing along in a landrover on his way to Bakersfield. Behind him were a column of trucks, all four-wheel drives and troop carriers. Fifty of his own guards and fifty of Heller’s men, all hand picked and all loaded for bear.
Once past the San Fernando Valley, #5 winds upward into the Sierra Madre Mountains. The rich greens of the forest closed in around them, yet no one was paying much attention to the scenery. This was bandit country. Both Sweep Teams and Tax Guards had been hit before while traveling through this twisting stretch of high country.
Scar passed the time by checking his weapons. Besides the Army issue Colt .45 at his hip, he now carried a sleek looking .357 Mag Desert Wind in a shoulder holster. Seven in the clip and one in the pipe. His military webbing held a dozen extra clips, six for each gun, along with a wicked looking knife reminiscent of his Rambo days. In a floor rack in front of him was a 12 gage Defender Pistol-Grip and his own Heckler & Cock Battle Rifle with a 50 round banana clip and four more in a canvas pouch at his side. Mounted on a tripod behind him was a light machinegun, its serpentine belt winding out of a box in the back seat. Sal, the gunner, sat on two more boxes jammed in next to the Chuck, the radioman and his equipment. Happiness is indeed a warm gun.
The C.B. crackled behind him. Private Chuck Bersher answered, then handed him the mike.
“Ya, what’s up?”
Roy Heller’s voice sounded tinny and far away. In reality he was only a quarter of a mile behind them. “Just checking in, Scar. Any word from Rat up on point? Over.”
“Just talked to him. Says he hasn’t seen dick-all. Roy, I know he’s your boy and all, but you sure you want that little spic riding point? He looks like a fucking space-cadet to me.”
Roy’s laughter was momentarily broken up by static. “Rat’s okay. Weird as they come, but one hell of a shot. Trouble is, he shoots everything he sees. Relax, Scar. Connors is with him. Over.”
“Ya, I’ll do that.” Scar thumbed off the mike, feeling anything but relaxed. “Asshole!”, he muttered, then turned to his radioman. “Get me Lt. Crofton.”
Static crackled as Pr. Bersher switched to a clear channel. “Got him, Sir.”
Scar took the mike. “Crofton, get up here and take the point. Continuous radio contact but hold down the chatter.”
“What’s wrong, Captain? Heller’s boys can’t cut it?”
Scar growled. “Just move your ass, Lieutenant.”
“Yes Sir!”
As Crofton’s chopped-down Pathfinder roared past, Scar’s driver, Corporal Dick Jules, better known as Tricky Dicky, glanced at the disfigured man beside him. The captain was feeling bloody today, and when he was feeling bloody it didn’t pay to drag your feet.
At the sound of the Pathfinder’s approach, Rat swiveled his machinegun around and sighted down the perforated barrel. As recognition sank in, disappointment registered on his swarthy face. When Crofton passed him, a part of Rat wanted to cut loose anyway. Just who the fuck did he think he was?!
Lt. Crofton motioned for his radioman to get Rat’s Blazer, then took the mike. “I’m taking the point, Connors. Drop back fifty yards.”
Connors’ heavy brogue cut through the static. “Sure you want to do that, Cap’n? Me n’ Rat have done this before, n’ just up ahead the road gets tighter than a nun’s twat.”
Crofton’s reply was short and to the point. “Connors, either drop back or I’ll drop you!”
Connors dropped back, while an irate Rat shot them the finger. Crofton’s own machine gunner returned the gesture.
The roar of the chainsaw stopped as the tall, Ponderosa Pine came down across the road. Six men and half as many women scrambled into position. All wore browns and greens and all were armed. One, speaking into a walkie-talkie, looked up towards a rocky ridge high above the road.
“Dink? Where are they now?”
“Just entering the second turn. Be there in four or five minutes.”
The man glanced back towards the blocked road. “You and Jenny cover us, but keep low.”
A woman’s voice spoke. “You just take care of yourself, Don. Dink and I will be fine.”
Donald Paxton smiled. Jenny was a real firecracker. They weren’t sleeping together yet, but that really didn’t matter. He liked her spirit. God knows there were more than enough gloom and doom types around! Still, maybe tonight, after this little raid...
“Hey, Don. Where do you want me?”
Paxton turned to see James Peers hefting a bazooka. They’d stolen it from the armory in Bakersfield and used up three of the six shells figuring out how the bloody thing worked. Don pointed to a gully on the far side of the road.
“Take the second truck if you can. We’ll handle the lead one.”
James waved and vanished into the tall grass. The others did the same. Don checked the road once more, then scrambled for cover, the image of Jenny’s flashing eyes dancing before him.
Roy Heller heard Rat’s high voice yelling through the mike. “Tell him those fuckers nearly ran us off the fucking road! Tell him that scarfaced prick is sniffing up our ass! Tell him...”
Connors cut Rat off. “Captain, Ratty’s a tad upset. One of the guard’s vehicles is now on point and Captain Scar is.... Oh shit!!”
Heller frowned, then called out Connors’ name. All he heard was gunfire. He called out again, then yelled at his driver. “Move it!”
Heller’s jeep shot by the two troop carriers filled with tax guards. His gunner, Corporal John Hardgrave, worked the slide on his H & K mini cannon while Private Nina Escarlo relayed orders to the Sweep Team following behind.
The sound of fighting reached them over the roar of the jeep. As they came around a curve, Heller looked down into a scene straight out of ‘Apocalypse Now’. Crofton’s Pathfinder was in the ditch. His driver, Tricky-Dicky, was slumped over the wheel. Bersher, the radioman, lay half in, half out of the truck. Both Rat and Scar’s guns were humping away. Tracer bullets streamed across the narrow gap. Trees exploded. Bodies littered the roadway. Fire was being returned from a half dozen places. As Heller watched, there came a loud womph! and Rat’s Blazer went up like a mushroom cloud. Rat, his clothes ablaze, was blown clear. Connor, however, burned like a Roman Candle.
Nina handed Heller the mike. “Orders, Sir?”
“Get the fuck down there!”, he screamed.
As the jeep shot forward, Hardgrave’s H & K opened up. Heavier than the other guns, the mini-cannon tore the shit out of the attackers. The Ponderosa Pine blocking the road began to shed its gnarled bark. Limbs, both from the tree itself and the people behind it, flew through the air. Smoke watered the eyes. Cordite stung the nose. Screams from the dead and dying hurt the ears.
Scar, his rifle on full Rock & Roll, sprayed the right side of the road while Sergeant Sal Goldberg stitched a zigzag pattern to the left. When his clip ran dry, Scar drew both his .45 and his .357 and calmly stepped out of the jeep. Sporadic fire still came from a few attackers, but it was random and not sustained. The few rebels left alive were intent on melting into the forest.
One, however, had something else in mind. Donald Paxton, gut-shot and holding his intestines in with one hand and a .38 in the other, raised the gun and fired. The first shot went wild. The second fell on a spent shell. Don continued to dry-fire his weapon as Scar walked up to him.
“Where’s your base?”
“Go to hell!”, Don yelled defiantly.
Scar shot him in the leg and repeated his question.
Don screamed and tried to pull a knife.
Scar shot him in the other leg and repeated the question.
Don fainted.
Scar pressed the Desert Wind to Don’s forehead and was about to pull the trigger when something slammed into his chest, spinning him around. Down on one knee, he saw a hole in his Kevlar vest. His left shoulder ached like he’d just been kicked by a mule. A moment later a
second bullet wized by his head. Glancing up, he caught the flash of sunlight on metal.
“Goldberg!”, he yelled, pointing. “Up on that ledge!” He then calmly shot Donald Paxton in the head.
Sergeant Sal Goldberg swiveled the machinegun up towards where Dink and Jenny crouched on the rock outcropping. Jenny, her eyes wide with terror, stood watching through binoculars that trembled as Dink frantically worked the bolt on his daddy’s .306.
“I’ll kill that one-eyed son-of-a-bitch!”, he hissed.
Then Goldberg opened fire. Fifty caliber rounds tore up the granite wall. Birds, rock-chips and Dink’s soul all flew into the air as three of the two dozen odd bullets found their mark. As Dink’s near headless body flopped backwards, Jenny’s legs buckled.
“NNOOOOO!!”, she screamed, crawling towards the corpse. What was left wasn’t a pretty sight, but it was one that Jenny Simpson would remember for the rest of her life; that and the one-eyed monster that casually killed the man she loved. As though in a dream, she woodenly straightened Dink’s twisted limbs, then staggered off into the trees. She tried to think, but her brain refused to function. Trembling as the shock set in, one thought came to her mind. ‘Warn the others!’
‘What others?’, a cowardly voice inside here demanded. ‘All of your friends are back there!’
‘The other groups! Des and Sam!’, she said out loud.
‘You can’t walk all that way!’, the voice wined.
Jenny set her jaw. ‘Watch me!’
Chapter 40: ‘DESPERADOES’
Rebel’s main camp
Sierra Madre Mts.
California, May 9th
Lieutenant Sam Waterton, former pilot, former squadron leader and most recently, former prisoner of King Jocco the First, stood on the cabin’s front porch and gazed at the encircling mountains. Unlike the Sierra Nevada’s further north, the Sierra Madres were not snowcapped the year round. A bloody good thing too, Sam reasoned, pulling his jacket tighter. Nights at 4,000 feet were brisk enough, thank you very much!