Days of Terror

by Jack Hunt

  “What?”

  Elliot saw Brent raise a finger and look back at Ray. Ray revved the engine. Before Elliot could jump out, Brent dropped his hand and Ray hit the gas and the Jeep lunged forward. A blur of green came into Elliot’s field of view, enough to realize it was a truck. It was over in a matter of seconds. The Jeep slammed into the rear of the truck causing it to spin, after that came a rapid flurry of rounds. Elliot slammed into the seat in front of him, and groaned. Mack jumped out and joined the fight. Seconds passed and then silence. Ray hopped out and Elliot followed to see the carnage.

  As he came around the Jeep he saw multiple dead bodies on the ground. The truck was peppered with rounds, and the window shattered. Glass was on the ground and the driver slumped over the wheel. A pool of blood spread out around the head of a soldier hanging out the passenger side.

  “Okay, Ray, Morgan, throw the rifles into the back of this. If the Jeep is still working we’ll take it back with this one. Tatum, you get to drive. Oh, did you leave one alive?”

  “He’s around here, Mack,” Brent said. Elliot followed Mack around the truck to a man who was gripping his arm. He was dressed in militia gear, was around six two in stature and had a scar on the side of his face.

  He spat at them before chuckling. “You guys are fucked.”

  “Really?” Mack said, glancing over his shoulder. “If this was football, your team was just annihilated.” He bent down and grabbed him by the throat. “So listen up.”

  “Just kill me and get it over with.”

  “Oh, I’m not going to kill you.” He smiled. “You’re the messenger. Yeah, you get to live. How about that?” He took a hard pull on his cigarette and blew it in his face on purpose. “Now I want you to go back to Shelby and tell him that war is coming, and Mack Larson is at the helm. He knows me. Oh, and be sure to remind him that I’ll give him a chance to pack up his shit and get out of New Hope Springs or I will kill every single one of you. You understand?”

  The man didn’t reply so Mack slapped him around the face. “Did you hear me? Do you fucking understand?”

  The man spoke through gritted teeth. “Yes.”

  “Good. And you can tell him his little cache is ours.” He turned to Brent. “You want to do the honors?”

  “I’d be delighted.” He called over the other three to hold the man down, then Brent unzipped his pants and started to piss all over the soldier.

  “What the hell?” Elliot said, his brow forming a crease. Mack placed a hand on his chest to lead him away as they each took turns cutting his face with a knife. The soldier’s screams filled the air.

  “Keep walking, Elliot.”

  “You wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?”

  “We’re sending a message.”

  Elliot jabbed his finger towards the group. “And you need to piss on a man and cut him up to do that? C’mon, he was already injured.”

  Mack flashed him a sideways look. “You don’t understand.”

  “No? Maybe I don’t. Maybe you should fill me in?”

  “Later, we need to get this back now.”

  Elliot grabbed a hold of him by the arm. “No. Now!”

  Mack turned in a flash and grabbed a hold of him. “You want to know what these animals did? Sure, I’ll tell you but I hope you have a strong stomach because what they are doing to him now, is nothing compared to what they did to several families from our group. Do you still want me to continue?”

  Elliot stared at him before pulling away. “When we get back, we are leaving.”

  Mack snorted. “You self-righteous prick. You’re telling me you haven’t committed crimes against others when you were in Lake Placid?”

  “We didn’t torture anyone.”

  “Well then, aren’t you the better man. Because these fuckers did. They tortured my wife and kids and when they were done with them, they tossed them away into a ditch like common trash. My girl was fifteen years old. How old are your kids?”

  Elliot clenched his jaw and walked back to the Jeep. He heard Mack mumble under his breath. “Yeah I thought so.”

  Back inside the Jeep he waited for them to strip the soldiers of their fatigues, and anything of value. They tossed their bodies into the back of the truck with nothing on except their underwear. When Mack got in he glanced at Elliot but said nothing.

  “Please tell me you are not going to wear dead men’s clothes?”

  “Of course not. But I am going to use their bodies to strike fear into the hearts of his men.”

  Elliot wasn’t sure who was the sickest. Mack or Frank Shelby.

  Chapter 5

  The coffee tasted like heaven. Frank Shelby was getting used to life behind the walls. He enjoyed his position of power and having people look up to him as their provider and protector. It reminded him of his time going to church as a kid. He’d watch the way people would hang on every word the pastor had to say. They almost acted like children around him, throwing out questions as if they didn’t have a brain of their own.

  “Pastor, should I do this, should I do that?”

  As he got older his views changed. Here was a man they were placing on a pedestal and yet what did he offer them? Nothing but words from a book and empty platitudes. Sure there were those who would go the extra mile and actually help families in trouble, but most would bask in their oversized churches, preach about giving more money and live lavish lifestyles. It was a joke and people were sheep, lost and confused, gullible and outright stupid. That was the only thing he’d learned from his time in churches growing up — manipulation came in many forms, the best kind was subtle, hardly noticeable. He planned on using the same tactics with everyone who entered New Hope Springs.

  The radio crackled cutting into his silent morning as he basked in the summer sun overlooking the three zones.

  “Sir, we have a problem.”

  He coughed and smiled wondering what he meant. They didn’t have problems, not real ones. The last one they’d had was Ryan and they had nipped that in the bud. He chuckled looking at Ryan shoveling shit into a ditch. He scooped up the radio and leaned back in his foldable chair before taking another sip of his coffee.

  “Jameson, go ahead.”

  “Sir…” he cleared his throat and appeared to be having problems telling him.

  “Jameson, spit it out.”

  “The group that went out this morning to Hemphill. Lucas is back and the rest are dead.”

  His eyes widened and he rose to his feet. “What?” he stammered, dropping his cup. It clattered on the floor. In among that group had been four of his best men. “I’ll be right there.”

  Frank nearly lost his footing as he made his way down the steps to the ground. Rage welled up in him. Who had done this? He couldn’t blame anyone in the camp as no one else went out. As he crossed a vast expanse of rolling hills heading for the south gate, his mind circled back through those he’d attacked before entering New Hope Springs. In the distance he saw Lucas on his knees, his face covered in dry blood. Jameson was trying to give him water from a flask. They heard him approach and looked his way.

  “What the hell happened?” he bellowed dropping to a knee in front of him.

  “We were ambushed. There were six of them. We didn’t stand a chance. They rammed our vehicle and cut everyone down.”

  Frank recoiled back from Lucas. He smelled awful.

  “They kept you alive?”

  “He told me to give you a message.”

  “Who?”

  “Mack Larson.”

  All the color in Frank’s face drained out as Lucas began to repeat the message. He rose to his feet and made a gesture to Jameson. “Get him over to the medical bay. Have the doctor see to him.”

  “It’s done, sir.”

  Jameson stooped and carried Lucas away as Frank looked towards the gate. His eyes drifted to those who were watching behind chain-link fencing. They looked on in bewilderment.

  “What are you looking at? Get back to work!” he sh
outed and turned away heading for his office. He needed a drink, something to take the edge off. Mack Larson? He hadn’t heard that name in a while. His mind drifted back to conversations with him. The comradeship they’d shared. The sense of brotherhood they’d had. He rolled up his sleeve and looked at the brand on his arm. It had been his idea. Birthed from secret societies. He’d wanted to have a group that would be ready at the drop of a hat to fight the government if and when they ever turned against the American people. He’d been the one that had inspired Frank to recruit others in southeast Texas.

  That was before things changed.

  That was before what he did.

  Frank could feel the eyes of those in the compound boring into him as he made his way back to his office. He needed to handle this situation and fast. They had to show a strong front or those inside would begin to doubt their ability to protect them. The problem was, Mack knew how he operated. If he’d gunned down four of his men in cold blood that was just the beginning. It wouldn’t end there.

  He needed to find him, talk to him and bury the hatchet — even if that meant burying it in his skull. But where to look? He hadn’t seen him in over five months. He thought he was dead. He should have been dead. He kicked the door into his office and grabbed up the bottle of bourbon. He didn’t bother to pour a drink, he took a hard pull on it and slumped down into his seat trying to think about what to do next.

  Five minutes passed then he called for one of his men to collect his brother from the sweatbox. He needed John beside him. It was time to put aside their issues and work together again. Frank took another swig. He only hoped his brother could forgive him.

  John looked a complete state when they brought him in. His white T-shirt was plastered to his chest with sweat, and his light-colored camo pants had turned a dark shade of brown from piss not sweat. He hadn’t been in the sweatbox for the entire week. Frank had been a lot more lenient with him than he had with Timothy Heart and Ryan Hayes. The problem was John wouldn’t admit to having gone against him. Frank had gone back and forth on whether to believe Samuel or not. It pained him to see his brother suffering but he hadn’t exactly helped himself.

  “Thank you, Rob,” Frank said as he left the room.

  John stood there seething.

  Frank motioned with a wave. “Take a seat.”

  “I’d prefer to stand unless of course you’re ordering me.”

  Frank laughed. “C’mon, John.” He pushed forward the small welcome back package he put together while Rob had collected him. There was fresh clothing, a large canister of water, three granola bars, some beef jerky, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and a bottle of bourbon. “Those are for you.”

  He snorted. “What is that? Your guilt package?”

  “Call it that if you wish. I feel bad about the way things have gone.”

  “It’s taken you a week to figure that out?”

  “Look in all fairness John, you didn’t exactly help yourself. I was hoping—”

  John stabbed his finger in his general direction and Frank clamped onto the Glock attached below the desk. He didn’t think his brother would try to kill him but after what he’d been through he wouldn’t have put it past him. “You took his word over mine.” John reached down and pushed the package back across the table. “Keep it! I don’t want anything from you.”

  Frank got up and groaned. “Always so overdramatic. Blowing everything out of proportion. You still don’t understand why I placed you in that sweatbox, do you?”

  “Oh I understand. You think more of those in this compound than your own flesh and blood.”

  “That’s not it.” He came around and leaned against the table. “People look up to us, John. Do you remember the day when I tossed Timothy in the sweatbox and I gave others the choice to leave?” He didn’t respond so Frank continued, “I had to show that I’m both just and fair in my dealings with people. Folks in here can’t for one minute think that I’m showing preference. By sending you to the sweatbox, I gain their trust. Now if that isn’t worth it, I don’t know what is.”

  “Yeah, easy for you to say being as you weren’t the one in there.” He gritted his teeth. “Do you know that it gets so hot in there you start to hallucinate? Yeah, I actually saw snakes, spiders and all manner of things but you wouldn’t know about that, would you? You were over here in a cool office, drinking bourbon and giving out commands like you are God. Well let me tell you something, you are not God, you are not a shepherd to a flock and you sure as hell aren’t my brother.”

  “Oh, those are some harsh words.” Frank picked up the canister of water, he unscrewed the top and offered it to him. John looked at it then back at him before he swiped it out of his hand and chugged the contents down like he was putting out an internal fire. He wiped his lips with his forearm and glanced at the jerky.

  “Go on. Eat it. It’s good.”

  His brother scooped it up and shoved it into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. When he was done Frank could see the light come back on in his eyes. That was the power he now had over people. He had the means to break a person down and restore them. And where his words failed, food and water didn’t. He’d only given him enough to whet his appetite. It was just enough to make him yearn for what he had before.

  “What do you want, Frank?”

  “This. You. A conversation with my brother.”

  “No. You don’t do anything by halves. Something’s wrong, isn’t it? That’s the only reason you would pull me out. It has nothing to do with a change of heart. Someone is on your back. Who?”

  Frank leaned against the table again, placing his butt on the edge.

  “Nothing gets by you, does it, brother?” He breathed in deeply and sighed. “Two words. Mack Larson.”

  John’s eyes narrowed. “But he’s dead.”

  “Four dead men would beg to differ. Oh no, he’s very much alive.”

  “But we dealt with him.”

  “Right. That’s what I thought but it seems he’s nearby and he wants to start a war.”

  “Well send some men out and kill him.”

  “Yeah… well, if that had worked the first time we wouldn’t be in this situation. Now, if I’m not mistaken you were put in charge of the group that was meant to deal with him.”

  John stared back at him.

  “Look, if you dragged me out of that box just so you could heap more coals on my head for something you think I didn’t do — put me back in. I’m done listening to your bullcrap.”

  “Settle down,” Frank said walking around his desk and taking a seat. He pulled out a drawer and popped open a box of Harlan’s expensive cigars and tossed one to him. “Come on. Take a load off your feet. You’re not going back to the box.”

  Frank clipped the end off his cigar with his teeth and spat it on the floor, then lit it up. He took another match and leaned forward. John was reluctant at first but who in their right mind would turn down a Regius Double Corona? The end burned a bright orange before the room was filled with thick pungent smoke.

  “I couldn’t care less how he came to be alive. Shit, even if God himself raised him from the dead. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he has killed four of our friends and stole our extra cache of weapons.”

  “He found the property?”

  “It appears so.”

  “But he wasn’t around when we did that.”

  “No but he knows about it now. It’s all cleared out. Gone. Whatever we have here at the compound is it. He knew what he was doing. That’s why I need your help, John. I can’t do this alone.”

  “You should have thought about that before you treated me like one of them.”

  “I had to show that I was fair and just. Samuel threw his own brother under a bus.”

  “But he was lying about me. I swear to God, I was not trying to get the men to go against you.”

  “That is of no concern to me now. Mack Larson is.”

  John blew out smoke and tapped his finger
s against the table. He looked back at him. “Then I guess you are up shit creek without a paddle because I’m not helping you.”

  “I would seriously rethink that. Things could get a whole lot worse than a sweatbox.”

  “What? You going to chain me up, have the men beat me to a pulp the way you did with the Hayes guy? Please. You’d be doing me a favor.”

  “You’re right I would. The men would turn on me for doing that to you. So let me throw it out there. What’s it going to take to get you to forgive me?”

  “Oh I can forgive you, brother, I already have. But forget?” He shook his head. “No, I won’t forget this.”

  “I don’t expect you will. But an attack on our men is an attack nonetheless. Four today, six tomorrow. It has to end. We need to find them and take them out fast.”

  John leaned back in his seat and regarded him with an expression of amusement.

  “What?” Frank asked.

  “You honestly think this is worth your while? To risk our men’s lives for your own personal vendetta?” Frank didn’t respond. “If he’s alive, he’s had plenty of time to think about what we did to his family. The fact is you’re scared. You’ve got one pissed-off Rottweiler on your ass and you know it.”

  “He’s not just on my ass. If he comes through those gates, he’s coming for you too,” Frank said.

  John dipped his head. Frank knew it was just a matter of wording it the right way to get his brother to see that his life was in as much danger as his. In all honesty he didn’t give two shits what his brother thought about him, but he understood that a house divided wouldn’t be able to stand and he’d heard the rumors among his own men since placing John in the sweatbox. There were those that admired and respected him, guys who believed that it should have been John leading them not Frank.