He shifted his eyes back to Carl and fixed him with a stoic gaze.
Carl laughed. "Well, you got a set of balls on you, I'll give you that. We done we killed a lot of people, took a lot of women. Have you seen?" Carl said putting a friendly hand on Erik's shoulder and turning him to face Shanty Town.
Erik resisted the urge to grab Carl's hand and break his arm. Carl must've felt Erik shoulders tense because he quickly removed his hand and stepped to the side.
"Okay, okay, just relax, fish. Look, as the hospitality chair—" Carl fired a string of expletives at the guards who laughed at his title, "—it's my job to make sure your stay with us as pleasant as possible," he said to another round of laughter from above.
"Forget those assholes," Carl said conspiratorially. "They think they're all that just because they're guards. All they do is stand around and watch people all day, then grab anything that moves and have fun all night. That's not a life." Carl took a deep breath and threw his arms out wide, facing the lake.
"You want the open-air, the clean water, the sky above you, the dirt in your hands," Carl said putting his hand back on Erik shoulder and gesturing toward the view beyond Shanty Town.
"You wanna work the land, grow crops, make us food—and stay alive." Carl stared at Erik, the smell of onions and garlic on his breath. His eyes narrowed. For the first time, Erik saw how dangerous the man was.
"Don't you?" Carl asked. His hand painfully squeezed the side of Erik's neck. "Because I guarantee you, fish, you don't do what we say and I will make your life—what remains of it—a living fucking nightmare." A sudden smile broke out on his pock-marked face. "And I'm the nice guy," he said with a laugh as he slapped Erik on the back.
Erik tried a different tactic. "So…that's it then? I'm your prisoner now for life or something?"
"Hey now, nobody said anything about being a prisoner!" said Carl with an offended hand across his chest. "Like I said, you're our guest here. This is Casa Del Spike," Carl said with a sweeping gesture that elicited another laugh from above.
"Shut the fuck up, Ray!" Carl shouted up at the wall. He looked at Erik. "What's your name, fish?"
Erik ignored the banter. "Erik Larsson."
Carl stared at Erik for a second, then rubbed his finger across the sandpaper on his chin. "Larsson…Larsson…"
"You came through and killed this boy's parents and burned down his house," growled the Colonel.
Carl's eyes hardened as he looked past Erik to stare at the diminutive old man. "Oh, how could I forget," Carl muttered sarcastically. "That was your house?" He laughed.
"That's right, he was your daddy, huh?" he asked, his eyes shifting back to Erik, "He killed two of my boys—almost shot me. I don't think I'll be forgetting that one anytime soon." He grinned, revealing yellow teeth. "Spike really did a number on him. Stepped right up and—"
"Erik?" a weak voice said outside the gate. Erik ignored Carl and turned to look at an old woman who shuffled by, carrying two buckets of water up from the lake. A wooden yoke had been placed on her neck, making her stoop almost halfway.
"Mom?" Erik breathed.
A guard shouted behind him, but Erik didn't care. His mother stood before him, doubled over carrying water for the animals who’d killed her husband, his father. Carl's face suddenly blocked his view, so Erik removed it from his sight. He slashed out with the knife Brin forced him to conceal in his waistband and Carl fell out of the way clutching his throat in a spray of blood. The Colonel's first gunshot echoed behind him—it sounded as if it had been fired miles away.
His tunnel vision focused only on his mother, driving him forward to her as she shrugged out of the cruel yoke wrapped around her neck and shoulders. She collapsed into his arms and he fell to his knees as gunfire exploded all around them. A bullet ricocheted off the thick stone wall of the fort not ten feet away from him with a loud whining cry.
"Sorry!" a man's voice said, carried on the wind to Erik's right, deep inside Shanty Town. "Sorry about that!"
"Dammit Irwin, shoot, don't apologize!" yelled Dan's voice from the other side.
The ricocheting bullet snapped Erik into action. He gathered up his mother and raced with her over to the dubious protection of the nearest shack. Crouching down behind the wooden structure, he tried to yell over his mother's screams and grabbed both of her hands as she clawed at his face.
"Mom! It's me! It's Erik!"
"They killed him! Eddie! They killed him!"
His mother descended into silence and fell down face first onto the ground, covering her head as the battle erupted.
A young woman with a black eye and a busted lip shrugged into what was left of a tattered blanket and emerged from the next tent over. "I'll watch over her," she said quietly. "Are you here to fight them?" she asked, hope written on her battered face.
"No," Erik said. "I'm here to kill them."
"Good," the woman whispered as she wrapped her blanket around Erik's mother.
He turned and peered around the corner of the wooden hovel in time to see one of the guards topple off the gate house and land in the dirt at his feet with a stomach-turning crunch of broken bones. His shotgun clattered a few feet away.
Erik scrabbled into the open to collect the weapon and remained crouched. Shanty Town erupted into screams as people ran in every direction, desperate to get away from the firefight that exploded all around them.
Erik faced north, straight into the open maw of the fort. On the far wall he saw a single guard sprinting for the northwestern corner. Gunshots crackled to the west, loud thunderous booms that signified the ongoing attack from Ted's snipers.
Behind him, toward the lake, he heard the telltale pop-pop-pop of Ted's M4. Scattered throughout the screams and shouts from Shanty Town, he heard people screaming for others to duck and get down—Maggie's squad was making their way to the fort.
His eyes focused straight ahead as the Colonel stepped over Carl's twitching body and yelled at Erik to follow. The old man stormed straight into the fort, turned left and fired two times. Erik jumped into action and raced after the Colonel. He turned left, bringing the shotgun to bear on the body of another guard sprawled in the dirt.
Two down…
"Officer’s barracks!" the Colonel hollered, pointing west.
Erik followed the Colonel and zeroed in on the central faded red door of the old stone barracks. The chaos they'd unleashed in Shanty Town sounded like a full-blown prison riot what with the crackling gunshots and screams coming from within and outside the fort. All too frequently a bullet ricocheted off a wall or little puffs of dirt erupted at his feet. It was hard not to flinch despite knowing the people outside were shooting not at him but at the guards.
By the time he and the Colonel had crossed the cluttered parade ground and slammed up against the faded red door—the middle of three on the ground floor—the gunfire outside the fort had intensified. Erik risked a glance and spotted three guards still atop the walls, shooting down into Shanty Town with shotguns—it sounded like canon fire.
As he watched, he heard a three-round burst from Ted's M4. Pop-pop-pop. One of the guards disappeared over the walls. The other two ducked down, yelling at each other and gesturing with hands.
One pointed at Erik.
He turned and grabbed the Colonel's shoulder, throwing the faded red wooden door open with his other hand. "Go!" he said, shoving the older man inside just before pellets peppered the stairs leading up to the second level. Erik dove left, and the Colonel fell to the right.
Erik coughed in the dust and quickly got to his feet, snatching up his shotgun. The room had been converted into an office—he'd remembered years ago seeing rustic wood-framed beds and a picnic table the last time he'd been to the fort. Now, it held a desk, some chairs and someone had plastered maps on the walls. Empty liquor bottles filled the fireplace and a large hole had been carved out of the far wall, connecting the room with the next living quarters.
As Erik stared in disbelief at the c
rude remodeling, two convicts rushed through the hole. One brandished a silver revolver and took aim at the Colonel. The second dove around the first, wielding a large knife.
The Colonel's pistol barked, affected his opponent's aim. The convict's shiny revolver expelled fire and smoke as it shifted toward the ceiling and its owner fell to the floor screaming.
The one with the knife ignored the gunfight and charged the Colonel, stopping short only when Erik stepped around the old man and leveled the shotgun at his chest. Without hesitation, Erik pulled the trigger and the knife wielding man froze in his tracks, wincing.
Click.
Erik looked at the shotgun at the same time his enemy did. They locked eyes again and the bald man with the knife grinned. His crooked, stained teeth and deep-set eyes made his general appearance even more menacing. He screamed and charged, raising the knife with his heavily tattooed arm.
Out of options, Erik swung the shotgun's stock forward, catching the convict's knife arm at the elbow. With a satisfying crunch, the arm buckled, and the knife went flying. Erik then used his momentum to swing inside the convict's attack range and ram the shotgun barrel into his face.
The convict staggered back with blood gushing from his broken nose, screaming obscenities and yelling a warning.
The Colonel roared something about Spike. Erik spun, bringing the shotgun up like a club, expecting to find a giant in the doorway behind him. He flinched when the Colonel emptied his magazine, the flash lighting up the room. Erik spun back around again in time to see the convict with the smashed nose collapse to the floor in a cloud of dust and blood.
The old Colonel kept trying to fire his gun into the corpse at his feet, even though the slide had locked back exposing an empty chamber. "That's for Vi, you son-of-a-whore!"
Erik stared at the body on the floor. He matched the description. Bald head, heavily muscled, lots of tattoos. Spike.
He looked at the Colonel and back down at the body. Something was off. Jeffrey, in fear of his life and with no reason to lie, had explained that Spike was the biggest white man he'd ever seen—even bigger than Erik.
He'd expected to find someone close to 7 feet. Yet the man laying on the floor in an expanding pool of blood at his feet could not have stood any taller than 6 feet.
"You sure that's him?"
The Colonel walked over and spat on the body. "That's him, sonofabitch had a bald head just like that."
Erik glanced past the Colonel into the open door behind him. "Yeah, but I mean are you absolutely sure? A lot of the convicts have bald heads. Think, sir. This is critical—"
"I think I ought to remember the man who killed my neighbors and burned down their house, don't you?"
Erik ground his teeth in frustration. "My mom didn't die." Erik didn't point out that if the Colonel could have mistaken her death, he might not have ID'd Spike correctly, either. "Did you see him with your own eyes—were you close enough that—"
"God dammit son! That's him! That Spike! That's the son of a bitch that killed your father!"
As Erik stood staring at the Colonel, a shadow crossed the doorway.
The Colonel opened his mouth to say something when a puff of red mist materialized out of his chest and he straightened his back in surprise, his eyes wide. He opened and closed his mouth but only a choked gurgle and some pink foam escaped. His eyes blinked and locked on Erik before he glanced down at his chest at the rapidly expanding red bloom on his dirty shirt.
He staggered forward and turned, pointing at the new arrival in the doorway. Erik turned away from the Colonel and saw a mountain of a man fill the hole in the wall and stoop to enter.
"He's wrong, that's not me. That's Tommy Three-Ball."
Jesus Christ! That's the biggest man I've ever seen! Erik took an involuntary step backward as Spike approached. In spite of all the chaos erupting outside, the man appeared calm and collected as his eyes swept over the room and took in the carnage. The pistol he held looked like a child's toy in his meat-hook of a hand.
"You the one behind all this?" he asked in a deep voice.
Erik stared at the monster before him straining the seams of an Essex County Sheriff's uniform. Holy shit…
Spike brought the pistol to aim at Erik's chest. He ignored the Colonel as the old man crashed into the far wall and slumped to the floor.
"Keep your eyes on me boy—anyone shot through the back like that don't usually get up." He flashed a crooked smile exposing straight, stained teeth.
Erik's fear evaporated when Spike smiled. Rage coursed through every fiber of his being. This was the man who had murdered his father. This was the man who had burned his home down. This was the man who had ruined everything—the one who had taken away his future life and that of his family. This was the man who destroyed the town of Ticonderoga and ripped apart countless families.
"I'm sorry it has to end this way. You look like a big strapping fucker. You would've been a pretty good raider, I think—you look like you got some Viking in you."
Erik stared at Spike. His fists clenched, a movement that the bigger man immediately noticed.
"Really?" Spike glanced at the pistol in his hand. "You got a pair of balls on you, don't you?"
"So I keep hearing," Erik said.
"Well, say hi to your old man for me," Spike said with a laugh. He pulled the trigger.
Erik closed his eyes and wondered what the bullet would feel like as it plowed through his sternum. Would it be painful? Would it be so fast that he didn't feel it?
Click.
Nothing happened. Erik opened his eyes and realized Spike's gun had misfired. He watched as the huge man quickly racked the slide and aimed at Erik again.
"Sorry about that—let's try it again." He pulled the trigger.
Click.
Spike looked down at the pistol and frowned. He dropped it and cracked his knuckles, the sound like firecrackers in the small room.
"Fuck it. I always liked killing people with my bare hands, anyway."
Chapter 78
Something to Die For
ERIK LOWERED HIMSELF INTO a fighting stance and brought the empty shotgun up in front of him like a staff. He stepped past the Colonel's body and kept his eyes locked on Spike. The two of them shifted position like sharks circling prey.
Spike made the first move, lunging at Erik with a massive right fist. Erik sidestepped it with ease. His eyes flicked to the desk in the corner and he adjusted his path to avoid bumping it. Spike took the opportunity to jab out with his left hand.
The punch wasn't all that hard—Erik surmised Spike was right-handed—but it was enough to knock him off balance. Erik rolled his shoulder angrily, forcing the throbbing sensation to go away while he glared at the grinning giant.
"You're quick, I'll give you that," Spike admitted.
Erik held his tongue and focused everything on staying alive. A voice in the back of his mind screamed 'playing not to lose makes you lose.' He decided to take Spike's confidence level down a notch. Sure, the giant convict was bigger and clearly stronger—he looked well fed, too. But he didn't know Erik practiced martial arts.
If I just had my sword…
Spike noticed the shift in Erik's stance and braced for a punch. Erik took advantage of that and swung the end of the shotgun like a club, feinting right. As Spike shifted to avoid the shotgun, Erik swung out with his left leg and landed a solid blow to the bigger man's knee. Spike grunted and hopped back out of range, his eyes burning.
"So it's like that, huh?" Spike put his hand in his pants pocket and withdrew a blackened railroad tie. "This here's how I got my name. This here's what killed your old man."
Erik stared at the crampon. The Colonel said Spike had driven it straight into his father's head. Erik's eyes narrowed. It would look wonderful sticking out of Spike's head.
Spike opened his mouth to speak again, but Erik rushed him. He swung the shotgun in a flurry of strikes, left, right, and left again as he forced the bigger man back. Eri
k screamed as he surged forward, ignoring the occasional spark as Spike's weapon glanced off the shotgun barrel in a clumsy attempt to parry the incoming attacks.
Erik paused as Spike threw a punch, then recommenced his attack when the bigger man flew off balance. Spike cursed and staggered back as the barrel grazed his cheek, snapping his head back. Erik shrugged off the vibration that shot up his arms and swung backward with the stock, narrowly missing Spike's neck.
"God damn it!" Spike hissed as he stumbled through the small door outside, clutching his cheek. He backpedaled quickly as Erik charged through after him with a roar.
Erik ignored the slackening gunfire from outside. His peripheral vision picked up several people on the fort's walls, but he didn't bother to figure out if they were friend or foe—it didn't matter any more—he focused on the man who'd killed his father.
Spike took another big step back. Erik swung the shotgun like a baseball bat with all his might, aiming to land the stock on Spike's head. The convict's eyes flared and snapped to the wooden club sailing at his face.
Faster than Erik thought possible, Spike's left arm shot up and deflected the shotgun like it was made of balsa. Before Erik could recover the backswing, Spike's hand latched onto the shotgun.
Erik stepped back massaging his wrists after Spike tore the shotgun away. He expected Spike to use the captured weapon as his own club, but the big convict tossed it aside with a sneer.
"Only a pussy would use that thing when they had this," he said, holding up the crampon. "You're gonna die just like your old man."
Spike lunged and Erik leaned back, barely avoiding the hissing piece of metal as it passed in front of his chest. He stumbled in the dirt as he backpedaled, ducking and weaving under Spike's relentless assault. The man was huge, strong, and incredibly fast. Erik's mind raced as his eyes darted around the open courtyard. Other than the empty and discarded shotgun, he spotted nothing he could use as a weapon.
Pain suddenly exploded in his right shoulder as the head of the crampon connected with Erik's arm. He grunted and spun away to the left. His hand went numb with the impact. He skipped backward out of range as he rotated his arm, trying to shake off the pins and needles down its length. That's gonna leave a mark.
Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) Page 47