by Mark Allen
“Why do you call him Beta?” Kane asked.
“Because I’m the alpha, and that mutt damn well knows it.”
Mike pulled up about two arm-lengths away. Beta hobbled over and rested his head against the mountain man’s thigh, earning himself a scratch behind the ears. “So,” Mike said, “did you make yourself a new friend?”
“Well,” Kane replied, “I couldn’t just leave him—”
“Wasn’t asking you.” Mike cut him off. “Asking the mutt.”
“Oh.” Kane held up his hands in a sorry gesture. “My bad.”
Beta looked up at his master. Mike looked down at the wolf and jerked his head toward Kane. “Friend?” he asked again, making sure his tone turned the world into a question.
Beta limped back over to Kane and sat down on his haunches beside him.
Mike shook his head. “Well, I’ll be damned. Never thought I’d see the day.” He grinned at Kane, who was taken aback to see that some of the mountain man’s teeth were filed down to points. “So I guess you’re in the friend category. If my mutt trusts you, then I trust you.”
“What happens if Beta doesn’t trust someone?” Kane asked.
“He rips their leg off, and we watch them bleed out.”
“Then what?”
“Kibbles ‘n’ Bits.”
“You turn them into dog food?”
“Something like that.” He pointed a finger at Kane. “I know what you’re thinking about asking.” He shook his head. “Do me a favor and don’t. I know what people in that crappy little town say about me, and they’re free to form whatever opinions they care to. But it seems like every damn person I come across out here asks me the same damn question, and frankly, it’s a bit rude, don’t you think?”
“Hadn’t given it much thought,” Kane replied.
“Listen, all you need to know is that my mutt likes you, so I’m definitely not going to eat you.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Mike moved past him, heading down the trail that paralleled the rock ledge. Beta hobbled along behind him, moving pretty well for only having three good legs. “Anyway,” Mike said, “I owe you for what you done for Beta, so unless you got somewhere to be right this second, why don’t you come back to my place and have a cup of tea?”
“Thanks,” Kane replied. “But I’m more of a whiskey guy.”
Over his shoulder, Mike said, “Come on, now, don’t be rude. Rude people leave a sour taste in my mouth.”
Kane mulled it over for a minute. Then he shrugged, muttered, “What the hell?” and followed Mad Mike deeper into the woods. He promised himself that if the hermit even looked at him the way most red-blooded American men look at a juicy T-bone steak, he was pulling his .44 and blowing the man’s pointy teeth out the back of his head.
A quarter-mile up, the game trail widened into a proper footpath. The trees thinned out, hardwoods now mixing with the ubiquitous pines. Another quarter-mile and they arrived at Mike’s cabin, which was constructed of rough-hewn logs and significantly larger than Kane had expected.
“You build this yourself?” he asked.
“You think many people want to hike four miles back in the woods with a man they suspect of being a cannibal to help him build a cabin?” Mad Mike answered rhetorically.
Beta bounded into the bushes and emerged a moment later with a bone in his mouth. He carried it over and laid it at Kane’s feet, practically beaming with pride.
“He must really like you,” Mike said. “That’s his favorite bone.”
“It looks like a human femur.”
“Could be. Lots of people die back in these woods.”
“Die? Or get killed?”
“Both.”
Kane knew better than most that monsters sometimes come in human packages. He wondered if he would be doing the world a favor to put a bullet in the back of Mike’s head and call it a day. Easy enough to do, since the hermit led the way inside, putting his back to Kane. But then Beta would probably try to avenge his master, and Kane would be forced to put the wolf down. He decided to let this play out a little longer.
The interior of the cabin was nicer than Kane had anticipated. The roof rose at a sharp pitch to shed snow during the long Adirondack winters, and the exposed support beams wove a wooden web overhead. To Kane’s right, a set of stairs led up to a small loft. Along the cabin’s south side were a stove, countertops, and cabinets. At the west end, opposite the front door, was the kind of natural stone fireplace that rich people paid tens of thousands of dollars to replicate in modern multi-million dollar mansions.
An oak table so thick and heavy that it looked like it belonged in a medieval castle dominated the center of the cabin. Birch tree stumps served as the table’s legs. The surface was roughed up with knife scars, scratches, and gouges. The wood was stained dark.
In the center of the table perched a human skull, the occipital crest cracked open in a splintered gash. Looked like it had been done with an edged weapon like an axe or hatchet. A wax candle jutted through the cavity.
Beta curled up under the table as Kane pointed at the skull. “Is that real?”
Mike went to the cupboard and took out two mason jars. “Sure is.” He grabbed a jug from the counter and came over to the table, setting one of the glasses down in front of Kane.
“Did you kill him?” Kane asked frankly.
“Me? Hell, no.” Mike uncorked the jug and poured some clear liquid into each Mason jar. “Whoever that poor sucker was, the Indians killed him.”
Kane lifted his glass and sniffed. Smelled like gasoline mixed with blackberries. “Indians, huh?”
Mike grabbed his own glass and knocked back a third of the contents in one hit, followed by a belch that would have made a barbarian proud. “Yep, Indians,” he replied. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those idiots who thinks Indians only lived out west. Everyone knows about the Apaches and the Comanche and the Sioux, but they forgot about the eastern Iroquois tribes.” He pointed at the cracked open skull. “I reckon a Mohawk did that.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The stone blade from the tomahawk was still buried in the bastard’s head when I found it. Looked Mohawk to me.” He took another swig and then shrugged. “But I ain’t no Injun expert.” He pointed at the Mason jar in Kane’s hand. “You gonna drink that or what?”
“This sure as hell ain’t tea.”
“Don’t tell me you were really expecting tea.” Mike snorted. “I know better than to judge a book by its cover, but you don’t look like a stupid man.”
“I’m not, usually.” Of course, you did voluntarily come to a cabin in the woods with a man suspected of cannibalism. “What is it, anyway?”
“Blackberry moonshine,” Mike replied. “Got a still out back.”
“Here goes nothing.” Kane took a swig.
It felt like fucking battery acid scorching his throat.
He managed to save himself from a full-fledged sputtering fit, but couldn’t hold back a cough as the bootleg liquor burned his gullet with napalm heat.
Mike grinned. “Not bad for an amateur. That stuff will put so much hair on your chest that if you run around naked in the woods, people will mistake you for a Sasquatch.”
“Holy hell,” Kane said. “That stuff should be illegal.”
“It is.”
“Figure of speech.”
“We don’t worry much about legalities ‘round these parts,” Mike said. “Sheriff Dunkirk is too busy running guns and drugs, and any state or federal law that might stick its nose in where it’s not welcome has been paid off. Believe me, ain’t nobody coming back here to bust me for moonshine. Even if they tried, Beta would just rip their throats out.”
“He’s attacked-trained?”
“Sure is. Got a book about how the police train their K-9 units and used those methods to teach Beta.”
“The police don’t train their dogs to rip out throats.”
Mike shrugged. “I made s
ome modifications.”
“Beta ever kill anyone?”
“Only when we’re hungry.”
The mountain man’s face was deadpan, making it impossible to decipher the truth behind the stone-faced mask.
Kane shook his head. “You’re a character, Mike. Hard to know if you’re telling the truth or pulling my leg.”
“According to the nitwits in town,” Mike said, “I wouldn’t pull your leg, I’d chop it off and eat it like a damn drumstick.”
“Speaking of town,” Kane said. “For a hermit, you seem to know an awful lot about what’s going on down there.”
“That’s because the crap going on in that worthless town has poked its ugly head into my woods.”
“How so?”
“Sheriff Double D Dumbass and his boys put up a shack about a half-mile from here. It’s where they keep the guns in between shipments. Got a guard posted and everything. They carved a trail down the backside of the mountain to an old logging head off the main road between Black Bog and Vesper Lake. The logging truck pulls in, picks up the guns, and moseys on down the highway, lickity-split.”
Kane knew he should just leave it alone, but the warrior within couldn’t just let it lie. “Can you show me where the shack is?”
Mike eyeballed him. “Why? You some kind of hero or something?”
“Just curious.”
“You know what curiosity did to the cat, right?”
“Do I look like a cat to you?”
The corner of Mike’s lip quirked up in a grin. “Oh, you look like one cool cat, all right.” He pointed at the mostly-full glass in Kane’s hand. “Tell you what, cool cat. You finish the rest of that without stopping, I’ll draw you a map to the shack.”
A drinking challenge? Kane thought. What are we, frat boys? But he said, “Deal,” raised the Mason jar to his lips, and drained the blackberry moonshine in three huge gulps.
This time he didn’t give up even a single cough.
Mike looked suitably impressed. “Dang, boy. Chugged that like a champ.”
Kane shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a fast learner. Now, about that map.”
The hermit waved his hand dismissively. “No map necessary. Just follow the trail back to where you found Beta in the trap, then take the game trail down to the creek. Pick up the trail on the other side, and it’ll take you up to a clearing on a knoll. You’ll see the shack there.”
“Obliged.” Kane pushed his chair back from the table. “I’m gonna go take a look at that gun shack, then try to make it back to my cabin by dark.”
Mike cocked his head to the side like a quizzical dog—or in his case, a quizzical wolf—and said, “You really aren’t gonna ask me, are you?”
“You told me not to,” Kane replied. “And I believe in respecting a man’s wishes.” Unless they’re a cartel scumbag wishing not to die when I’ve got them in my sights. “I reckon your business is just that—your business. If the rumors aren’t true, then I’m sorry as hell you got saddled with that kind of reputation.”
“What if the rumors are true?”
Kane grinned. “Then thanks for not having me for supper.”
Mike sized him up like a chef checking out a Thanksgiving turkey. “Too tough,” he said, his tone yet again making it impossible to tell if he was serious. “Nothing but lean meat and hard gristle on your bones. Need more fat.”
“Right,” Kane said. “Everyone knows the best steaks have marbling.”
“Spoken like a true carnivore.”
Outside, Kane crouched and Beta hobbled over to say goodbye, even reaching up to give his face a quick lick as he ruffled the wolf’s ears. “Yeah, you’re a good boy,” Kane said, giving him the rest of the jerky. As the wolf gobbled it down, Kane stroked the fur on the back of his neck and asked Mike, “Where the hell did you get a wolf, anyway?”
“Stole him from a family of Sasquatches.”
Kane grinned. “Fair enough, Mike.” He shrugged into his backpack and tightened the straps. “Nice meeting you.”
“Happy hunting. Say, if you’re really planning on taking a peek at those guns, you’re gonna need a weapon. You can borrow one of mine if you like.”
Kane reached beneath his jacket and pulled out the Desert Eagle. “Thanks, but I brought my own.”
Mike smirked. “Had that this whole time, did ya?”
“Sure did.”
Mike shook his head. “Like I said, fella…you’re one cool cat.”
“Call me Kane.”
With a farewell wave, he headed back down the path and picked up the pace. The sun had started its afternoon descent, and while he wasn’t afraid of the dark, he had no desire to be stuck in the deep woods after sunset.
He took a left at the intersection, following a crooked game trail that meandered through mossy rocks and spruce saplings on its way down to a small stream that was maybe a meter wide. The burble of the water made a pleasant sound, joining with birdsong and the rustling of leaves to create nature’s symphony, but Kane did not pause to enjoy the primordial music. He moved with purpose, a man on a mission.
He hopped the creek and pulled himself up the opposite bank, picking up the game trail again. Looking up the slope, he could just see the top of the knoll, the trees thinning out as the trail threaded upward. It was lighter up there, the sun not blocked by the thicker woods below.
Kane went into stealth mode without really thinking about it, a nearly subconscious act as he ghosted up the hill. Mad Mike had warned him the place was guarded, and Kane had no intention of advertising his presence.
He walked carefully, mindful not to crunch the fallen leaves or crack any branches under his boots. He took his time making the ascent, reaching forward to use saplings and vines as handholds to pull himself up.
As he climbed, Kane again felt the resurrection of his warrior spirit. He still mourned the death of the kid in Mexico. Hell, he would mourn that kid for the rest of his days. But the grief and regret and doubt were now eclipsed by his deep-rooted drive to fight the forces of darkness. To battle the bastards who preyed upon the innocent, to wage war against the evil savages who trafficked in death and misery.
Luna had practically begged him to clean up her town like he was some kind of old-fashioned Wild West lawman—Wyatt Earp with a Desert Eagle instead of a Colt Peacemaker. Despite the resurgence of the warrior within, there was a part of him that knew he should just stay the hell out of this fight.
But he also knew he couldn’t just walk away.
As he climbed the knoll, knowing he would soon engage in violence against someone who deserved it, he felt the pre-combat rush of adrenalin start its hot surge through his bloodstream. He had heard others describe the sensation as narcotic, but it never cranked that far for him, never turned him into a carnage junkie.
He did not lust for the kill. Pulling the trigger, putting bullets downrange, sending evildoers to their deaths…that was a necessity, not an addictive need. He had seen his fair share of thrill-killers during his time in international hell-zones, and he vowed to never cross that line.
The exception was when he killed in the name of vengeance. When someone made it personal, when someone brought harm or death to the ones he cared for, Kane felt no remorse at the visceral satisfaction he experienced when he struck them down.
Just a few meters short of the top, the game trail abruptly cut ninety degrees to the left to run parallel to the crest of the knoll. The animals that used the trail obviously did not want to cross the clearing and expose themselves to predators.
Kane had no such concerns. In fact, he was hunting predators, and as far as he was concerned, it was open season.
The clearing stretched approximately sixty meters in diameter, covered with wild grass and blueberry bushes. At the nine o’clock position to Kane’s left, the shack that allegedly held the illicit guns squatted in the afternoon sun. It looked surprisingly well-made and had a green metal roof perched on walls that measured roughly twenty-five feet by f
ifteen feet. Kane had expected to see some rundown shed that looked like a white-trash meth cookhouse, but Sheriff Duncan and his boys apparently took their gunrunning enterprise seriously.
The front door was slightly ajar, an open padlock dangling from the hasp. No sign of the sentry, so Kane figured he was inside.
He drew the Desert Eagle, double-checking to make sure there was a round in the chamber, then moved up over the top of the knoll and slid across the clearing quickly but quietly, the grass and blueberry plants hushing his footsteps. No way would the sentry inside be able to hear him coming.
He reached the door without incident. He paused to listen but heard nothing inside the shack. Maybe the guard was sleeping. Or maybe Mad Mike had been wrong, and there wasn’t even a sentry posted.
Only one way to find out.
He leveled the Magnum, ready to sweep for targets once he breached, and kicked the door all the way open. He started to rush forward but caught himself at the last possible second.
Just before stepping on the huge bear trap lying on the floor just inside the shed.
The sixteen-inch-wide steel jaws gaped open like a shark’s maw, jagged teeth ready to cleave through flesh and dig into bone. Designed to withstand the frenzied thrashing of a panicked bear, Kane knew that if he had stepped on the paddle in the middle of the trap, those metal jaws would have damn near severed his leg. As a defensive measure to protect the apparently unmanned shack, it was simple but effective.
After verifying the shack was devoid of human presence, Kane grabbed the chain and dragged the trap off to the side, nudging it carefully into the cobwebbed corner. Then he turned his attention to the stacked wooden crates.
Kane had expected an arsenal, but there were only twelve crates in the shack, stacked two-high along the western wall. All of them were marked U.S. Army.
He holstered his .44 and took out his Ka-Bar, using the heavy blade to pry open one of the lids. As suspected, it was packed with M4A1 carbines, chambered for 5.56 X 45mm NATO, and capable of full-auto firing. He opened another crate and found more of the carbines, these equipped with M203 grenade launchers.