American Apocalypse (17 page)

He nodded his head. “I need to think about this. Return to Virginia and make some arrangements. How does that sound, sir?”

“Why that sounds good, very good indeed,” the colonel said. “We have so much to talk about, you and me. You are going to be delighted at what we have planned and what your role will be: That’s just to start, mind you. Why don’t you stay a bit and we can talk. Martina can drive you back, can’t you, major?”

Oh, she was happy enough to do that—and she was an officer too. Not a surprise, really.

The colonel then turned to me. “Thank you for joining us, Gardener. I can’t say what a pleasure it has been meeting you. John, please arrange a ride back for Gardener.”

Ah, that jogged my memory. The chief of staff was John. I still can’t recall the other man’s name. About three minutes later I was standing outside, waiting for my ride to show up. I figured I wouldn’t hear Max come back until morning—unless she was married, that is.

I stood there, rocking back and forth on my heels, aware that the door guard was watching me. I was happy: The steak knives had been made by Wüsthof in Germany. They were very nice carbon steel blades that took an edge nicely and held it. I liked German steel. You had to be careful with it, as it liked to bite the hand that cleaned it. I had slipped it through my watch band and from there to my sock. I had it running parallel to my shin. Thankfully, I was wearing tight socks. It felt fine, and I had the handle protruding above the sock line. I felt a lot better about life now. Hopefully, we would have a big breakfast tomorrow and be on our way. Maybe they would have pancakes. That thought made me even happier. The golf cart was there in a matter of minutes. This time the driver wasn’t alone. I saw another man sitting in the back as I walked up to the cart.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Not much, buddy, jump in.”

“Who’s that?” I indicated the passenger, another GI Joe clone.

“C’mon. He needs a ride. You were expecting a private limo?”

The other guy smiled at me with his mouth. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”

Something wasn’t right here. The feel was wrong and my stomach was tensing. I had learned this rule long before Max had taught me:
Always, always trust your intuition
.

I smiled at the driver. “Sorry, not a problem. You know how it is. It’s a crazy world these days.”

I settled into the seat, directly behind the driver. We pulled away from the house, the whine of the electric engine and the crickets being the only sounds to be heard.

If it was going to happen, it would be in one of the support buildings near the ski lift, away from prying eyes and night-vision scopes. I wasn’t sure why they decided to kill me. Maybe the Persian rug was worth more than I thought. The man didn’t know how to do a sound bite or get a rug cleaned.
Pretty piss-poor for someone who had made it to colonel
, I thought. We were approaching the lodge, but the driver turned enough that we headed north toward the support buildings.

“Hey! You going to drop me off?”

“No problem. Just let me drop Mac off, and then I will loop around and drop you off.”

Well, I was not going to wait until they had a chance to crack a rib or worse. I had been there, done that, and it was not going to happen again. He was slowing down. We were going to the building that was the farthest away from everything and everyone. I reached down to scratch my ankle, keeping my right hand on my knee and in
plain view. Next to me, Mac was tracking my movement, watching my left hand scratch.

“Hey Mac, you ever had athlete’s foot?”

He quit watching my left hand and made eye contact with me. He opened his mouth—to say something smart I am sure—when I pulled the Wüsthof blade out of my sock.

My right arm went over the back of the seat and down tight against it to provide me with an anchor. I pivoted on my ass, the plastic surface of the seat helping, raised my left hand, and drove that carbon steel blade into his heart. He gave out with an “Oooff” and then an “Awwwhhh” as I twisted the knife to the left to pop the seal around the blade and cause more damage. Then I yanked it out and drove it in again. This time all I heard was “Ssssssssshhhh.”

“Hey! What’s going on back there? . . . Shit!”

The driver had twisted his head around, trying to see what was going on as he dug for whatever he had in a hip holster. I was sure it was something black and plastic—probably not even made in America.

I whipped my right arm around, grabbing his forehead in my right hand and yanking his head back. Then I cut his throat. He had taken his foot off the pedal during all this. We had already been slowing down, so I just sat there until we coasted to a stop. Tonight wasn’t the night to leap from a cart and twist an ankle. Plus, it was fun: We bumped right into the wall of the shed at three miles per hour. It was not a very loud thump. I sat there for a few seconds after we stopped. Then I stiff-armed GI Joe out of the cart. He was making a mess.

I hopped out my side and listened—nothing except for the cicadas. A firefly lit off five feet from me. That was kind of cool. I had a bit of blood on me—actually, more than a bit. It was cool to my skin where it had soaked through my clothes. I could feel the night breeze through it. I felt alive, more than I had felt in quite a while. Who knew killing was like vitamins and Red Bull but much faster?

I started walking back to my room. It was a nice night. The houses on the hill had their lights on, and the colonel’s place glowed at the top. Gas lighting was definitely better than electric. If I ever got a place, I was going to have to keep that in mind.

At this point, most people would probably talk about how their mind coolly calculated different plans and such. What their next move would be. Myself, I didn’t give a damn. If anything, it was funny in a rather bizarre way. My plan was to go to my room and take a quick shower, then grab my stuff, and see if Max was back. If he wasn’t, well, I would start walking. Eventually, I would get back to Route 50. Once I got there, maybe I would call Night and see what she thought. I had at least an hour before the golf-cart hit squad was missed. I might even get lucky and have until sunup, but I doubted it. This place had to have better security than that. I would like to make it to the guardhouse and get my gun and other hardware. That way I might be able to get a few of them before they got me with their super-destructo, black, plastic-gun bullets.

I walked to the lodge. That was one of the things Max had taught me:
Never look guilty—it draws eyeballs
. I sure as hell didn’t feel guilty. I opened the door. Max was stretched out on my bed with a Colt .45 in his hand.

“Took you long enough. Any of that blood yours?”

“No.” My bag was packed and sitting next to his by the door. I unzipped it and pulled out my change of clothes. “You got us packed? What happened to your date? Never mind. We should probably hurry.”

“Yeah,” Max replied. “Don’t use all the hot water.”

I laughed, went in the bathroom, and stripped off my clothes. I stuffed them in the empty trash can, which had a plastic bag liner. I was washed up, dressed, and back out in five minutes. He was standing by the door. The lights were off and the door was cracked. “Everything groovy?” I stuffed the tied-off bag of bloody clothes into my gym bag.

“Looks that way.”

“We got a plan?”

“Other than leave quickly? No.”

“Well, that’s encouraging. Should we just hang out and kill people, then?”

“No, let’s take a walk.” We walked out the door. No hail of gunfire or sniper rounds dropped us. “Nice night,” Max observed, looking up at the sky as we walked toward the handful of parked cars that were scattered around the lot. We continued past them.

“Yep. I saw a firefly earlier. Haven’t seen one of those for quite a while.” We were headed toward the horse barn.

“I saw an old Ford F-150 by the horse barn. I can get that running. Newer cars have way too much antitheft gear wired into them.”

The Ford was being used as a work truck. There were two bales of hay and a bag of topsoil in the back. Max opened the driver’s side door to pop the hood. I heard him say, “Yes!” and then the engine started. I pulled open the passenger door and jumped in. We were rolling over the field with our lights off before I had figured out how to hook the seat belt. Then we hit gravel and were rolling toward the guardhouse.

“So where did you get the .45?”

“The armory. The Gunny they have running it gave it to me. Check this out: It has a five-inch match barrel, custom trigger work, and a Dawson rail. It is sweet. Did you pick up any weapons from whoever it was you gutted?”

“No. Why did he just ‘give’ it to you?”

“He thought he owed me. So who did you gut? Please don’t tell me it was the colonel.”

“Naw, I am saving him for later. You know how the anticipation thing really works for me.”

“That’s nice. Give me your steak knife.”

I pulled it from my sock sheath and stuck it in the bench seat cushion between us. He handed me his Colt. “Smash the house lights.” I used the butt to hammer them until they crunched satisfactorily.

“Don’t lose it. When I slow down I want you to jump out. Meet me around the back of the guard house. Give me five minutes after I pass it.” I nodded agreement.

Two minutes later I was out the truck door and off balance.

Two awkward steps later and I was falling. I tried to break my fall with my hands. That did not work as well as I had hoped. I lay there for a minute or so while I did a systems check. I felt okay, except for my palms and left knee. As best as I could tell in the dim light, they were bleeding and had tiny pieces of gravel embedded in the skin. I got up, brushed myself off, crossed the road, and moved into the underbrush. I was a little pissed. This was the second set of clothes I had ruined on this expedition.

I tried moving deeper into the woods and quickly changed my mind. Moving in the woods at dark was not easy. In between the noise I made stepping on branches and getting caught in the brambles, which were everywhere, I decided this just wasn’t going to work. I moved back to where the forest bordered the road. There was a light on inside the guard house. I stood at the edge of the small clearing and tried to sense if there were a bunch of riled-up gunbots in there waiting for us. All I got back was calm and sleepy night-shift vibes. I moved around to the back of the house and then hunkered down about seven feet into the woods.

“Jesus, Gardener. Don’t ever try to tell me you have Indian blood.”

“Aren’t you early? My superdeluxe inner clock says you have one more minute.”

He ignored that. “You ready?” I nodded.

“Here is the plan: We go knock on the front door. When he opens the door I lay the Colt upside his head. We get our stuff and go.”

“Sure.” It sounded good to me. Besides I didn’t have anything better to offer for a plan.

We walked up to the door. I stood to one side so that if the guard looked out the window, he wouldn’t see two men and become more cautious. Max knocked. We listened to the faint sound of a chair being pushed back and boots clomping their way to the front door. The door opened, and I heard someone say, “Yes sir, can I help you?” Then there was a chunk and a thump. Max had him dragged over to a corner by the time I got through the door. I kept going, vaulted over the counter, and inserted my key. Everything was there.

I strapped my gun belt on and called to Max: “Key!” He tossed me his key and I dumped his stuff on the counter.

“Look around: guns, ties, and flares. Find them.”

I understood two of the three requests. I figured I would find out about the flares soon enough. I went into the back of the house, where there were two rooms, besides a kitchen and a bathroom. One room was set up as an office; the other room had a closed door with a dead bolt. I started in the office. There was not much to it: a four-drawer metal filing cabinet, a desk, and in the corner a small table with a box of flares. Lined up neatly against the wall were three traffic cones and a large sign that read Slow Down: Men at Work. The PC on the desk had its screen saver on. I accidentally bumped the mouse as I was digging through the drawers, and the screen saver disappeared. Our man had been watching porn. I took another look—not just any porn. I clicked on the movie controls. He had been watching
Teen Sodomy
, and the site was dedicated to that kind of content.

I went back out into the main room and left the flare box on the counter. “You find any restraints?” Max asked.
The guard was starting to come to. He was an older man. I guess you didn’t need the A-team for the night shift.

“Find any keys?” I asked back. Max nodded.

“We got a locked door back there that probably has the goodies in it. I’ll watch him. You know what to look for far better than I do.”

Max gave me a funny look, hesitated like he was going to say something, and went over to the counter.

As he disappeared through the doorway he said, “We got fifteen minutes, tops, before we have company.”

Max still had my steak knife. I was going to have to get that back. I was growing attached to that knife despite the short time we had known each other.

I pulled my Buck knife from its sheath and snapped the blade open. I knelt down next to the guard. My hand with the knife was resting on the floor out of his line of sight. “Hey, hero. Wake up!” He moaned and I saw his eyelids flutter. Not good enough: I slapped his face.

“Awww, shit, man.” He opened his eyes and I saw them focus on me.

“So, seen any good sodomy videos lately?” I asked. His eyes widened. I’m not sure if it was from the remark or from catching sight of the Buck knife on its descent into his left eye. I gave it a twist and pulled it out. I had to put my arm on his chest and shift my weight to keep his body pinned to the floor as he spasmed and kicked. Then I drove the knife into his other eye. His bowels loosened noisily. Good thing we were leaving. It was going to stink in here something awful.