Ever Onward (48 page)

Josh drew the Super Red Hawk and
hefted it. Benny’s eyes widened at the sight of the mini-cannon.
“Christ! For that you get a couple of bottles and a half dozen
blow-jobs!”

Josh shoved the long revolver back in
his belt and took the .32 from the small of his back. The small
five inch gun gleamed in the harsh light. “Let’s start with the
bottle for now. I’ll let you know about the rest later.”

“Sure thing,” Benny grinned, already
thinking of what he could trade for the Red Hawk. Guns were fast
becoming scarce, and a piece like that could buy a hell of a lot of
jolt.

“We’re looking for a friend of ours,”
Josh said as Benny brought over the Vodka and two dirty
glasses.

“Ya? What’s his name?” The .32
vanished inside Benny’s pocket.

“He’s a big guy,” Eddy put in, his
grip tightening on the shotgun under his raincoat. “Wears a patch
over one eye. You seen him around? Travels with a one armed
fella.”

Benny’s smile vanished quicker than
the .32 had. He glanced quickly at Bruiser. The sitting mountain
shuffled to his feet. “Maybe. Who wants to know?”

Josh laid the heavy .44 on the table.
“Like I said, an old friend. He likes guns. This one’s for
him.”

Benny made an effort to relax. He
nearly made it. One Arm was bad enough, but Rambo made his skin
crawl! “’Like’ ‘em? Rambo’ll come in his pants when he sees that
beauty!”

Josh smiled. “That’s Rambo alright.
Loves his guns. Is he around?”

Benny waved Bruiser back to his seat
then pointed at a door at the far end of the bar. “But he aint in a
good mood. Been drinking for two days straight. My boss, the one
armed guy you mentioned, had some trouble down south a few days
back.” Benny leaned down and dropped his voice. “Some farmers
blasted the hell out of ‘em. The boss needs some new men. You two
look like you can handle yourselves. You interested?”

“Could be,” Josh said. “This boss of
yours around?”

Benny shook his head. “Naw. He took
off yesterday. Be back in a couple of days. But Rambo’s here. I’ll
tell him you want to see him.”

Just then Cobb and Flame came in.
Flame moved to the left, her green eyes sweeping the room, her
Smith & Wesson drawn and ready. Cobb moved to the right.
Bruiser rose up behind him like Goliath, his biceps rippling. As
one meaty hand grabbed his right shoulder, Cobb pivoted and slammed
the heavy barrel of the 12 gage Defender into the big man’s gut.
Air whooshed out, along with saliva and a belch of bad breath.
Apparently Bruiser was partial to sardines. Cobb swung the
stockless shotgun up and in, catching Bruiser under his bulldog jaw
and smacking his windpipe. He slid down the wall, his surprised
face already turning purple.

A girl started to scream. Flame moved
forward, the hammer on her S&W clicking back. “Shut up, Bitch!
On the floor.”

The girl dropped like a stone. Others
did the same. Benny was reaching under his apron for a snub-nose
.38 when Josh shoved the Red Hawk in his ear. Benny froze and the
room fell silent.

“Now,” Josh said calmly, though his
heart was pounding. “Let’s you and I go see our old friend Rambo
together, shall we?”

It was an offer Benny couldn’t
refuse.

While Cobb and Flame covered the room,
Josh walked Benny towards the closed door. Eddy followed, his
shotgun out and cocked.

“Call out friendly like,” Josh
whispered. “And make it good.”

Benny licked his suddenly dry lips and
sucked in air. “Hey, Rambo! Some guys out here want to see
ya!”

Nothing. Josh nodded and Benny called
out again.

“Who the fuck is it?”, a slurred voice
replied beyond the door.

“Friends of yours. One’s got a nice
piece says you’ll like. It’s a real beauty!”

“Ya?”, the voice said. “Where they
from?”

“Mount Hawthorn,” Josh said, his voice
like a cold wind.

The sound of a chair falling reached
them. Then a clicking noise, very much like the slide of an M-16
being pulled back. “Hawthorn, eh? Well ‘come on down’!”

Josh looked at Eddy, then at the
doorknob. The ex-carpenter shook his head. Josh flicked his eyes at
Benny, then back to the knob. Eddy smiled and slowly reached out
his hand. As the door swung inward, Benny found himself standing in
the opening. Automatic fire filled the room. Rambo had his weapon
on continuous burst. Full Rock and Role. Holes sprouted in Benny’s
stomach and chest, turning his dirty apron crimson. While Benny did
the Dance of Death, Eddy thrust his shotgun past the standing
corpse and let go with first one barrel, then the other.

The sound was deafening, all the more
so because it was followed by complete silence. Then came the sound
of breaking glass. Josh yanked the dead bartender back and dove
into the room, the Red Hawk spraying its heavy magnum loads. A
mirror shattered. A hole you could put your fist through appeared
in the far wall. A picture fell. Smoke and the smell of cordite
hung in the air.

Eddy came in, his Colt held in a
two-handed grip. Flame was right behind him. Cobb still covered the
girls and patrons sniffing the floorboards. Bruiser still lay
gasping for breath.

“Gone!”, Eddy growled. The word came
out like a curse.

Josh rushed toward the gaping window.
It overlooked an alley. He was about to climb through when Eddy
hauled him back. More automatic fire came, splintering the frame
close to Josh’s head.

Flame fired three shots into the
alley, then three more. While she was reloading, Josh was already
half-way to the back door. Jess and Bobby his mind screamed! He was
just stepping outside when he heard more shots. The boom of Bobby’s
Python, mixed with the rat-a-tat-tat of the M-16. The sharp sound
of his 30-30 cut through the rest.

“Jessie! Jessie!”

“Here, Dad!”

Og ran up to him. Jess and Bobby
followed. Bobby was holding his thigh.

“He got away, Mr. Williams! We think
we winged him; at least there was some blood --- but the bastard
got away down the alley!”

Josh hugged them both.
“It’s alright. We’ll get him. Right now, let’s look at that
leg.”

Rambo, adrenaline pumping, crouched
behind some crates and reversed the double-clip in his M-16. The
pain in his shoulder hadn’t reached his booze-soaked brain yet, but
even when it did, he could handle it.
No pain, no fucking
gain!
And Rambo was an expert on pain. About the only thing he
knew better was guns.

He knew something else too; those
goddamned farmers had followed him! Followed him all the way from
their shitty little burg just to blow him away
. 'Christ! Who
would have thought a bunch of hicks would have the
balls?!

Something moved in the shadows. Rambo
raised the M-16, a cold sneer on his scarred face. “Come on, come
on,” he whispered.

A cat walked out into the
sunlight.

“Fuck!”

'Get a grip,
asshole!
'

He crossed the alley to a side door
and went in. His jeep was waiting, gassed up and ready to roll. In
the back was the heavy trunk he’d lifted from the National Guard
Barracks. As well as spare pistols and rifles, it held
his

H & K mini-cannon, a grenade
launcher and several other assorted weapons of
destruction.

He grinned wolfishly as the
motor roared at the first try. With the peddle to the metal, the
garage doors splinted as he raced up the street. He knew exactly
where he was going. On a farm several miles out of town a few
military survivalist types had set up a commune. One Arm had the
hots for one of the sluts living there. Though they didn’t much
like city folk, they cautiously traded with One Arm and himself.
Once there, he planned to pick up supplies and put as much distance
between himself and Mount Hawthorn as he could get. If One Arm and
anyone else wanted to tag along, okay. If not, he’s head west
alone. In the past few days he’d had more than enough of
freaked-out farmers coming after his ass.

An hour later he was stopped at the
first of several check-points. “Keep your hands where we can see
them!”, a tall man in army fatigues ordered. Two others kept their
assault rifles trained on him.

“Christ, Dutch. You know me. I was
just up here the other week with One Arm.”

Dutch spit a wad of tobacco into the
dirt and smiled. “Sure I know you, Rambo, but that don’t mean I
like you. What do you want?”

“To see One Arm.” Rambo was in no mood
to chit-chat. Despite the uppers he’d dry-swallowed on the way up
to the farm, the slug in the fleshy part of his left arm was giving
him hell. But Dutch was a real hard-ass who liked jerking people
around.

“Why?”

“That’s between me and
him.”

Dutch smiled, showing a row of tobacco
stained dentures. His cold eyes went to the wound in the scarred
man’s shoulder. “Ya? Well, you know the rules. Guns, ammo or canned
goods to get in. Preferably ammo and preferably 9 mil.”

Rambo frowned. “Want a blow-job too,
or is Whitey there still doing you for free?”

Whitey, one of the other two guards,
tensed, his hand tightening on his weapon. He and Rambo had tangled
once before, and since both were still breathing, neither one
considered the matter settled.

Dutch grinned, savoring the tension.
“A box of shells will do for now. I’ll let you know about the other
later.”

“Sloppy seconds, eh? Not my
bag.”

“That’s not what I hear,” Dutch
drawled. He spoke into a walkie-talkie, then motioned for Rambo to
continue up the road.

“Thank you fucking much,” Rambo
growled, tossing Dutch a half empty box of shells, then grinding
the jeep into first and shooting up a shower of dirt.

“They WHAT?”, One Arm said, pushing
the Dolly Parton clone away from him.

Rambo felt like kicking the stupid
cripple in the balls. Instead, he repeated what had happened,
including his plans for heading west.

“Goddamned farmers!”, One Arm swore.
“Should have offed every mother’s son of them!”

“We tried that,” Rambo snarled. “The
crazy bastards are like hornets; the more you swat them the madder
they get.”

“So you’re running?”

Rambo suppressed another urge; this
time it involved One Arm’s balls and a rusty blade. “I’m planning a
strategic withdrawal. Those bastards have already blown away our
best men. What’s left round the bar aint worth shit. What about
these pussies? Any want to throw in with us?”

One Arm glanced at the peroxide blonde
still lounging on the bed. Overlarge breasts strained against a
undersized tank-top. Tight jeans and cowboy boots made up the rest
of her attire --- along with a .38 Special in a clamshell shoulder
harness.

“Wanda, go get Straw.”

Wanda stretched like a cat, then
headed for the door. Half-way there she stopped. “Hank and Vinnie
might want to join up. Marla and Carie too. Butch and his Nasty
Nazis are becoming a drag. West sounds pretty good. Especially
south-west. I’ve always wanted to see California.”

“Now!”, One Arm growled.

Wanda shot him the finger and
left.

Rambo reached for the bottle. “The
bitch may have something there?”

“What?”

“California,”, Rambo replied, taking a
long pull of Johnny Walker. “L.A’s a hell of a lot bigger than
Plattsburg, and a fucking long way from Mount Hawthorn!”

One Arm frowned, then grinned, holding
out his glass for a refill. “One for the road, good buddy. One for
the road.”

Both men laughed.

‘THE KINGDOM OF FEAR’

(
Ten months
A.C.)

Chapter 37
: ‘KING JOCCO’

The Fortress (formerly
U.C.L.A)

Beverly Hills, California,

May 7
^th
1-AC(First Year After Change)

Jocco, resplendent in a silk robe the
color of spilt blood, sat on the raised dais and gazed down at the
line of officers like a hungry hawk. Gold sparkled on his fingers
and from the jeweled circlet on his brow. The pearl handle of a
Colt .45, strapped over an elaborately worked bullet-proof vest,
showed through the open robe. His black hair, much longer now, was
pulled straight back and held in place by a golden pin. The fashion
had quickly caught on, though by royal decree, the officers’ pins
must be silver and copper ones for the common soldiers. Gold was
reserved for royalty.

He raised his bejeweled hand and the
large room fell silent. King Jocco the First was about to hold
court. Everyone in the hallowed university hall, now dubbed ‘The
Fortress’, knew their place --- or bloody-well better!

In the ten months since The Change,
Jocco had come a very long way; from leader of a few rag-tag
survivors to the virtual ruler of his own little kingdom. A kingdom
run on fear. The Army of the Dark Stranger now numbered in the
hundreds. The small but growing towns and villages all around
Southern California were forced to send him tribute. In return for
this, King Jocco was supposed to protect his subjects from the
numerous bands of thieves and robbers that roamed the vastly
depopulated land.