Ever Onward (8 page)

Over three thousand souls had resided
at China Lake. All but a few were dead. He had found five survivors
so far. How many more could be found in an all out search? Another
truth was that whatever had happened here had happened everywhere
else as well. The pilot Waterson had confirmed that. The Big Bad
World had suddenly just gone belly-up.

Yet somehow a few had survived. More
importantly, HE had survived. Now he would gather them to him. Draw
them in like fish in a net --- his net.

Then there had been that bit about the
‘Dark Stranger’. He had liked that. Shit like that really did a
number on the weak and feeble minded, a group which, in Jocco’s
view, had always made up the majority of the world’s population.
Now, after this strange but oh-so-welcome Big Check-Out, the ratio
of idiots hadn’t changed, only the gene-pool had gotten smaller ---
one Mother-fucking hell-of-a-lot smaller!

His nimble mind still racing, he
reviewed last nights ‘recruiting session’, the first, he now
believed, in a long line to come. He smiled at his own play on
words. The woman the crazy shit had found would continue to serve
as a form of ‘initiation booth’ for his growing band of merry men.
Bang her willingly or BANG! you’re dead! Sweet Christ, he even had
a pilot! A most unwilling one to be sure, but something could
always be worked out.

Big Bad Lieutenant Sam had been a tad
reluctant to deflower the fair damsel. Even after Pussbag had cut
him a few times he still refused. Only when Jocco had his loyal
servant give the bitch a pierced ear big enough to stick a finger
through had Big Bad Sam finally dropped his drawers.

As for that little prick Pinkton ---
again a smile at his own play on words --- he was so bloody scared
he couldn’t even get it up! Georgie-boy had helped out there,
offering an empty beer bottle as a substitute. Old Four-Eyed
Pinkton had accepted it gladly and started in with
gusto.

Jocco saw no reason why what had
worked in the past shouldn’t go on working in the future. Of
course, dear Nurse Shirley Rottencrotch might give out, but then he
was sure in his heart of hearts that he would eventually find a
replacement.

Part A of his plan would continue; the
creation of the Dark Stranger’s army. Part B would soon follow. The
details were still vague, but then, hey, one step at a time. A line
from some stupid old movie surfaced. ‘Step by step; inch by inch.
Slowly I turned...’ Jocco smiled, not sure just WHAT he was turning
into, but was very anxious to find out.

Christ, isn’t life grand? The future
lay before him like a conquered land, an open bank vault, a willing
virgin --- the possibilities were endless!

The roar of the big truck’s motor cut
through not only the rain, but the fog in George the Man’s somewhat
limited brain. Like Jocco, the Government of the State of
California had made Georgie-boy an offer he couldn’t refuse: two
years in the army or five in the can. Up until the day he was
caught, Georgie-Porgie had been snatching what he could from the
grimier streets of L.A. A mugging here, a drug-deal there, here a
rape, there a rape there, everywhere a rape. Fortunately for him,
three of the four women he had molested refused to testify, and of
the one that did, the D.A. had failed to prove beyond a reasonable
doubt that Georgie-Porgie hadn’t been invited to put his pudding in
her pie. He was nailed on the drug bust however, and so was given
the choice of being Uncle Sam’s boy for two years or some con’s
girl friend for five. Owing to his strong preference for the fairer
sex, Georgie-boy chose his kindly Uncle Sam.

Excited, nervous, and still half
drunk, Georgie’s mouth was running almost as fast as the truck’s
motor. Unlike Jocco, however, George the Man had no idea what the
fuck was going on.

“Shut up and drive,” Jocco told him.
George shrugged, fumbled with the gears of the heavy troop carrier
and drove out onto the landing strip. The rain had stopped, but
puddles littered the runway like angel’s tears. Pussbag had Sam
Waterson, Walter Pinkton and Shirley Bates tied up in

back. Shirley, her face bruised and
puffy, sat staring off into happier times.

“Where we going, Boss?”, George
asked.

Jocco pointed across the runway to the
long row of barracks. As the large truck approached the buildings,
Jocco flipped a switch and a siren bleated out into the silent
morning. George stopped the heavy vehicle and Jocco climbed up to
the open command post on top. George sat waiting, a loaded M-16
across his lap, absently rubbing his sore crotch where the stupid
cunt had bit him.

The strident sound of the siren
stopped, and Jocco’s clear voice boomed from the speakers mounted
on the front of the troop carrier. “Now here this. All survivors
will come outside immediately. Bring no weapons. I repeat, bring no
weapons. Anyone failing to report will be shot. Anyone reporting
with a weapon will be shot.”

Silence.

On the hard bench in the back of the
troop carrier Walter Pinkton strained to see what was happening.
Beside him Sam Waterson sat glaring at Jocco’s back, wondering if
he could throttle the bastard before that maniac behind him used
his bayonet.

Jocco spoke into the mike, his
amplified voice both calm and cold. “Sergeant George. Give them a
burst through the windows.”

Georgie was out of the cab in a flash,
the M-16 cradled in his arm. Flipping the switch to full rock n’
roll, he emptied a two dozen mag in a matter of seconds. The
prefabricated wall of the barracks took on the texture of Swish
cheese. Any glass left in the row of windows hung in long, jagged
shards. Most of it lay shattered on the tarmac.

Pussbag had already moved out of the
truck. What looked like scuba gear was strapped to his back. The
long nozzle dripped tongues of flame, quickly dispelling any notion
that he was on his way to the beach. Perhaps a weenie-roast of
sorts, though such decisions now rested in the competent hands of
his new friend. Pussbag himself was but the faithful
servant.

The calm, cool voice spoke again.
“Corporal Pussbag. Prepare your flame-thrower. On my word,
incinerate the building. Sergeant George, at the ready. Kill anyone
you see with a weapon. Corporal, commence on my mark. Three. Two
--”

“Wait a minute! Wait a fucking
minute!!”, though muffled, the voice clearly came from inside the
barracks. The door opened and a man came out, hands held above his
head. Four more followed. The last one out was a woman. Jocco
nodded to Georgie, who moved forward like an eager bully, M-16 more
than ready.

“Keep your fucking hands where I can
see them!”, George beamed, warming to his new-found roll. “No
sudden moves! Now, advance slowly.”

All five shuffled forward, uncertainty
written on their drawn faces. Ten yards from the truck Jocco had
them stop. With Georgie on one side and Pussbag on the other, Jocco
climbed down, his .45 held casually in his hand. Pinkton and
Waterson watched silently from the back of the truck. Nurse Shirley
was still hiding in the safety of the good ol’ days.

The first man to come out, a tall
black wearing corporal stripes, lowered his hands and started
forward. Jocco raised his gun and smiled.

“No-one told you to move, soldier. Get
back in line.”

The man cocked his head, a frown
creasing his dark features. “Just who the hell do you think are you
anyway? You could have killed someone for real,
asshole!”

Jocco wiped a grain of dust out of his
eye, that terrible grin still on his face. Each word came out like
polished ice. “We’re the good guys, asshole. Now, get your black
ass back in line!”

The corporal grunted, turned and spoke
to the others. “These clowns ain’t regular army! Are we going to
stand here and let them order us around? I saw we ---”

Jocco shot him in the back of his
head. As the body collapsed, the woman screamed. The man closest to
the corporal had brains spattered all over his face.

“Insubordination will not be
tolerated,” Jocco said calmly. “Now, the four of you, climb into
the back of the truck.”

Like swimmers struggling against the
current, they moved towards the troop carrier. The woman’s scream
had shrank to a moan. Waiting wide-eyed in the back, Walter Pinkton
looked down to see that he had pissed his pants.

They found a few more survivors in the
other barracks, making a total of seven men and two woman. By the
time the Recruiting Ceremony was over, the number of men had
dwindled back down to four. Besides the smart mouth black, Jocco
had been forced to shoot two more reluctant recruits.

Jocco had refined the initiation
somewhat. Not wanting dubious volunteers like Waterson, joining
only to save the woman from Pussbag’s bayonet, Jocco decided to
accept a man strictly on his own eagerness to
participate.

Two had declined the
privilege.

As for Dolores Delgotto, one of the
two women found wandering the base, she had had the misfortune to
tick off George the Man at the high point of his evening. It seems
that good old Georgie-Porgie, having had a wee bit of trouble
getting his pudding in the pie, had decided to live by that wise
old axiom: You are what you eat. Dolores, however, had been
somewhat less than ecstatic about the whole thing, and so, like her
predecessor before her, Shirley Bates, Deloris had chomped down a
might too hard on old Georgie. The second time ends the rhyme so
they say, and old Georgie had blown her brains out.

By the end of the evening’s
festivities, counting himself, the Army of the Dark Stranger now
numbered nine men and two women. Not exactly a ‘flowing multitude’,
but then again, great things come from small beginnings.

Chapter 9
: RARE BLOOD

Hawthorn, Lake Champlain,

Upstate NY, June 24(Day
3)

Josh and Doc sat out the back on the
old vet’s porch watching Jessie play with the dogs. Princess, the
mother, still favoring her back leg, ran with Jessie across the
field. Her gangly pup raced around them in circles, his short tail
wagging frantically. Jessie had named him Og, the nick-name his
father had called him since he was a child.

“The dogs have taken to the lad,” Doc
said. “It does my old heart good to see them run.”

Josh nodded, his own heart warmed by
the sight. He stiffened as Jessie and the dogs disappeared into the
forest just beyond the field. The boy was seventeen, and though
still a child in many ways, Josh had taken him hiking and canoeing
since he was old enough to walk. The woods were like Jessie’s
second home. Josh however, now worried more about two legged beasts
than four.

Doc put down his cup. “I’ve been
thinking a lot about what you told the boy this morning. When you
were teaching him to shoot that .22.” His lined face creased into a
frown. “That part about not being able to trust strangers right
off; how most you meet will still be good people, but probably
scared and confused, and that scared, confused people are likely to
do stupid things.” Doc took his pipe out of his pocket, filled the
bowl and struck a wooden match. Josh reached for the pipe Doc had
‘loaned’ him last night. He hadn’t smoked in years, but after what
they had all just been through, he thought, ‘what the
hell?’

“And?”, Josh said, filling his own
bowl.

Doc coughed and spit, then sat back
amidst a cloud of blue-white smoke. “And you’re right. I don’t much
like it, but you’re right. It’s probably why that fool took a shot
at you yesterday.”

Josh shrugged, not sure just where the
conversation was leading. He soon found out.

“So,” Doc said, leaning forward
through a grayish haze. “We’ve got to advertise. Let whoever is
still out there know that we’re around and that we’re
friendly.”

Josh grinned. “And how do we do that?
We can’t exactly place an add in the paper.”

Doc winked. “No, but we can make one
bloody big sign.”

Josh’s grin spread from ear to ear.
“Of course! Down by the Food Mart! And outside the Sear’s store!
Anyone left will probably go to one place or the other for
supplies!”

Doc slapped his knee. “And we can tell
them to meet at a central place, say, the town square. That’s out
in the open and should be less intimidating.” The old man leaned
closer. “Also, that way no one will know where we live, just in
case the wrong sort shows up.”

Josh smiled and stood, calling Jessie
and the dogs. All three came out of the woods on the run, the pup,
Og, bringing up the rear. Soon everyone was in the van and headed
downtown. Doc brought several half used cans of paint from his
garage. Josh brought his father’s guns.

A little after noon they
stood in the middle of Hawthorn’s main street admiring their
handiwork. On the brick wall of the Food Mart was printed in large,
white letters:

TO ANY
SURVIVORS!

GENERAL MEETING EVERY DAY

AT NOON IN THE TOWN SQUARE.

EVERYONE
WELCOME!

Similar signs had already been painted
outside the Sear’s building and the hardware store.

All three were startled when Princess
suddenly turned and growled. Behind them, an old woman and a girl
of about fifteen stood staring at them. The woman, gray hair half
covering her Asiatic features, held the girl’s hand.