Mountain Man - 01 (32 page)

And she remembered her dues.

She dropped Gus’ bloodied head to the deck with a thud. He was tough, she’d give him that, but she knew how to fight. She knew how to defend herself. Gazing down at the way Gus’s\ nose was squashed to the right and how his front teeth were missing, she figured she’d subdued him enough. If he’d shown her the batteries and explained them a little more, she could’ve just shot him outright. She
had
planned to divide and conquer, but Scott up and left. Half of her thought he might return. What was the stupid prick
thinking?
To leave a goddamn
oasis
like this to go off and hunt for some lunatic?
Insane
. They had power, for Christ’s sake! Running
hot
water! She’d even told them what it was like out west.

She had let him go, happy not to have to fuck him.

The thought made her seethe. Denying
her
. Who the fuck did he think he was anyway?
Insane
.

But not as insane as Jonathan.

Or more correctly, insane with gratitude that his bitch had found such a perfect nest for the winter. It would be a tight fit, but that wouldn’t be an issue. Some of them could bunk up together. Jonathan shared his bed with her, and even Tiff when the mood struck him.

She backed away from Gus’s body, noting the blood bubbles swelling and bursting with each shallow breath. Bringing up her flare gun, she cracked the barrel and ejected the spent flare, tapping against her thigh. Then, she loaded the last flare and shut the gun with a snap. She had never thought she’d actually have to use the gun for its intended purpose. She looked toward the cityscape coated in snow.
Last shot
. She hoped the others would spot it. She wasn’t sure about firing it off during the day, but she didn’t want to wait until evening. She couldn’t bear the thought of the group being down there, hungry and freezing, another moment.

“Don’t.”

Roxanne turned around and saw sun flash off the metal of the derringer in Gus’ hand.

*

“Where,” she gasped, “where the fuck you get that?”

Gus’ eyes tweaked and twitched. Pain stitched his ribs with each intake of air. His face felt broken, and he knew he was in bad shape. He simply couldn’t believe Roxanne had kicked the shit out of him. Perhaps even kicked him to within a hair of losing his life. He didn’t know why she had done it, nor did he care.

“Drop it,” he gasped, feeling the pain of his wind sawing at the spaces left by his missing teeth. He only had his incisors left upstairs, and he winced when the cold air attacked the exposed nerves of the broken enamel, as the roots were still in his gums. Two of them anyway. He supposed he looked like an old school hockey player.

Roxanne didn’t drop it. Instead, she screamed.

Gus shot her at close range, the bullet blowing through her stomach. A soft girlish grunt passed her lips, and she flew back, crashing off the railing and crumpling to the snow-covered deck.

Growling, Gus sat up, keeping the derringer pointed at her. He had kept the little gun in his boot since the day he had found it, even envisioned himself shooting off a foot when he pulled his boots on if he ever forgot it was there. The little weapon had saved his life. He knew it. He also knew that he only had two shots for the thing, which made him wonder why the hell there was so much ammunition for the other guns, but nothing for his little lifesaver.

Moaning, he got to his knees. His limbs worked, and for that he was thankful. Keeping an eye on Roxanne where she lay on her belly, he saw the hand holding the flare gun move. He heard a little bubble burst of pain come from her mouth. She pouted her ass up into the air as if offering it and pushed herself to her hands and knees.

“Don’t move,” Gus ordered.

Roxanne moved. She raised the flare gun to her chin. Another gasp of breath and a long thread of blood dropped from her lips. Blood tap-tap-tapped the deck, dripping from where she’d been shot.

With a rasp, she shoved the flare gun upward, as if cocking it against her ear.

Gus emptied the other shell into her, puncturing her right lung and dropping her to the deck. The flaregun fired. Light shot out over the edge of the deck, snaking an angry path toward the city and soon spiralling out of sight.

He dropped the derringer and crawled toward her, enduring terrible pain from his beating. He fastened his hand onto his Bo Derek, and turned her over, grimacing.

Her eyes were open, and they fastened on him. Blood smeared her not-quite-dead features. “Why?” he sobbed into her face, his blood dripping onto her chin.

Blue eyes, perhaps as sharp as sapphires, twinkled at him.

“They’re… coming,” she choked out.

And died.

The words frightened him into action.

“Who?” he demanded, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. “
Who?
”

He paused to get a grip on his emotions, and the last soft expulsion of air left her lungs, grazing his features.

Gus lowered her to the deck and left her staring at the sun. He shuffled backward, snarling in pain, and skidded against the railing.

They’re coming
.

He looked toward the city, searching the snow-glazed rooftops for an answer. The sun beamed down, lying to him that all was right with the world.

And then, he heard the distant roar of a motorcycle without a muffler, soft yet alarmingly gruff. Gus’s breath caught in his blood-coated throat.

They’re coming
.

Then, nothing.

Snorting, Gus started crawling on his hands and knees toward the house, a growing urgency in his shuffling movements. Blood dripped from his mashed face, and he realized that when he breathed through his nose, a whistling noise perked his ears. He paused to touch it and felt how it was squished to the side. Mewling in agony, he stopped and squeezed his eyes shut. He placed his fingers against his crushed nose, feeling the bone pebbles shift. A laser of pain blossomed over his face, and he yelped, but he didn’t let go.

Instead, he took a breath through his mouth, feeling the bright rub of air making contact with his broken teeth, and snapped his nose back into position. He swooned. His eyes watered. His sinus cavity filled with fluid, and he spat blood and snot out onto the snow, grimacing. He got unsteadily to his feet. His face probably wouldn’t be as pretty anymore, but after Roxanne, he couldn’t give a flying squirrel fuck about the opposite sex.

They’re coming
.

Grunting in anger, he staggered to the sliding door and opened it. Jesus Christ. Had it only been minutes ago that he was preparing to head into the city? The thought made him cringe. Images of Bo Derek on top of him, her shadowy face contorted in ecstasy, her hips rocking and her bare breasts quivering, played out soundlessly in his mind, shifting to her smiling face as she laced her fingers behind his head. Then, he remembered the abrupt tightening of her fingers on his throat, and the pulling of his face down to meet her knee coming up with jackhammer force.

How did things go to shit?

And Jesus Christ, he had killed someone. He killed someone
dead
. Even worse, he had killed Roxanne. But he had to kill her, he had no other choice. But his soul was guaranteed to be heading to Hell. The thought of her stopped him in his tracks, and he looked back at where she lay in the snow. Again, his thoughts spun. He had been on the verge of
loving
that woman. He probably
did
love her.

Dead and gone.

By his hand.

He staggered into the living room, tracking snow behind him. He bared his teeth, knowing he must look like a monster. He pushed the images of Roxanne from his mind and tried to rise above the pain reports coming in from seemingly everywhere in his body. She’d fucked him over good. Real good. But he was still breathing, wasn’t he? Yes, he was. He was still breathing and still in the game. Goddammit. He was
still
in the game.

And the game was coming for him.

The
end
game.

How long did he have?

Gus crashed off the wall twice before getting to the garage. The beast. He almost cried as he saw his reflection in the black surface of its hide. He whimpered and backed up, noticing his locker and his leather jacket, torn, but still serviceable. Gus ran his hands over the firefighter gear and made a face. No.

He had come into this world with motorcycle leather.

He had survived in this world with his unholy boomstick and samurai bat.

And if God gave a shit above, he’d die in it with his weapons on him.

The bottle of Captain Morgan dark rum stood on the top shelf of the locker, the foppish prick grinning at him as if he had a telephone pole jammed up his ass. Gus grabbed him, opened the bottle, and took three gulps before the burn of the rum smothered some of the pain. He stripped off his boots and his firefighter gear, throwing it everywhere. Leather pants went over his jeans, along with a hockey vest of protective padding for his chest. Hissing at the burn in his guts and the pain of his teeth, he pulled on his worn leather jacket. A thick neck brace clamped around his throat. Shin guards, hard plastic knee and elbow pads went on next, and Gus huffed when he slapped them into place. He pulled on black leather gloves, fingerless, and slung on his scabbard and bat. He paused for another three gulps of Captain Morgan cure-all medicine. Snarling, Gus loaded the shotgun. When he finished, he hefted the Benelli.

He looked back at the locker and saw the boxes marked “sabot shells.”

The fuck they were anyway?

He didn’t care. He stuffed seven of the green shells into the breach of the Benelli. He placed the gun in the back of the van and wrapped the bandolier about his waist. Then he thought better of it and threw it over his shoulder, crossing the strap of his bat scabbard. He loaded the remaining sabots into the pockets of the bandolier. When he ran out, he loaded his pockets with regular red shells. More rum was channelled down his throat. He noted that the pain of his mouth, nose, and ribs wasn’t so bad anymore, and that alone made him chug another shot.

With a groan, Gus reached in and pulled out the silenced Ruger. He checked the load in the magazine. He gathered the five remaining mags, as Scott had taken the others.
Scott
. Gus shook his head. He could have used the blond bastard, but he felt good knowing that his friend had gotten the fuck out of Dodge.

After today, Gus didn’t think there would be much of Dodge left.

He didn’t have anywhere to put the pistol, so he stuffed it inside his hockey vest. It didn’t feel comfortable there, but he was glad to have it.

Spitting a gob-sizzle of blood onto the floor, Gus sized up the locker for any other weapons. He hauled out the Bowie knife and stuffed its foot-long steel down his left boot. He took his pistol and shoved it down the other boot. That felt better.
He
felt better. He growled and had another two swallows of rum.

Spitting again, he turned back to the Benelli. Picking it up by the collapsible skeleton stock, he placed the butt against his shoulder. He cocked his head to gaze through its mounted scope.
Yes
, he thought. He felt
fine
.

He grimaced, baring teeth that were no longer there. Al Pacino’s voice spoke in his head, spewing out quotes from the movie
Scarface
.

You fuck with me, you fuckin’ with the best.

Say hello to my little friend.

Captain Morgan grinned at him.

And this time, Gus grinned back.

He heard the roar of the motorcycle in the distance like an approaching storm front. The loud, deboning sound cut through the quiet of the kitchen and made Gus open his eyes. He sniffed and grimaced when he did, still feeling pain, even though he was pleasantly drunk. He looked at the empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the kitchen island and, next to it, the drained bottle of Captain Morgan. The foppish captain still smiled.

“You both better…” Gus breathed, feeling the hiss on his broken teeth. It would be something he’d have to get used to. “Get out of here… Not going to be pretty.”

The Captain didn’t move.

Neither did Uncle Jack.

“Stay, then.” He scowled, then added, “Y’fuckers.”

He touched the bandages wrapped around his nose. It wasn’t the best dressing he had ever done. Then he thought, what the fuck? It was the first field dressing he’d ever done. Roxanne had dropped a goddamn refrigerator on his face. He had inspected the damage in a mirror, and a sense of awe had washed over him. Black swollen eyes, swollen split lips, a two-inch cut in his forehead opened to the bone, the missing teeth—which had gotten a semi-drunken chuckle as it made him look like a stoned vampire—and bruised cheeks. His cheeks worried him the most, flaring pain when he wrapped his face with bandages. The cuts weren’t so bad, as he’d filled them with Vaseline to control the bleeding.

Yep, he thought, Roxanne had certainly done a number on him. But she had missed his arms and legs.