Ever Onward (33 page)

Now and then they take on an extra
crew member. Gleaned from hamlets scattered about the meandering
shore of Lake Champlain, these shell-shocked survivors would gladly
join the motley crew. Men and women alike, but since this was far
from the Good Ship Lollipop, few lasted more than a couple of days.
There’d be a quarrel over a bottle or a woman, (as One Arm had
promised, there were always plenty of women), and then someone
would die. A bullet in the head or a knife in the back was a simple
way of solving social problems.

Besides, One Arm was more than a tad
superstitious, and seven was his lucky number. The number of women
on board didn’t seem to count one way or the other.

“Hey, Boss! Looks like we got another
live one!”

Straw Hair, standing on the bow of the
35 foot yacht, pointed at the old pick-up pacing them on the road
running alongside the lake.

From the large seat atop the yacht’s
wheelhouse, One Arm sat up. Pushing Cindy-Lou or Betty-Sue or
whatever the fuck her name was off him, he squinted into the
westering sunlight. Sure enough, he saw an old green pick-up slowly
driving along the shore road.

“Hand me the glasses, Bitch!”, he
growled.

Cindy-Lou/Betty-Sue hastened to obey.
In the week she’d been aboard the good ship Sadistic, she’d learned
to move her ass in more ways than one. Either that or Captain
Stump, (that’s what most the girls called One Arm behind his back),
or worse, that walking piece of dog shit, Rambo, would decide a
little ‘correction’ was in order. Both were pretty liberal when it
came to handing out ‘correction’.

Through the powerful binoculars One
Arm saw that the driver was a big man in his late fifties or early
sixties. An old hat hid most of his features, but by the way he was
casually hanging his arm out the window, it looked like he wasn’t
too scared.

“I’ll soon fix that!’, One Arm said to
himself. Pulling the stubby .38 out of the clamshell holster
clipped to his belt, Captain Stump fired four shots at the old
truck. Laughing, he watched the truck speed off down the
road.

Doug Shellings stuck his long, thin
body out the wheelhouse window and looked around for a body. Peter
Welter looked up from his game of Solitaire, scratched his thinning
hair and then went back to cheating himself out a red queen.
Sitting in the head, ‘Weasel’ Weasilski continued drooling over an
old Playboy’s centerfold. Too preoccupied with shooting his own
load, Weasel never even heard One Arm’s little impromptu target
practice.

Several of the women began clucking
away, wondering who was dead and glad that it wasn’t one of
them.

Rambo, however, knew exactly what had
happened. He was on his bunk, absorbed in cleaning one of his
numerous guns

when he heard the four distinctive
little ‘pops’. One Arm got his rocks off shooting at
strangers.

‘Asshole’, he said to himself. This
sentiment was not brought on by any humanitarian reasons, rather it
was because of One Arm’s poor choice of weapons. In Rambo’s view,
the only thing a Snub Nosed .38 was good for was giving someone an
enema.

“Look at the old bugger go!”, One Arm
laughed.

Cindy-Lou/Peggy-Sue smiled sweetly.
She was scared shitless not to.

“The crazy old fart probably won’t
stop till he runs out of gas!”, One Arm grinned, reaching out and
pulling the girl to him. The .38 felt like a jagged piece of ice on
her bare back.

Cindy grinned, preying the one armed
maniac wouldn’t decide on a target more closer to home. She need
not have worried, for the captain’s gaze was on the cluster of
buildings still more than a mile away.

“Hey, Straw! What’s that little
shit-burg up ahead?”

Straw pulled a nautical map out of his
open shirt. After a moment he called up. “Some town called Crown
Point. Says there’s a ‘historical fort’ there. Someplace called
Mount Hawthorn is right behind it. Map says there’s a large park
there. A ‘wildlife sanctuary’.” Straw prided himself on being able
to read the charts and keep them off the sandbars. So far they’d
only run aground twice.

“’
Wildlife’?”, One Arm
repeated, giving Cindy’s bare ass a little squeeze. “That’s the way
we like it, eh Bitch?”

Cindy looked up and smiled, secretly
wishing she had the Clap, just so she could give this limp-dicked
bastard a double dose.

One Arm banged on the railing. Doug
Shellings long, thin head appeared out the window below him.
“What’s up, Boss?”

“My dick up her ass!”, One Arm
grinned. “But while I’m ramming home the beef, point this tug
toward that town up ahead. We’re going to have us a real ‘wild
time’ tonight!”

Deadly Doug grinned and
vanished back inside. A moment later the large diesel engine revved
up a few notches and the good ship Sadistic began to surge forward.
From five knots to ten. Its top speed was twenty, but full out the
bitch gobbled fuel faster that a whore gobbled sailors on shore
leave. They’d filled up back at Port Henry, but already the fucking
tanks were just a little under half. Deadly Doug smiled to himself.
No worries, mate. The town up ahead looked like it had everything
they needed.

Willard Spinner was pissed off. It
took a lot to get the big farmer riled, but the assholes shooting
at him from that fancy boat had done it. Willard now had the old
Ford’s peddle to the metal and was ripping down the Lake Road at a
speed somewhere close to Warp I. (The speedometer hadn’t worked for
years, but, just like Willard himself, the old gal had a lot of get
up and go left in her yet!)

Sadat, the little Turk sitting beside
him, wasn’t pissed off. Sadat was scared shitless. A slug from One
Arm’s .38 had passed through one open window and out the other,
taking the little Turk’s straw hat with it. Looking over at the
small foreigner, Willard noticed that Sadat’s usual dark, swarthy
complexion had lightened up considerably. Another few shades
lighter, he noted, and the little sheep farmer might even pass for
a ‘real American’. Willard also noted that if the bullet had been a
few shades lower, Sadat would now be dead. He liked the little man,
and the thought of seeing his Turkish brains splattered all over
his cab made him even more pissed off.

Over the past month quite a few
strangers had passed through Crown Point. They’d come in ones and
twos, looking lost both in mind as well as body. Most didn’t stay
and that was just fine with him. It seemed to Willard that of the
few people left after IT happened, the vast majority weren’t worth
a bucket of pig slop. Not like the folks back at Hawthorn. No
sir-ee!

Still, some were decent enough folks,
and most of those had gladly stayed on when Doc asked them; like
Jim Shell and his wife, Marcy. Oh, everyone knew that she wasn’t
really his wife, but that didn’t seem to matter much anymore. Then
there was Fred Perkins, plump Thelma Wiggs, Tom Leeson, and the two
young women, Betty Sinclair and Jenny Hiller. Even the dark little
Turk, Sadat Something-or-other was okay, though Willard hadn’t
trusted him at first. The swarthy little ex taxi driver was too
foreign for Willard’s tastes. Christ! He wasn’t even a Christian!
But after the little fellow had willingly pitched right in when
Willard’s best mare was having a breach birth, the big farmer’s
somewhat narrow views had widened considerably.

He and Sadat had been on their way
into Crown Point for more feed for the horses when they first saw
the boat. Looking out over the two miles of sparkling water,
Willard had been surprised to see a large, white boat cruising down
the lake about 100 yards off shore. A ‘yawt’ the city-folk called
them. Willard didn’t know much about ‘yawts’, except they always
looked sort of sissified to him. Plus they cost a hell of a lot of
money. A boat for him was something you could go fishing in and not
worry about spilt beer or fish guts. He’d slowed down to take a
better look. Then the shooting had started.

“Smart-assed, yawt-driving
city-folk!”, he cursed as he swerved around a sharp curve. “I’ll
show ‘em to fool around with honest, hard working folk!” Suddenly
it came to him just how he was going to do it. Willard glanced over
at Sadat sitting wide-eyed in the passenger seat, then up at the
gun rack behind him.

Willard had always loved firearms.
Ever since his daddy had given him his grandfather’s 410 Poacher’s
Gun he’d loved them. Not handguns though. Handguns were meant for
only one thing --- killing other humans, and Willard had no truck
with that shit. But longuns now, they were something else. Not
counting old Earl Handcock, Willard had one of the biggest
collection in upstate New York.

His old 12 gage was in the rack, along
with the new long rifle he’d picked up a few weeks ago up at Ben’s
Ammo in Chimney Point. It was a 444 Marlin, one of the most
powerful long bore rifles made. Fitted with a good scope and a
maximum load, just a few days ago he’d brought down a deer from
just over 300 yards. 317 yards to be exact. He’d proudly paced them
out on his way to collect the fresh meat for the Family.

Looking up at the 444 Marlin, Willard
knew exactly how he was going to pay back them trigger-happy
‘yawt-fellas’

Chapter 26
: ‘AN AFFAIR OF
HONOUR’

Lake Champlain

New York August
5

A good quarter mile outside of Crown
Point, a rocky, pine covered finger of land thrust itself a hundred
yards out into Lake Champlain. Willard brought the pick-up to a
screeching halt and shut off the motor.

“Why are we stopping here, Willard?”,
Sadat asked. “Are they still shooting at us?” The little man’s eyes
were wider than ever.

Willard grinned, reached up and handed
his daddy’s old double barrel to his new friend. Sadat took it as
though it was hot.

“No, but we’re going to do some
shooting at them. Come on, Saddy, get that low slung ass of yours
in gear!”

Of the fourteen people now living in
Mt. Hawthorn, (not counting the still absent Josh Williams and his
roving band of adventurers), twelve of them now lived up in the
Park. Doc Gruber’s place had gotten too small to hold all the
newcomers, and there were several large old houses up there, each
one equipped with fireplaces, iron stoves, gardens, barns and
woodsheds. Each was located on a vast, rolling estate bordering the
two central lakes. The lakes were stocked with bass and trout. A
river, complete with waterfall and functioning grist mill,
connected the two lakes. The Shire, Doc had called it, after the
home of some funny little fellows in a famous book he’d once read.
To Willard the Mount Hawthorn Nature Reserve would always be just
‘The Park’. Whatever its name, the dozen survivors had taken it
over, setting up their own little community. Willard’s farm
bordered on it. Sadat had chosen to stay with him. The little Turk
had said it was because he liked being close to the animals. It
reminded him of when he was a boy in Turkey. After the business
with the mare and her colt, Willard hadn’t minded a bit.

Over the last two weeks they’d worked
well together, tending the corn and wheat, weeding the garden and
caring for the livestock. Sadat had proven to be very good with
horses. For relaxation they’d go riding, fish in the lakes, visit
with Doc and the folks over at the Big House or just sit on the
front porch and watch the sun go down. Yet the big farmer had not
been able to interest the little ex taxi-driver in his one great
passion --- hunting.

Sadat was deathly afraid of
guns.

“Come on, Saddy!”, Willard urged,
taking down the new Marlin and filling his pockets with the extra
large shells. “We aint going to shoot nobody. Just scare them the
hell away from our town!”

“But what if they shoot back?”, Sadat
asked nervously.

Willard hefted the long rifle with the
large scope. “They won’t get close enough. This little darling will
see to that! All I need you for is to make a little extra
noise.”

Somewhat mollified, Sadat accepted the
box of 12 gage shells thrust at him. Moments later both men were
trotting through the pines towards the end of the
headland.

Minutes later, Willard had found the
spot he was after, a well concealed duck blind he had watch his
father and grandfather build out of the black shale found on the
shore of Lake Champlain. Positioned among the large boulders left
there 12,000 years ago by the last Ice Age, they could easily make
out the yacht. It was coming directly towards them at a
surprisingly fast clip .

“They’ve seen us!”, Sadat whispered,
though the yacht was still half a mile away.

“Naw,”, Willard replied, deftly
loading the Marlin. “The fool driving that thing is just cutting in
close to the headland. Serves him right if he rips the bottom out
of her!”

“Are...are you sure we should do
this?”, Sadat asked.

Willard frowned down at the little
man. “They shot at us, didn’t they? They’re heading right for Crown
Point, aint they? You want that lot poking around our town?
Shooting it up? You remember those young punks who came around last
week? You want that to happen again?”

Sadat remembered all too well. Three
young men had come through Mt. Hawthorn last week in a large
four-by-four. All three of them had been drunk to begin with and a
whole lot drunker after raiding the liquor store. The Park is two
miles further up the mountain, and they might have kept on going if
Mrs. Chan and a couple of the women hadn’t come down for groceries.
The three punks spotted them and chased them back up to the Park.
Sadat had been tending the corn and saw the two trucks race by. The
young men had apparently driven right up to the Big House and
demanded that at least one of the younger women come with
them.