fiction: a quick Easter story
Apr. 24th, 2011 11:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyI'm going to be posting all of my casual fiction from this point forward. Why?
1) It does no one any good sitting on my hard drive.
2) It's useful stress relief.
3) I'm probably never going to try to sell it anyway (but I will cheerfully pursue anyone who does try to steal and sell my work.)
4) Yays.
Disclaimer: read at your own risk. Adult concepts, thoughts and language. Probably not pornographic (I am not a harlot) but smutty material will be flagged as such.
"A Quick Easter Story"
[This is a repost from my hard drive. The file's date stamp shows December 1996. I've edited it briefly. Flag for excessive violence. I'm much saner now. :)]
What is the most historically appropriate way to celebrate Easter?
Fucking, of course. It's a pagan fertility ritual hijacked by Catholics. Don't believe me? Check your nearest encyclopedia.
Beats the hell out of hiding in the bushes with a Glock on my belt.
I sat motionless in the brush. I am not nearly as fucking eloquent enough as I would need to be to explain how much I hate fieldcraft. I play in cities for a reason: restrooms, restaurants, and a chance to get some rest.
None of the above need apply out here. The New Klan bastards kind of find it awkward to torture people to death where someone might hear the screams -- and that means going up into the hills. A long way into the hills. Even on an Easter Sunday when God-fearing people are in church and the rest are sleeping in.
My borrowed motorcycle is a couple of miles down the road, well-hidden. I'm sitting within food-fight range of a private gate -- the gate through which self-styled "Sergeant" Max Klein and his goons would have to enter the premises.
I'm crazy, but not insane. I knew that some serious hard-core ratbastards would meet up with Klein & Co., after which the party would flay and dismember J.T. Tolliver for the sin of wanting out -- with all the new initiates as witnesses and accessories.
I also knew that J.T. Tolliver was six miles up a winding private road, guarded by at least two hard-core Klan types with scoped rifles. My chances of independently rescuing him, killing said expert scumbags (emphasis on expert), and carrying him thirty miles on a motorcycle when they might just have hamstrung him: zip. My chances if I can steal a working car: pretty damn good.
Sergeant Klein et. al. would have to stop to open the gate, and it's amazing what a barrel firmly stuck in a coward's ear can do to make him cooperate.
That was the plan; weak, but better than looking Holly in the eyes and explaining the condition of her brother's corpse.
Said plan required me to 1) stay hidden out of sight of passing traffic, 2) be within fifteen feet of the driver's-side door, 3) wait several hours for a thirty-second opportunity, 4) compel several armed goons to follow orders or eat lead, and 5) pray that God covers the details that Murphy screws up. Otherwise, I'd join J.T. in a lime-filled pit.
Such cheerful thoughts one has when sitting in a bush under the hot sun. No food, a solitary canteen (I drank the other one and left it at the bike), a semiautomatic pistol, and a serious attitude.
And I dared not doze. If I missed this one chance, J.T. would certainly die.
I heard a distant car engine. Enough innocuous passers-by had drained my adrenalin, but my heart still beat faster as I flexed and loosened my hands on the grip of my weapon. An evil thought occurred to me: why not hijack some innocent vacationer's car? No: aside from the injustice and terror, and dumping some family on the side of the road, it wouldn't work. I could see myself carrying J.T. out to the car just as Max showed up to wax us.
The car came around the corner. Two occupants: female driver, male passenger. They sped past just as though nothing of interest was about to happen. I envied them.
I waited. I did my very best to wait timelessly, waiting for the sake of waiting and not out of shallow impatience. I failed. But I continued to try.
Insects harassed me ceaselessly. I ignored the tiny bites and indignities. At one point, I carefully eased myself some ways away and relieved myself.
Fortunately, no cars interrupted the process.
Why didn't I just sit out in the open? People might notice. A CHP officer certainly would, and might if sufficiently bored stop to ask me what I was waiting for. If Max showed up, I'd get to choose between waxing the cop and letting J.T. die. No contest. Sayonara, J.T.. Sitting in the bushes prevented such a disaster.
Besides, there's always the off-chance that the Klancritters at the top of the road would patrol the area on foot or with optics. I had no desire to get picked off from three hundred yards away -- a classic case of small odds but horrible outcome.
I heard another car engine and wiggled my leg and arm muscles to undo the kinks. I looked. Station wagon, slowing as it approached.
I waited patiently with my handgun in a loose grip. The wagon turned not twenty feet in front of me and stopped at the gate festooned with "NO TRESPASSING" signs. Fully loaded vehicle, and I recognized the driver. Sergeant Max Klein.
Two hostiles dismounted from the vehicle. One walked towards me and started unzipping his fly. The other walked to the gate and undid the chain.
The fly-zipper stopped, aimed, and let loose -- not quite missing me.
Clueless newbie didn't even look. I grimaced as the splatter hit me. Then I looked to the gate. Open yet? Yes.
In one smooth motion, I shot him in the abdomen, just above his underendowed genitalia. He began to howl as I fired two more rounds into the front of his head. Crunch. You piss on me, I get pissed.
I ran to the driver's window and opened it by shooting it out, spraying broken window glass across the driver. Klein looked up, extremely startled. I'd thought long and hard about my entrance line.
"THE KEYS! OR YOU DIE!"
He looked slowly at me. One of his people lay limp behind me. The half-dozen crammed into the car were shell-shocked, but I could count on them trying something stupid shortly. After all, they did last time. The asshole at the gate was backing off into the far brush. Coward.
The last time I'd seen "Sergeant" Klein, he'd been about to blow my head off. He obviously didn't enjoy the role-reversal.
"Shoot me, Bruce," he said with preternatural calm.
Not a coward, then. So I killed him. One shot. Not like he didn't deserve it or anything.
Besides, he said it was OK.
"OUT OF THE CAR NOW, ASSHOLES!"
They didn't move fast enough to suit me.
"Care for some brain pudding?" I inquired sweetly if quite loudly.
Clearly, they didn't. They piled out of the far side of the station wagon, leaving the doors open.
"LIE DOWN! DOWN, ON YOUR FACES! GET UP AND I'LL BLOW YOUR BALLS OFF!"
Along with the rest of their lower torso, but beggars can't be choosers. I moved around the front of the station wagon and encouraged them by screaming incoherently and waving the Glock. Soon, they had assumed the position -- but the asshole who'd gotten the gate had departed the scene. I went back to the driver's side door and did something very very dangerous.
I holstered the handgun, opened the car door, and flung Klein suddenly out of the wagon. His corpse lay where he'd hit. Then two hundred pounds of terrified bad guy hit me in the back.
I slammed into the hood of the station wagon. I saw stars but had no time to enjoy them. I lashed out blind with a back kick which, thank Murphy, crunched on something. It turned out to be the asshole's kneecap.
Thanking God for small favors, I flung myself upright and turned to fight. The fucker just didn't know how to quit -- he'd drawn a knife from his boot and wanted to turn me into salami. The rage on his face mixed with his agony to make a truly awe-inspiring mixture.
I grabbed his wrist just as he made his upward thrust towards my chest. If I'd tried to draw, he'd have gotten me. Instead, I broke his elbow with my free hand and used the mangled limb to propel him into the station wagon, face-first. The knife fell free. I threw him back on the ground, then did in fact draw just in time to see three hostiles getting up from the dirt.
They saw me with the handgun and they sucked dust. Just in time, too. I turned to keep track of hostiles both hale and less so. Frozen, moaning and/or flailing. Good.
Then I heard a car engine. Fuck. I'd feared this possibility the most. Highway Patrol, off-duty cop, family with kids, real estate agent with cell phone (lots of those up here), just about anyone was bad news.
I circled around to the right side of the station wagon, slamming doors with my body as I moved. I saw the anonymous oblong black boxes in the back which spelled F-I-R-E-P-O-W-E-R to the initiated and suppressed a shudder. Then the car was on us. I looked to see who they were and how they'd react to three flailing injured, a half-dozen others lying in the dust, and an angry little fuck with a shotgun.
They slammed to a halt and started to dismount in a tearing hurry. I recognized the driver. Klansman. So I blew the empty car's windshield out.
Four rounds down, six left. Bad odds.
I worsened them by firing four times into the radiator of the car. I could only hope that I'd disabled it.
"DOWN RIGHT NOW!"
They sucked pavement.
I ran for the station wagon, flinging myself into the driver's seat and ignoring the glass cuts I picked up along the way. Along the way, I tossed the handgun into the passenger seat. I wouldn't need it for a minute or two; or I'd be quick roadkill.
I started the engine, put the wagon in gear, and floored it. The station wagon shot through the open gate and up the road. Loud BOOMs and starry cracks in the rear windows let me know that the newly arrived hostiles wanted to express their true feelings for me. Stopping to reply would be stupid if not fatal.
I kept the gas pedal jammed down until the first turn, then braked just in time to keep from going down a real steep slope. I drove like a crazy SOB until I reached the top.
For all the world, it looked like a Boy Scout campground. A center firepit, rows of rough-hewn logs imitating seating, and several cabins laid out in a semi-circle. Parked to one side were two redneck-type pickup trucks with gun racks (empty).
I pulled up to the nearest cabin on the right, recovered the handguhn, and flung myself back out of the car. My adrenalin, once drained, was back again. I changed mags quickly and put the original back in my pocket. I'd need it, if I lived that long.
Line up on the fucker exiting the cabin casually with the .45 Auto in his hand. Rack the slide.
"Make my day," I barked. No amateurs here.
He went for it. I shot him twice in the torso and ran past, into the cabin. Two more hostiles, one waking up from sleep and the other flinging a paperback book at me.
I should have blown them both away. In that moment, I discovered that I had a fatal weakness.
I could not kill unarmed men in cold blood. I'd thought I could, when the stakes were this high. I'd always fought in self-defense -- contrived situations perhaps, but self-defense. This was not self-defense. This was war.
I knew I was making a mistake.
"DOWN RIGHT NOW!"
Instead, the two rushed at me. Unlike the brave but stupid fuck at the gate, they were unarmed combat pros. If they touched me, it would be the last moments of my life.
POP POP! One down. Close race between groggy man coming up from sleep and end of barrel as I threw myself backwards. As I fell, I lined up. No second chances. POP POP POP! For either of us.
His corpse hit me, covering me with bright red arterial blood and miscellaneous gore. I wrenched myself away from the carnage and watched the spark go out of his eyes.
I shuddered. If they'd pretended to play along, then gone for it while I was trying to tie them up or something, they'd have gotten me. Their very eagerness to take me out killed them.
I eyeballed the cabin to make sure there were only two. Underneath one of the mattresses, a black shape caught my eye. Pump action shotgun, pistol grip. Bandolier loaded with shotgun shells.
I snagged it and checked the loads. Tube magazine, some rounds in it, no time to tell how many.
No one visible outside. Five. Top up to six. Seven as I run to the next cabin. Eight as I pause at the open doorway. Drop to the ground and lead with the shotgun. Empty.
Bounce back up, move on to the next. Also empty. Five more to clear. Then my thoughts catch up to my body.
Dumbshit! They'll probably have a guard with J.T., and he'll blow me away at the door now that he's alerted. I waste twenty seconds by looking around the empty cabin. The windows. Glass. No dice. The walls. Plywood. Plywood?
Cool. Provided I angle correctly, I should be able to blow my own holes without putting pellets inside. I try out my idea on the nearest convenient wall. BOOM!
Nope. Not with one blast. But two more do the trick. One lower, one higher. I slam through the splinters. Ouch.
Just in time, too. I hear a breathtakingly loud THOOOMP! and dive for dirt, scrabbling desperately.
A cabin blows up behind me as I cover my head and scream to avoid losing my eardrums. Thank God it wasn't the one I'd just left. Seeing that possibility, and my current (nonsurvivable) distance of fifteen feet from my artificial door, I picked myself up and ran like hell around the perimeter.
I dodged between cabins, using them for concealment rather than cover.
A leisurely re-load. Line up. Shoot. On cue, THOOOMP! I dispense with covering my ears and scream while I keep running. Military grenade launchers! Fuck me!
I've sprinted around the perimeter and reach the cabin nearest the vehicles. Two hostiles. One with an M-79 grenade launcher, calmly reloading. A second with a scoped .30-.30 deer rifle. I hear the crackle of a radio from inside their cabin. No, a third.
Now, I knew why they were willing to blow up their camp rather than risk not killing me. They were in radio contact with the asswipes below, who justifiably feared me.
Time to justify their opinion. I lined up on Mr. Marksman with the shotgun and blew big round holes in his back. So much for hesitation. I knew that hesitation would kill me.
The grenade freak spun, lined up, and hesitated. Sure, a point-blank explosive grenade in the chest would kill me. But that would leave him three meters from the explosion, which would probably kill him too.
"I SURRENDER!" he screamed as he opened the barrel and shook out the explosive round. He held the M-79 open in his right hand, dangling. His left twitched.
Now his buddy inside was warned. And I couldn't shoot the ruthless bastard.
I lined up on his chest.
"DROP IT!"
"DON'T SHOOT! I'M UNDERCOVER! A COP!"
Bullshit. Undercover agents do not cheerfully blow up cabins with military ordinance. I hesitated, and that was long enough for his left hand to slip a round into the chamber of his M-79 and point it at me.
Fucking lefties! Smart fucker, too. I shot him. His weapon went off into the ground as he fell on top of it, dead. Blowback is caused by muscle spasms, not bullet impact.
I was mildly surprised to sense no explosion. He must have loaded the right round for the situation -- 40mm shotgun. Half a second slower and I'd have been the one with the chest blown out.
I spun and covered the door.
"I'LL KILL HIM IF YOU COME IN!"
Female voice, terrified. How invigorating.
I tried a gambit that could cost me long years in prison. After the events of this afternoon, I strongly doubted it would matter.
"POLICE OFFICER! COME OUT UNARMED AND I GUARANTEE YOUR SAFETY!"
"FUCK YOU, PIG! DON'T TRY SHIT! I MEAN IT!"
Nice try. 1) I'm not a cop. 2) I've got bad guys below who are calling for serious help: local if they've got it, and police if they don't. 3) I'm terrified too. 4) You're the one holding a hostage.
I looked at the cabin roof for the antenna which had to be there, lined up on it, and BOOM!
I topped up the shotgun as I shouted.
"YOU'RE CUT OFF AND SURROUNDED."
I circled around to the back of the cabin. I desperately tried to remember the interior layout of the first cabin I'd entered. Beds on right, desks and chairs on the left. I popped my head up next to a window and peeked inside.
Hostile female facing the door of the cabin, armed and glancing around wildly. A body on a bed -- on the other side of the cabin. Her eyes meet mine. I decide between dodge and duck. Duck it is.
A burst of autofire walks through the wall and to the right, just over my head. I run to the cabin door as she fights to bring her rifle around. M-16.
It seems like a good time to piss my pants. So I did.
I line up on her. I try to learn from stupid mistakes. No more chances to surrender, no "FREEZE!" commands. I aim high. BOOM! Miss Headless slithers to the floor.
I run to the body on the bed. He's on his side, bound and gagged. Fuck. I pull a knife and cut off the gag. Tolliver --dead or unconscious. I slit the ties, then check for a pulse. Unconscious. Fuck squared.
I leave him on his side, put my shotgun next to him, and recover the lady's M-16. I reload using a blood-covered magazine from her belt, and switch over to a much more sensible three-round burst mode. Gee, I hope none of these fucks had HIV, or hepatitis for that matter. Least of my worries at the moment.
I bail out of the cabin and do a fast recon of the camp. No one else. Instead of checking the latrine stalls myself, I put a burst through one. No panicked hostiles run out. I stay very very alert -- never know who might have been hiking, or who might be coming up the road on foot.
Back to the cabin. Tolliver shows no signs of gaining consciousness. I check the blood-splattered map on the wall. This cabin must have been their command center. Just in case they've got a spare antenna, I smash their radio.
I'd studied the maps of this area extensively -- topographical and road. The Boy Scout camp wasn't listed, but the roads were. Only one way out by road, and that's down. Through an ambush if I'm lucky; through police if I'm not.
My plan had a serious flaw -- I didn't expect Klein to have multiple vehicles. After all, three of the seven followers I'd put in jail were still in custody. That left five, no, four with Klein dead. But I'd seen at least a dozen Klanscritters.
For all I know, I'd walked in on a Klan regional conference. Tens? Hundreds? Shit.
I shrugged. Better for Tolliver and I to die on or near a public roadway than in the middle of this camp.
I picked up and slung my shotgun, then put Tolliver over my shoulder in a fireman's carry. This left my right hand free for the M-16. The forty feet to the station wagon was non-trivial. I had to put down the M-16 to open a door and gently put J.T. on the back seat, again on his side.
I didn't like the idea of driving through a roadblock with an unconscious man in back, but I didn't see that I had any choice in the matter. I put both weapons in front, started the station wagon, and hauled ass out of camp.
Three minutes later I saw men with guns on the road. Guess I did disable the car after all.
They saw me and leveled their weapons. I ducked and mashed the gas pedal to the floor. The windshield blew out under their massed fire, and I heard a serious CRUNCH! as I drove over one of them.
I hoped Tolliver hadn't been hit, but I had no time to look as I threw on the brakes and emergency brakes to stop before throwing the station wagon down the same nasty turn I'd confronted on the way up. I released the emer brakes and floored it again.
Predictably, Klein's surviving team members had pushed their vehicle to block the outgoing gate. All were armed now and opened fire on sight.
Instead of ramming their car, which would probably kill J.T., I drove through the barbed-wire fence to one side and tore out onto the roadway. My tires didn't blow out, and their massed volley of inaccurate fire missed more often than not.
I kept the pedal to the metal as I remembered to turn left instead of right. The nearest hospital was twenty miles to the right, but the nearest California Department of Forestry fire station was eleven miles to the left.
I made it there in ten agonizing minutes and tore to a halt in front of the station. Two firefighters were working under a truck in the garage. I honked frenziedly. They barked their heads painfully and got out from under.
"MAN DOWN!" I screamed at them. "MEDIC UP, NOW!"
One approached, one scrambled for the back of the station.
"What the fuck?"
"White male, 22 years of age, unconscious, probably sedated, kept in restraints for past three days."
As I poured all of this out, I opened the door and pulled Tolliver out.
Quite properly, the firefighter barked "DON'T TOUCH HIM!" He feared spinal injuries.
Not much I could do about that. I pulled Tolliver out anyway and laid him down on the concrete, on his side. I did a fast sweep of his body for gunshot wounds.
"I don't think he was hit, but check."
I figured hit by what was self-evident, with a bullet-riddled vehicle and blood all over me. The CDF paramedics ran up with their equipment and started running a protocol; the first firefighter moved to me. I glared at him with my hate face and he wisely stopped. Two more at the back of the station moved in opposite directions out of my sight, nothing good for me in that.
"I'm not hit. There are some serious armed motherfuckers on the way here right now. They tried to kill both of us. I've gotta move. They will kill all of us if I don't. Get him inside or they'll know!"
With that, I dove back into the station wagon (whose engine I hadn't stopped) and tore back down the road the way I'd come. I used the odometer to gauge how far it was to my motorcycle.
A timer was now running in my head. CDF calls CHP and county sheriff. One CHP patrol car in the area. Fifty-fifty chance it approaches from far side, in which case it will stop at Klein's roadside party and call for serious backup. Approach from near side will race at 90 MPH towards CDF station. If they see a station wagon, they'll stop it -- hard. But a motorcyclist, glimpsed for a fraction of a second -- not worth it. I mean, what are the odds of someone stashing a motorbike against just this contingency? You guessed it -- slim.
With that, I screeched to a halt and drove the station wagon off the road. I had prints on the steering wheel, doors, all over the fucking thing. I didn't bother to hide them.
No way to hide what had happened. Tolliver's rescue would doom all of my foes to long stays in Federal prison, not to mention military weapons possession etc. They would sing like a canary about my involvement.
I bailed on the station wagon, got on the motorcycle, put on my helmet, powered up, and took off like a bat out of hell. Ninety MPH sounded like a safe minimum. I passed the CDF station. It was a blur; all I could see was that the garage door was closed, which meant that they had taken my warning seriously.
Eight minutes later a CHP patrol cruiser flashed past me with red lights and siren. As predicted, it did not attempt to pursue me -- but the officer would call it in on his radio. I knew what an emergency response could draw into this area, and it wasn't pretty.
They would expect me to flee to Los Angeles. Besides, the CHP barracks and county seat were both to the south. Easier to set up roadblocks. Instead, I headed east. They would have checkpoints up within two hours, looking for anything suspicious.
Seventeen hair-raising minutes and two major intersections later, I pulled off onto a side road. A light truck was pulled over at the side of the road. A man appeared to be working underneath it. A woman sat watching at the side of a road, next to a large duffel bag.
I pulled the cycle over and parked it alongside the truck to discourage casual viewing, although traffic on this road had been light.
"Howdy, partner!" the man said. I knew he wasn't exactly holding a wrench.
"She's no good at cocksucking," I said calmly, and the pistol came to undisguised aim.
"Nope, I haven't even given her any crack yet," he replied as he scrambled out from under the truck and ran to the back. My good friend Laura picked up the duffel bag. I heard the back door go up.
"Are you hot?"
"Not yet, but I sure as hell will be."
I rolled the bike towards the back while he rigged a ramp. I rolled the bike up the ramp; he threw it in after me as Laura clambered after. The driver slammed down the back door and locked it. Padlocked from the outside and a fresh seal. No reason for CHP to suspect the driver.
I started tying down the bike preparatory to transport. Laura looked at me, helped secure it, then pulled out her medical packs.
"Strip all clothing into this bag, now. Are you hit?"
"No, just miscellaneous cuts and bruises."
She handed me generous wads of alcohol wipes and paper towels. The former hurt like hell; the latter didn't help much.
Laura went to work on the various cuts on my body. She pulled a glass sliver out of my right buttock, which I hadn't even felt until five minutes on the cycle. I'd picked it up in the station wagon.
"Outcome?"
"Tolliver's at the CDF station. They pressed the panic button; I passed a CHP on the way here. I'm alive and in one piece, but I left behind lots of physical evidence."
"You're a fugitive."
"Right."
"Turn yourself in, admit nothing?"
"I need time to think. A day at the most."
She thought. Was our friendship enough to commit felonies for my sake? Even brief ones?
"OK. A day."
The driver pulled out. I knew him too, and I knew for a fact that Frank's gratitude extended to felonies. I'd saved his life when the police would have been too busy taking issue with his hobbies -- growing pot and hacking.
Laura met my eyes.
"How bad was it, Bruce?"
"Fucking horrible. You don't want to know. You could be called to testify."
"Yeah. I want to know anyway."
"I maimed three and killed at least seven."
I laid down the whole story. What, you want me to do it again for y'all?
Bloodthirsty voyeurs.
"Bruce."
The one word contained an ocean of love, concern, and acceptance. Laura and I are friends, not lovers. Even if she'd been born straight, our friendship is far more important to us. I risk my life for many things; I'd give it for her.
I wordlessly accepted her hug. I'm not a touchy-feeling person under the best of circumstances, but these were certainly not the best of circumstances.
I had crossed the line. Flagrantly. I could no longer pretend that what I was doing was even slightly legal. Detective Anderson's prophesy had come to pass. I was now a vigilante, and an unindicted felon. But not for long. The fingerprints would take care of that.
I had a hard decision ahead of me. Turn myself in? Go to jail, when white supremacist groups are so powerful in prison? Or live the rest of my life as a hunted fugitive, to be killed within days of capture.
My contacts are mostly legitimate people. Laura and Frank are exceptions, not the rule. I had no safety net of criminal associates and peers to fall back on. I'd worked in that world, but never lived in it.
Now I was a criminal, the type I'd hunted through paperwork and the Net, or fought in person with nasty words or the justifiable fist. I could only be consoled by one thought.
At least I'm not a racist asshole.
I blearily rubbed my eyes and crawled out of the nest of blankets. I'd slept for about a week -- but my watch said six hours. I saw that Laura had an intercom to Frank in front.
"A hour to the storage, Bruce. We got work to do. Frank stopped for breakfast and the paper."
"Got food in here?"
"Hey, you ask me to plan ahead or what?" I tore passionately into a stack of sandwiches.
Frank had rented a public storage space with a fake identity, in cash. SOP for him. Frank had lots of crap in there already; the bike would fit right in, after we cleaned it up. No fingerprints, yes, but definitely no blood. Ditto the truck.
Frank undid the back while Laura and I hid behind some crates in back . . . cliche, I know, but effective. He unloaded the bike, secured it, tossed in a newspaper, then locked the doors on us again.
I'd made the front page. "Firefight at Klan mountain camp leaves police baffled." Wanted in connection with the incident was "Bruce Anders, 20, out of jail on his own recognizance for allegedly inciting to riot a Klan group in San Jose." Unfair, but no APB out on me. Must still be doing interviews. Front page photo showed devastated camp with body bags in the foreground, counted by the coroner. Eight.
"A man matching Anders's description dumped J.T. Tolliver, a former member of the New Klan and missing since the 15th of last month, at the West Pines CDF station. He has been hospitalized in stable condition under heavy guard at an undisclosed location."
Good news, in all.
"Thanks for covering for me. Drop me off somewhere random in NorCal. I think I'll turn myself in."
"Are you sure?"
"I've got no stomach for the criminal life. If I die, I die. This way, I get to talk to some people before I go."
"Yeah." The unspoken clincher was that Laura would not be in any danger if I surrendered. I wouldn't mention her, and no one would even talk to her about the incident.
"Yeah."
I knew just where I would surrender, too.
"Thanks, Laura."
She'd given me a choice. Now I could go in on my own terms.
As always.
I went in the front door of the police station. I'd checked my voicemail from a pay phone. Detective Anderson had been brief and to the point.
"Bruce, there is a warrant out for your arrest. Turn yourself in when you get this message."
The desk staffer was a civilian volunteer and didn't notice me. I followed an officer through the security door. He glared as it clicked behind us.
"I've got an appointment with Anderson."
"Next time sign the roster, Anders you little fuck." Apparently, he hadn't gotten the word about a certain mountain incident. I sighed and walked to Anderson's office.
He was in, and on the phone. I came in and sat down without asking. He noticed, started visibly, then regained his composure and finished the phone call. He hung up.
"I thought you'd be well on your way to Mexico by now."
"Sorry. You tell me to come in, I come in. What do you want me for this time? Littering? Jaywalking?"
"Care to explain how your fingerprints came up BING-BING on a certain J.T. Tolliver's jacket, an M-16, a shotgun (shown as missing from this very fucking armory, by the way), a very fucked up station wagon, and last but sure as hell not least, an unexpended 12-gauge shell at the scene of eight fatalities?"
"No."
"Care to explain why half a dozen Klanscritters cheerfully signed up for long prison terms to identify you, Bruce Anders, as the badass perpetrator who maimed or killed almost a dozen people?"
"Stupidity, I guess."
"Now you're going to say that they all shot each other and planted evidence to implicate you."
"I'm not going to speculate on that without an attorney."
"I should hope not."
Anderson picked up the phone.
"I need some help in my office right now."
Then he drew his weapon and held it on me. I was shocked. He'd placed me under arrest before, under similarly dubious circumstances, and he'd never had occasion to use more than a harsh word.
"Last chance to kill yourself, Bruce."
I saw in his eyes that he meant it. He was offering me a clean death, instead of the knifing I was sure to get in County pending trial. I'd gotten released on my own recognizance last time . . . I'd get bail in the millions for this.
"Fuck off. Do your job. Find whoever really did it."
"Yeah, I'm not stupid. You won't say you saved Tolliver's life because that would be an admission of guilt -- but that's what you would say if you could. Guess what, Bruce?
"I DON'T CARE!" he roared. "J.T. is a worthless little fuck, and his baby sister is a whore. Ah, I see you didn't know. Here's her rap sheet. If you fell for her, you're an idiot."
"I didn't fall for Holly," I said quietly as additional officers arrived and drew down on me.
"So why did you sacrifice your entire life and future for a weak-kneed ex-New Klansman and his sister with VD? I fucking believed you would go straight. Six months ago I offered you a job in this very fucking department! Two years and you would have been a cop, and a damned good one! Once you lost your passion for violence!
"But you haven't! And you won't! You'll die, very soon, for that adrenalin rush. Was it worth it? WAS IT WORTH IT?"
"There, but for the grace of God go I."
"What the fuck do you mean by that?"
I pointed to the rap sheet on his desk, not caring if a nervous officer drilled me for the sudden movement. "THERE, but for the GRACE of GOD go I!"
He stopped as if pole-axed. Then he stared sightlessly at me. Then he looked at me, hard.
"I recognized myself in you, Bruce." He pointed at me. No longer furious, but very quiet.
"There but for the grace of God go I," he said in wonder.
Silence in the room. Anderson suddenly broke it.
"Take this dirtbag to a cell. No privileges, don't trust him. He's a murderer."
They slammed me against the wall and searched me. Anderson didn't bother to watch, but spun his chair around and buried his head in his hands. His officers frog-marched me to a cell and flung me in.
"No phone call, not yet," one said.
I sat on the concrete bunk. I knew this wasn't the end of the beginning; this was the beginning of the end.
I still didn't regret it. The world would be a far better place without the fuckers I'd waxed. And two dumb kids, Holly and J.T., had a chance.
I thought about the letter I'd write them. I thought long and hard about what I'd say, and how.
Holly and J.T.:
By the time you've read this letter, you'll know something you hadn't before. Through some miracle, you have a second chance at your lives. Don't thank me; I had nothing to do with it.
Keep this letter and read it again every few months.
Holly, remember that tool I borrowed from your father without his knowledge? Give it back to him with my compliments. Laura will tell you how to get hold of it from the police. Don't believe anything Detective Anderson or any other cop or crook or customer tells you. Believe this instead: you're a beautiful, loving, and very brave person.
J.T., I never met you, but I heard a lot about you from your sister. Frankly, I think you're a bit of a dork. Stand up for yourself and for Holly. You don't need a gang, a family, or a bunch of assholes like the Klan to be strong. You don't have to be a dork forever, you know. People grow up. I hope you do.
Both of you: live hard, die young, and leave a pretty corpse. Looks like I'm only going to manage two out of three.
Don't waste second chances. Once upon a time, I did -- and I will regret it for the rest of my life. You own your futures.
Love, Bruce
1) It does no one any good sitting on my hard drive.
2) It's useful stress relief.
3) I'm probably never going to try to sell it anyway (but I will cheerfully pursue anyone who does try to steal and sell my work.)
4) Yays.
Disclaimer: read at your own risk. Adult concepts, thoughts and language. Probably not pornographic (I am not a harlot) but smutty material will be flagged as such.
"A Quick Easter Story"
[This is a repost from my hard drive. The file's date stamp shows December 1996. I've edited it briefly. Flag for excessive violence. I'm much saner now. :)]
What is the most historically appropriate way to celebrate Easter?
Fucking, of course. It's a pagan fertility ritual hijacked by Catholics. Don't believe me? Check your nearest encyclopedia.
Beats the hell out of hiding in the bushes with a Glock on my belt.
I sat motionless in the brush. I am not nearly as fucking eloquent enough as I would need to be to explain how much I hate fieldcraft. I play in cities for a reason: restrooms, restaurants, and a chance to get some rest.
None of the above need apply out here. The New Klan bastards kind of find it awkward to torture people to death where someone might hear the screams -- and that means going up into the hills. A long way into the hills. Even on an Easter Sunday when God-fearing people are in church and the rest are sleeping in.
My borrowed motorcycle is a couple of miles down the road, well-hidden. I'm sitting within food-fight range of a private gate -- the gate through which self-styled "Sergeant" Max Klein and his goons would have to enter the premises.
I'm crazy, but not insane. I knew that some serious hard-core ratbastards would meet up with Klein & Co., after which the party would flay and dismember J.T. Tolliver for the sin of wanting out -- with all the new initiates as witnesses and accessories.
I also knew that J.T. Tolliver was six miles up a winding private road, guarded by at least two hard-core Klan types with scoped rifles. My chances of independently rescuing him, killing said expert scumbags (emphasis on expert), and carrying him thirty miles on a motorcycle when they might just have hamstrung him: zip. My chances if I can steal a working car: pretty damn good.
Sergeant Klein et. al. would have to stop to open the gate, and it's amazing what a barrel firmly stuck in a coward's ear can do to make him cooperate.
That was the plan; weak, but better than looking Holly in the eyes and explaining the condition of her brother's corpse.
Said plan required me to 1) stay hidden out of sight of passing traffic, 2) be within fifteen feet of the driver's-side door, 3) wait several hours for a thirty-second opportunity, 4) compel several armed goons to follow orders or eat lead, and 5) pray that God covers the details that Murphy screws up. Otherwise, I'd join J.T. in a lime-filled pit.
Such cheerful thoughts one has when sitting in a bush under the hot sun. No food, a solitary canteen (I drank the other one and left it at the bike), a semiautomatic pistol, and a serious attitude.
And I dared not doze. If I missed this one chance, J.T. would certainly die.
I heard a distant car engine. Enough innocuous passers-by had drained my adrenalin, but my heart still beat faster as I flexed and loosened my hands on the grip of my weapon. An evil thought occurred to me: why not hijack some innocent vacationer's car? No: aside from the injustice and terror, and dumping some family on the side of the road, it wouldn't work. I could see myself carrying J.T. out to the car just as Max showed up to wax us.
The car came around the corner. Two occupants: female driver, male passenger. They sped past just as though nothing of interest was about to happen. I envied them.
I waited. I did my very best to wait timelessly, waiting for the sake of waiting and not out of shallow impatience. I failed. But I continued to try.
Insects harassed me ceaselessly. I ignored the tiny bites and indignities. At one point, I carefully eased myself some ways away and relieved myself.
Fortunately, no cars interrupted the process.
Why didn't I just sit out in the open? People might notice. A CHP officer certainly would, and might if sufficiently bored stop to ask me what I was waiting for. If Max showed up, I'd get to choose between waxing the cop and letting J.T. die. No contest. Sayonara, J.T.. Sitting in the bushes prevented such a disaster.
Besides, there's always the off-chance that the Klancritters at the top of the road would patrol the area on foot or with optics. I had no desire to get picked off from three hundred yards away -- a classic case of small odds but horrible outcome.
I heard another car engine and wiggled my leg and arm muscles to undo the kinks. I looked. Station wagon, slowing as it approached.
I waited patiently with my handgun in a loose grip. The wagon turned not twenty feet in front of me and stopped at the gate festooned with "NO TRESPASSING" signs. Fully loaded vehicle, and I recognized the driver. Sergeant Max Klein.
Two hostiles dismounted from the vehicle. One walked towards me and started unzipping his fly. The other walked to the gate and undid the chain.
The fly-zipper stopped, aimed, and let loose -- not quite missing me.
Clueless newbie didn't even look. I grimaced as the splatter hit me. Then I looked to the gate. Open yet? Yes.
In one smooth motion, I shot him in the abdomen, just above his underendowed genitalia. He began to howl as I fired two more rounds into the front of his head. Crunch. You piss on me, I get pissed.
I ran to the driver's window and opened it by shooting it out, spraying broken window glass across the driver. Klein looked up, extremely startled. I'd thought long and hard about my entrance line.
"THE KEYS! OR YOU DIE!"
He looked slowly at me. One of his people lay limp behind me. The half-dozen crammed into the car were shell-shocked, but I could count on them trying something stupid shortly. After all, they did last time. The asshole at the gate was backing off into the far brush. Coward.
The last time I'd seen "Sergeant" Klein, he'd been about to blow my head off. He obviously didn't enjoy the role-reversal.
"Shoot me, Bruce," he said with preternatural calm.
Not a coward, then. So I killed him. One shot. Not like he didn't deserve it or anything.
Besides, he said it was OK.
"OUT OF THE CAR NOW, ASSHOLES!"
They didn't move fast enough to suit me.
"Care for some brain pudding?" I inquired sweetly if quite loudly.
Clearly, they didn't. They piled out of the far side of the station wagon, leaving the doors open.
"LIE DOWN! DOWN, ON YOUR FACES! GET UP AND I'LL BLOW YOUR BALLS OFF!"
Along with the rest of their lower torso, but beggars can't be choosers. I moved around the front of the station wagon and encouraged them by screaming incoherently and waving the Glock. Soon, they had assumed the position -- but the asshole who'd gotten the gate had departed the scene. I went back to the driver's side door and did something very very dangerous.
I holstered the handgun, opened the car door, and flung Klein suddenly out of the wagon. His corpse lay where he'd hit. Then two hundred pounds of terrified bad guy hit me in the back.
I slammed into the hood of the station wagon. I saw stars but had no time to enjoy them. I lashed out blind with a back kick which, thank Murphy, crunched on something. It turned out to be the asshole's kneecap.
Thanking God for small favors, I flung myself upright and turned to fight. The fucker just didn't know how to quit -- he'd drawn a knife from his boot and wanted to turn me into salami. The rage on his face mixed with his agony to make a truly awe-inspiring mixture.
I grabbed his wrist just as he made his upward thrust towards my chest. If I'd tried to draw, he'd have gotten me. Instead, I broke his elbow with my free hand and used the mangled limb to propel him into the station wagon, face-first. The knife fell free. I threw him back on the ground, then did in fact draw just in time to see three hostiles getting up from the dirt.
They saw me with the handgun and they sucked dust. Just in time, too. I turned to keep track of hostiles both hale and less so. Frozen, moaning and/or flailing. Good.
Then I heard a car engine. Fuck. I'd feared this possibility the most. Highway Patrol, off-duty cop, family with kids, real estate agent with cell phone (lots of those up here), just about anyone was bad news.
I circled around to the right side of the station wagon, slamming doors with my body as I moved. I saw the anonymous oblong black boxes in the back which spelled F-I-R-E-P-O-W-E-R to the initiated and suppressed a shudder. Then the car was on us. I looked to see who they were and how they'd react to three flailing injured, a half-dozen others lying in the dust, and an angry little fuck with a shotgun.
They slammed to a halt and started to dismount in a tearing hurry. I recognized the driver. Klansman. So I blew the empty car's windshield out.
Four rounds down, six left. Bad odds.
I worsened them by firing four times into the radiator of the car. I could only hope that I'd disabled it.
"DOWN RIGHT NOW!"
They sucked pavement.
I ran for the station wagon, flinging myself into the driver's seat and ignoring the glass cuts I picked up along the way. Along the way, I tossed the handgun into the passenger seat. I wouldn't need it for a minute or two; or I'd be quick roadkill.
I started the engine, put the wagon in gear, and floored it. The station wagon shot through the open gate and up the road. Loud BOOMs and starry cracks in the rear windows let me know that the newly arrived hostiles wanted to express their true feelings for me. Stopping to reply would be stupid if not fatal.
I kept the gas pedal jammed down until the first turn, then braked just in time to keep from going down a real steep slope. I drove like a crazy SOB until I reached the top.
For all the world, it looked like a Boy Scout campground. A center firepit, rows of rough-hewn logs imitating seating, and several cabins laid out in a semi-circle. Parked to one side were two redneck-type pickup trucks with gun racks (empty).
I pulled up to the nearest cabin on the right, recovered the handguhn, and flung myself back out of the car. My adrenalin, once drained, was back again. I changed mags quickly and put the original back in my pocket. I'd need it, if I lived that long.
Line up on the fucker exiting the cabin casually with the .45 Auto in his hand. Rack the slide.
"Make my day," I barked. No amateurs here.
He went for it. I shot him twice in the torso and ran past, into the cabin. Two more hostiles, one waking up from sleep and the other flinging a paperback book at me.
I should have blown them both away. In that moment, I discovered that I had a fatal weakness.
I could not kill unarmed men in cold blood. I'd thought I could, when the stakes were this high. I'd always fought in self-defense -- contrived situations perhaps, but self-defense. This was not self-defense. This was war.
I knew I was making a mistake.
"DOWN RIGHT NOW!"
Instead, the two rushed at me. Unlike the brave but stupid fuck at the gate, they were unarmed combat pros. If they touched me, it would be the last moments of my life.
POP POP! One down. Close race between groggy man coming up from sleep and end of barrel as I threw myself backwards. As I fell, I lined up. No second chances. POP POP POP! For either of us.
His corpse hit me, covering me with bright red arterial blood and miscellaneous gore. I wrenched myself away from the carnage and watched the spark go out of his eyes.
I shuddered. If they'd pretended to play along, then gone for it while I was trying to tie them up or something, they'd have gotten me. Their very eagerness to take me out killed them.
I eyeballed the cabin to make sure there were only two. Underneath one of the mattresses, a black shape caught my eye. Pump action shotgun, pistol grip. Bandolier loaded with shotgun shells.
I snagged it and checked the loads. Tube magazine, some rounds in it, no time to tell how many.
No one visible outside. Five. Top up to six. Seven as I run to the next cabin. Eight as I pause at the open doorway. Drop to the ground and lead with the shotgun. Empty.
Bounce back up, move on to the next. Also empty. Five more to clear. Then my thoughts catch up to my body.
Dumbshit! They'll probably have a guard with J.T., and he'll blow me away at the door now that he's alerted. I waste twenty seconds by looking around the empty cabin. The windows. Glass. No dice. The walls. Plywood. Plywood?
Cool. Provided I angle correctly, I should be able to blow my own holes without putting pellets inside. I try out my idea on the nearest convenient wall. BOOM!
Nope. Not with one blast. But two more do the trick. One lower, one higher. I slam through the splinters. Ouch.
Just in time, too. I hear a breathtakingly loud THOOOMP! and dive for dirt, scrabbling desperately.
A cabin blows up behind me as I cover my head and scream to avoid losing my eardrums. Thank God it wasn't the one I'd just left. Seeing that possibility, and my current (nonsurvivable) distance of fifteen feet from my artificial door, I picked myself up and ran like hell around the perimeter.
I dodged between cabins, using them for concealment rather than cover.
A leisurely re-load. Line up. Shoot. On cue, THOOOMP! I dispense with covering my ears and scream while I keep running. Military grenade launchers! Fuck me!
I've sprinted around the perimeter and reach the cabin nearest the vehicles. Two hostiles. One with an M-79 grenade launcher, calmly reloading. A second with a scoped .30-.30 deer rifle. I hear the crackle of a radio from inside their cabin. No, a third.
Now, I knew why they were willing to blow up their camp rather than risk not killing me. They were in radio contact with the asswipes below, who justifiably feared me.
Time to justify their opinion. I lined up on Mr. Marksman with the shotgun and blew big round holes in his back. So much for hesitation. I knew that hesitation would kill me.
The grenade freak spun, lined up, and hesitated. Sure, a point-blank explosive grenade in the chest would kill me. But that would leave him three meters from the explosion, which would probably kill him too.
"I SURRENDER!" he screamed as he opened the barrel and shook out the explosive round. He held the M-79 open in his right hand, dangling. His left twitched.
Now his buddy inside was warned. And I couldn't shoot the ruthless bastard.
I lined up on his chest.
"DROP IT!"
"DON'T SHOOT! I'M UNDERCOVER! A COP!"
Bullshit. Undercover agents do not cheerfully blow up cabins with military ordinance. I hesitated, and that was long enough for his left hand to slip a round into the chamber of his M-79 and point it at me.
Fucking lefties! Smart fucker, too. I shot him. His weapon went off into the ground as he fell on top of it, dead. Blowback is caused by muscle spasms, not bullet impact.
I was mildly surprised to sense no explosion. He must have loaded the right round for the situation -- 40mm shotgun. Half a second slower and I'd have been the one with the chest blown out.
I spun and covered the door.
"I'LL KILL HIM IF YOU COME IN!"
Female voice, terrified. How invigorating.
I tried a gambit that could cost me long years in prison. After the events of this afternoon, I strongly doubted it would matter.
"POLICE OFFICER! COME OUT UNARMED AND I GUARANTEE YOUR SAFETY!"
"FUCK YOU, PIG! DON'T TRY SHIT! I MEAN IT!"
Nice try. 1) I'm not a cop. 2) I've got bad guys below who are calling for serious help: local if they've got it, and police if they don't. 3) I'm terrified too. 4) You're the one holding a hostage.
I looked at the cabin roof for the antenna which had to be there, lined up on it, and BOOM!
I topped up the shotgun as I shouted.
"YOU'RE CUT OFF AND SURROUNDED."
I circled around to the back of the cabin. I desperately tried to remember the interior layout of the first cabin I'd entered. Beds on right, desks and chairs on the left. I popped my head up next to a window and peeked inside.
Hostile female facing the door of the cabin, armed and glancing around wildly. A body on a bed -- on the other side of the cabin. Her eyes meet mine. I decide between dodge and duck. Duck it is.
A burst of autofire walks through the wall and to the right, just over my head. I run to the cabin door as she fights to bring her rifle around. M-16.
It seems like a good time to piss my pants. So I did.
I line up on her. I try to learn from stupid mistakes. No more chances to surrender, no "FREEZE!" commands. I aim high. BOOM! Miss Headless slithers to the floor.
I run to the body on the bed. He's on his side, bound and gagged. Fuck. I pull a knife and cut off the gag. Tolliver --dead or unconscious. I slit the ties, then check for a pulse. Unconscious. Fuck squared.
I leave him on his side, put my shotgun next to him, and recover the lady's M-16. I reload using a blood-covered magazine from her belt, and switch over to a much more sensible three-round burst mode. Gee, I hope none of these fucks had HIV, or hepatitis for that matter. Least of my worries at the moment.
I bail out of the cabin and do a fast recon of the camp. No one else. Instead of checking the latrine stalls myself, I put a burst through one. No panicked hostiles run out. I stay very very alert -- never know who might have been hiking, or who might be coming up the road on foot.
Back to the cabin. Tolliver shows no signs of gaining consciousness. I check the blood-splattered map on the wall. This cabin must have been their command center. Just in case they've got a spare antenna, I smash their radio.
I'd studied the maps of this area extensively -- topographical and road. The Boy Scout camp wasn't listed, but the roads were. Only one way out by road, and that's down. Through an ambush if I'm lucky; through police if I'm not.
My plan had a serious flaw -- I didn't expect Klein to have multiple vehicles. After all, three of the seven followers I'd put in jail were still in custody. That left five, no, four with Klein dead. But I'd seen at least a dozen Klanscritters.
For all I know, I'd walked in on a Klan regional conference. Tens? Hundreds? Shit.
I shrugged. Better for Tolliver and I to die on or near a public roadway than in the middle of this camp.
I picked up and slung my shotgun, then put Tolliver over my shoulder in a fireman's carry. This left my right hand free for the M-16. The forty feet to the station wagon was non-trivial. I had to put down the M-16 to open a door and gently put J.T. on the back seat, again on his side.
I didn't like the idea of driving through a roadblock with an unconscious man in back, but I didn't see that I had any choice in the matter. I put both weapons in front, started the station wagon, and hauled ass out of camp.
Three minutes later I saw men with guns on the road. Guess I did disable the car after all.
They saw me and leveled their weapons. I ducked and mashed the gas pedal to the floor. The windshield blew out under their massed fire, and I heard a serious CRUNCH! as I drove over one of them.
I hoped Tolliver hadn't been hit, but I had no time to look as I threw on the brakes and emergency brakes to stop before throwing the station wagon down the same nasty turn I'd confronted on the way up. I released the emer brakes and floored it again.
Predictably, Klein's surviving team members had pushed their vehicle to block the outgoing gate. All were armed now and opened fire on sight.
Instead of ramming their car, which would probably kill J.T., I drove through the barbed-wire fence to one side and tore out onto the roadway. My tires didn't blow out, and their massed volley of inaccurate fire missed more often than not.
I kept the pedal to the metal as I remembered to turn left instead of right. The nearest hospital was twenty miles to the right, but the nearest California Department of Forestry fire station was eleven miles to the left.
I made it there in ten agonizing minutes and tore to a halt in front of the station. Two firefighters were working under a truck in the garage. I honked frenziedly. They barked their heads painfully and got out from under.
"MAN DOWN!" I screamed at them. "MEDIC UP, NOW!"
One approached, one scrambled for the back of the station.
"What the fuck?"
"White male, 22 years of age, unconscious, probably sedated, kept in restraints for past three days."
As I poured all of this out, I opened the door and pulled Tolliver out.
Quite properly, the firefighter barked "DON'T TOUCH HIM!" He feared spinal injuries.
Not much I could do about that. I pulled Tolliver out anyway and laid him down on the concrete, on his side. I did a fast sweep of his body for gunshot wounds.
"I don't think he was hit, but check."
I figured hit by what was self-evident, with a bullet-riddled vehicle and blood all over me. The CDF paramedics ran up with their equipment and started running a protocol; the first firefighter moved to me. I glared at him with my hate face and he wisely stopped. Two more at the back of the station moved in opposite directions out of my sight, nothing good for me in that.
"I'm not hit. There are some serious armed motherfuckers on the way here right now. They tried to kill both of us. I've gotta move. They will kill all of us if I don't. Get him inside or they'll know!"
With that, I dove back into the station wagon (whose engine I hadn't stopped) and tore back down the road the way I'd come. I used the odometer to gauge how far it was to my motorcycle.
A timer was now running in my head. CDF calls CHP and county sheriff. One CHP patrol car in the area. Fifty-fifty chance it approaches from far side, in which case it will stop at Klein's roadside party and call for serious backup. Approach from near side will race at 90 MPH towards CDF station. If they see a station wagon, they'll stop it -- hard. But a motorcyclist, glimpsed for a fraction of a second -- not worth it. I mean, what are the odds of someone stashing a motorbike against just this contingency? You guessed it -- slim.
With that, I screeched to a halt and drove the station wagon off the road. I had prints on the steering wheel, doors, all over the fucking thing. I didn't bother to hide them.
No way to hide what had happened. Tolliver's rescue would doom all of my foes to long stays in Federal prison, not to mention military weapons possession etc. They would sing like a canary about my involvement.
I bailed on the station wagon, got on the motorcycle, put on my helmet, powered up, and took off like a bat out of hell. Ninety MPH sounded like a safe minimum. I passed the CDF station. It was a blur; all I could see was that the garage door was closed, which meant that they had taken my warning seriously.
Eight minutes later a CHP patrol cruiser flashed past me with red lights and siren. As predicted, it did not attempt to pursue me -- but the officer would call it in on his radio. I knew what an emergency response could draw into this area, and it wasn't pretty.
They would expect me to flee to Los Angeles. Besides, the CHP barracks and county seat were both to the south. Easier to set up roadblocks. Instead, I headed east. They would have checkpoints up within two hours, looking for anything suspicious.
Seventeen hair-raising minutes and two major intersections later, I pulled off onto a side road. A light truck was pulled over at the side of the road. A man appeared to be working underneath it. A woman sat watching at the side of a road, next to a large duffel bag.
I pulled the cycle over and parked it alongside the truck to discourage casual viewing, although traffic on this road had been light.
"Howdy, partner!" the man said. I knew he wasn't exactly holding a wrench.
"She's no good at cocksucking," I said calmly, and the pistol came to undisguised aim.
"Nope, I haven't even given her any crack yet," he replied as he scrambled out from under the truck and ran to the back. My good friend Laura picked up the duffel bag. I heard the back door go up.
"Are you hot?"
"Not yet, but I sure as hell will be."
I rolled the bike towards the back while he rigged a ramp. I rolled the bike up the ramp; he threw it in after me as Laura clambered after. The driver slammed down the back door and locked it. Padlocked from the outside and a fresh seal. No reason for CHP to suspect the driver.
I started tying down the bike preparatory to transport. Laura looked at me, helped secure it, then pulled out her medical packs.
"Strip all clothing into this bag, now. Are you hit?"
"No, just miscellaneous cuts and bruises."
She handed me generous wads of alcohol wipes and paper towels. The former hurt like hell; the latter didn't help much.
Laura went to work on the various cuts on my body. She pulled a glass sliver out of my right buttock, which I hadn't even felt until five minutes on the cycle. I'd picked it up in the station wagon.
"Outcome?"
"Tolliver's at the CDF station. They pressed the panic button; I passed a CHP on the way here. I'm alive and in one piece, but I left behind lots of physical evidence."
"You're a fugitive."
"Right."
"Turn yourself in, admit nothing?"
"I need time to think. A day at the most."
She thought. Was our friendship enough to commit felonies for my sake? Even brief ones?
"OK. A day."
The driver pulled out. I knew him too, and I knew for a fact that Frank's gratitude extended to felonies. I'd saved his life when the police would have been too busy taking issue with his hobbies -- growing pot and hacking.
Laura met my eyes.
"How bad was it, Bruce?"
"Fucking horrible. You don't want to know. You could be called to testify."
"Yeah. I want to know anyway."
"I maimed three and killed at least seven."
I laid down the whole story. What, you want me to do it again for y'all?
Bloodthirsty voyeurs.
"Bruce."
The one word contained an ocean of love, concern, and acceptance. Laura and I are friends, not lovers. Even if she'd been born straight, our friendship is far more important to us. I risk my life for many things; I'd give it for her.
I wordlessly accepted her hug. I'm not a touchy-feeling person under the best of circumstances, but these were certainly not the best of circumstances.
I had crossed the line. Flagrantly. I could no longer pretend that what I was doing was even slightly legal. Detective Anderson's prophesy had come to pass. I was now a vigilante, and an unindicted felon. But not for long. The fingerprints would take care of that.
I had a hard decision ahead of me. Turn myself in? Go to jail, when white supremacist groups are so powerful in prison? Or live the rest of my life as a hunted fugitive, to be killed within days of capture.
My contacts are mostly legitimate people. Laura and Frank are exceptions, not the rule. I had no safety net of criminal associates and peers to fall back on. I'd worked in that world, but never lived in it.
Now I was a criminal, the type I'd hunted through paperwork and the Net, or fought in person with nasty words or the justifiable fist. I could only be consoled by one thought.
At least I'm not a racist asshole.
I blearily rubbed my eyes and crawled out of the nest of blankets. I'd slept for about a week -- but my watch said six hours. I saw that Laura had an intercom to Frank in front.
"A hour to the storage, Bruce. We got work to do. Frank stopped for breakfast and the paper."
"Got food in here?"
"Hey, you ask me to plan ahead or what?" I tore passionately into a stack of sandwiches.
Frank had rented a public storage space with a fake identity, in cash. SOP for him. Frank had lots of crap in there already; the bike would fit right in, after we cleaned it up. No fingerprints, yes, but definitely no blood. Ditto the truck.
Frank undid the back while Laura and I hid behind some crates in back . . . cliche, I know, but effective. He unloaded the bike, secured it, tossed in a newspaper, then locked the doors on us again.
I'd made the front page. "Firefight at Klan mountain camp leaves police baffled." Wanted in connection with the incident was "Bruce Anders, 20, out of jail on his own recognizance for allegedly inciting to riot a Klan group in San Jose." Unfair, but no APB out on me. Must still be doing interviews. Front page photo showed devastated camp with body bags in the foreground, counted by the coroner. Eight.
"A man matching Anders's description dumped J.T. Tolliver, a former member of the New Klan and missing since the 15th of last month, at the West Pines CDF station. He has been hospitalized in stable condition under heavy guard at an undisclosed location."
Good news, in all.
"Thanks for covering for me. Drop me off somewhere random in NorCal. I think I'll turn myself in."
"Are you sure?"
"I've got no stomach for the criminal life. If I die, I die. This way, I get to talk to some people before I go."
"Yeah." The unspoken clincher was that Laura would not be in any danger if I surrendered. I wouldn't mention her, and no one would even talk to her about the incident.
"Yeah."
I knew just where I would surrender, too.
"Thanks, Laura."
She'd given me a choice. Now I could go in on my own terms.
As always.
I went in the front door of the police station. I'd checked my voicemail from a pay phone. Detective Anderson had been brief and to the point.
"Bruce, there is a warrant out for your arrest. Turn yourself in when you get this message."
The desk staffer was a civilian volunteer and didn't notice me. I followed an officer through the security door. He glared as it clicked behind us.
"I've got an appointment with Anderson."
"Next time sign the roster, Anders you little fuck." Apparently, he hadn't gotten the word about a certain mountain incident. I sighed and walked to Anderson's office.
He was in, and on the phone. I came in and sat down without asking. He noticed, started visibly, then regained his composure and finished the phone call. He hung up.
"I thought you'd be well on your way to Mexico by now."
"Sorry. You tell me to come in, I come in. What do you want me for this time? Littering? Jaywalking?"
"Care to explain how your fingerprints came up BING-BING on a certain J.T. Tolliver's jacket, an M-16, a shotgun (shown as missing from this very fucking armory, by the way), a very fucked up station wagon, and last but sure as hell not least, an unexpended 12-gauge shell at the scene of eight fatalities?"
"No."
"Care to explain why half a dozen Klanscritters cheerfully signed up for long prison terms to identify you, Bruce Anders, as the badass perpetrator who maimed or killed almost a dozen people?"
"Stupidity, I guess."
"Now you're going to say that they all shot each other and planted evidence to implicate you."
"I'm not going to speculate on that without an attorney."
"I should hope not."
Anderson picked up the phone.
"I need some help in my office right now."
Then he drew his weapon and held it on me. I was shocked. He'd placed me under arrest before, under similarly dubious circumstances, and he'd never had occasion to use more than a harsh word.
"Last chance to kill yourself, Bruce."
I saw in his eyes that he meant it. He was offering me a clean death, instead of the knifing I was sure to get in County pending trial. I'd gotten released on my own recognizance last time . . . I'd get bail in the millions for this.
"Fuck off. Do your job. Find whoever really did it."
"Yeah, I'm not stupid. You won't say you saved Tolliver's life because that would be an admission of guilt -- but that's what you would say if you could. Guess what, Bruce?
"I DON'T CARE!" he roared. "J.T. is a worthless little fuck, and his baby sister is a whore. Ah, I see you didn't know. Here's her rap sheet. If you fell for her, you're an idiot."
"I didn't fall for Holly," I said quietly as additional officers arrived and drew down on me.
"So why did you sacrifice your entire life and future for a weak-kneed ex-New Klansman and his sister with VD? I fucking believed you would go straight. Six months ago I offered you a job in this very fucking department! Two years and you would have been a cop, and a damned good one! Once you lost your passion for violence!
"But you haven't! And you won't! You'll die, very soon, for that adrenalin rush. Was it worth it? WAS IT WORTH IT?"
"There, but for the grace of God go I."
"What the fuck do you mean by that?"
I pointed to the rap sheet on his desk, not caring if a nervous officer drilled me for the sudden movement. "THERE, but for the GRACE of GOD go I!"
He stopped as if pole-axed. Then he stared sightlessly at me. Then he looked at me, hard.
"I recognized myself in you, Bruce." He pointed at me. No longer furious, but very quiet.
"There but for the grace of God go I," he said in wonder.
Silence in the room. Anderson suddenly broke it.
"Take this dirtbag to a cell. No privileges, don't trust him. He's a murderer."
They slammed me against the wall and searched me. Anderson didn't bother to watch, but spun his chair around and buried his head in his hands. His officers frog-marched me to a cell and flung me in.
"No phone call, not yet," one said.
I sat on the concrete bunk. I knew this wasn't the end of the beginning; this was the beginning of the end.
I still didn't regret it. The world would be a far better place without the fuckers I'd waxed. And two dumb kids, Holly and J.T., had a chance.
I thought about the letter I'd write them. I thought long and hard about what I'd say, and how.
Holly and J.T.:
By the time you've read this letter, you'll know something you hadn't before. Through some miracle, you have a second chance at your lives. Don't thank me; I had nothing to do with it.
Keep this letter and read it again every few months.
Holly, remember that tool I borrowed from your father without his knowledge? Give it back to him with my compliments. Laura will tell you how to get hold of it from the police. Don't believe anything Detective Anderson or any other cop or crook or customer tells you. Believe this instead: you're a beautiful, loving, and very brave person.
J.T., I never met you, but I heard a lot about you from your sister. Frankly, I think you're a bit of a dork. Stand up for yourself and for Holly. You don't need a gang, a family, or a bunch of assholes like the Klan to be strong. You don't have to be a dork forever, you know. People grow up. I hope you do.
Both of you: live hard, die young, and leave a pretty corpse. Looks like I'm only going to manage two out of three.
Don't waste second chances. Once upon a time, I did -- and I will regret it for the rest of my life. You own your futures.
Love, Bruce
