Ever Onward (29 page)

“No, I guess they won’t,” Matthew
Bridger said. “Any sign of Chisolm?”

“Not yet,” Brad answered. “But his man
there says he should be back this afternoon.”

Bridger’s eyes narrowed. “Good. I’ve a
little score to settle with him before I weigh anchor.”

Josh steered them over to his camper.
Taking three cans of beer out of the small propane fridge, he
handed one to Brad, then Bridger. The three men popped the tops and
drank in silence.

“Gus says you sailed off down south,
Mr. Bridger. What brought you back here?”

“Bloody savages, that’s what! We
stopped at Portland. I have... had family there. Not any
more.”

“You didn’t see anyone at
all?”

Bridger shrugged. “We saw a few
crazies, and heard a number more. One old woman was standing in the
park screaming about the end of the world. I got Heather out of
there fast. We headed south to Boston, thinking that a huge city
like that must have some kind of order. Maybe even the power back
on.

“And?” Brad’s voice was high and
hopeful.

Bridger shook his head. “Worse that
Portland. Oh, things looked quiet, until we left the ship. Then we
saw the madness. Must have been a hundred people all watching as
they hung some guy up on a lamp post. I left Heather in an empty
store and went and asked what he’d done. The man I asked laughed
and said he’d broken the law. When I asked him what law, the fool
just laughed and said he’d refused to share his woman.” Bridger
drained his

beer. “I collected Heather and got the
hell out of there! By the time we got back to our boat it was dark.
Looking over the city, we saw that a large part of it was on
fire!”

Brad sighed. “So much for the big
cities. I wonder what New York is like.”

“Probably a madhouse!” Bridger said,
shaking his head. “I’m going to head south to the Caribbean, find
some small island and sit there for a year or so. Maybe by then law
and order will have returned.”

“Don’t count on it,” Josh said, “Not a
long as there are men like Chisolm still around.”

Bridger patted the rifle cradled in
his arm. “If I get him in my sights, he won’t be around for
long!”

Just then Eddy’s voice came over the
walky-talky. “Josh, Brad, pick up!”

Brad leaned in and grabbed the
receiver. They could just see Eddy standing beside his van a
quarter mile down the road. “What is it, Eddy?”

“Company’s coming. A big green four by
four. A red truck behind it. Both coming fast!”

Brad looked at Josh, who was already
reaching for the Coach Gun on the back seat. “Tell him to stay out
of sight till they go past, then move in behind. And tell him to
watch his ass!”

“Eddy, you get that?”

“Got it. No problem.”

Josh was already half way to the Clam
Bar.

Brad and Bridger ran after
him.

Chapter 23
: ‘NECESSARY
FORCE’

Bar Harbour

Maine July
22

John Chisolm was in a foul mood. That
in itself was nothing new; since The Change he was rarely in
anything else. But this time it went beyond just being pissed off
and bordered on rage. Sitting in the front of the new Ford four by
four, he gazed out in a red mental haze as the empty town of Bar
Harbor flowed by. He’d lived here all of his fifty-seven years, as
had his father before him and his father before him. The processing
plant had been run by his family for damn near a century! The name
Chisolm was known up and down the coast of Maine. The name meant
something! Stood for something, by God!

Yet those bastards back in Camden had
turned on him! Him! John Winston Chisolm! He struck the dash of the
Ford Explorer. Pain shot up his hand, washing away the rage that
had all but engulfed him, leaving in its red wake a newer, sweeter
thought. He’d make them pay! Christ, yes! He’d make those arrogant
bastards pay and pay dearly! They’d bleed fucking tears of sorrow
before he was through! He would collect Roland and that smart mouth
Terry and he’d go back there and burn their bloody town to the
ground! Camden! What was it anyway but a place where the rich and
pampered gathered to play in the summer! Big, fancy houses with
tennis courts and private docks for their pretty little boats! He’d
soon teach the snot-nosed little ass-wipes to fear the name John
Chisolm!

Kaream, whose real name was Ugean
Gimps, a fact that Ugean wanted desperately to keep as dead as his
bible thumpin’ mamma, looked over at the Old Man. For a honky,
Chisolm he wasn’t half bad. Crazy as hell, but smart. Kaream liked
that, the smart part, mainly because he knew he himself wasn’t. He
was strong, always had been, but his strength was from the neck
down. Together they made a good pair. And the Old Man didn’t seem
to mind that Kaream was black. Most folks did, but not the Old Man.
He treated everyone exactly the same --- like shit.

When IT happened, Kaream had been
working at the Plant, forking tuna onto the conveyer belt. There
must have been a dozen people around him. Suddenly they were all
gasping and choking and falling down. Sam Gruber slumped over onto
the belt. By the time he was dumped into the bin, there was nothing
left of him but a sack of old clothes. Looking around, he saw more
of the same. Everyone had just kind of dried up and melted.
Kaream-Ugean had almost shit his pants, while his long-dead momma’s
voice had started hollerin’ in his head about ‘Judgment Day n’ His
Divine Wrath’ n’ a whole sack o’ shit that made his head
ache.

Then he’d looked up and saw the Old
Man standing there. Time itself had seemed to have gotten stuck on
something, like in a fucked-up coke-dream. Then he’d noticed that
the Old Man’s face was in shadow. Looking around he saw the day had
somehow slipped away. When he turned back, the Old Man was looking
right at him; looking at him the way he figured God Himself would
when He was real pissed off. Kaream-Ugean felt that stare go
through him like a kick in the nuts. Then the Old Man had crooked
his finger and Kaream had shuffled on over. Standing there with the
dead all around him, Kaream was reminded of a picture his Momma had
kept over the bed. Moses on the Mount. Moses had looked real pissed
off too.

“They’ll pay!”, the Old Man had
hissed. “They killed my boys and by God they’ll pay! You and I will
see to it!”

Kaream no idea who was going to do the
paying, but that didn’t bother him none. No sir! He followed him
into the plant and had been following him ever since. It bothered
him a little that the Old Man was so hard on the ones they found,
but then, he was the brains and Kaream was only the muscle.
Together they made a good pair.

“What’s this shit?”, Chisolm
growled.

Kaream snapped back into reality, or
at least, what passed for reality in this fucked-up world. They’d
almost reached the plant. At first he wondered what the Old Man was
on about. Nothing looked different. Roland’s new pick-up was parked
outside in its usual place. Nobody was in the street.

Then he saw the white van. There was
another one parked just beyond it. He was almost certain they
weren’t there when they left three days ago.

“Stop here!”

Kaream slammed on the brakes. The
cattle truck behind almost rammed into them. Old Man Chisolm drew
the automatic his father had brought back from his tour of duty in
Viet Nam and got out.

“Bring the shotgun.”

Kaream grabbed the Riot gun he’d taken
from a Maine Trooper’s smashed car. The Trooper hadn’t seemed to
mind at the time. He’d taken the man’s .38 as well. Benny and Lynn
had got most of their guns the same way. All four of them were now
out in the street.

“What’s up, Mr. Chisolm?”, Lynn
asked.

Kaream didn’t like Lynn. He knew she
hated the Old Man, but she was always polite to his face. They’d
found her drunk in the park a couple of days after IT had happened.
At first the Old Man had kept her tied up. But she’d pleaded and
smiled and said she’d do anything if he’d untie her --- anything at
all. The next day the Old Man had put her to the test.

They had come across an old woman
pushing a shopping cart down the main street. She was talking to
herself and paid no attention to them when they stopped. The cart
was full of nick-knacks taken from the fancy boutiques. The Old Man
had pumped a shell into his automatic, removed the clip, and handed
it to Lynn.

“Shoot her and I’ll untie you,” he’d
said.

Lynn had looked at the heavy gun with
her beady ferret-like eyes.

“You only have one round, girl. Shoot
me and my man here will gut you like a fish and leave you for the
gulls.”

Lynn had smiled, taken the gun,
pressed it against the crazy woman’s ear and pulled the
trigger.

Benny, Roland and Terry had been
baptized in the same wild fire. Only Kaream hadn’t been forced to
use the Old Man’s gun. Kaream was proud of that. He was the muscle,
the Old Man the brains. Together they made a good pair.

Now, standing there in the quiet
street, Chisolm pointed at the two vans parked opposite his plant.
“Strangers come calling. Let’s give them a warm
welcome.”

Lynn drew a .38 from the front of her
jeans while Benny ran back for his shotgun. A moment later all four
of them were walking down the street.

Josh and Matthew Bridger were in the
front part of the Lobster Bar. The rest of the people they’d freed
were crowded in the back kitchen. Brad was outside by the large
stone fireplace. He’d told Billy to back the tow-truck up a side
alley opposite restaurant. Though he couldn’t see her, Josh knew
Tina

would be in the chair behind the cab.
Eddy was out there somewhere behind Chisolm and his motley
crew.

Matthew Bridger, anxiously checking
Terry’s rifle, suddenly leaned close to Josh. “What do you have
planned? Call out for them to surrender? Shoot them where they
stand? What?”

Josh looked into his tanned face, not
quite sure if he liked what he saw. “We’ll try the first one. If
that doesn’t work, we’ll use what force is necessary.”

Bridger seemed about to argue when a
man’s voice interrupted. “Excuse me, mister, but if there’s going
to shooting, I wouldn’t mind shooting back.”

Josh looked around and saw one of the
men who’d been tied up in the plant. He was tall and bearded and
still a bit shaky from his ordeal, but he had a look in his eye
that couldn’t be denied.

Josh held out his shotgun. “You ever
used one of these?”

Taking the gun, the man smiled warmly.
“Mister, I’ve been duck hunting ever since I can
remember!”

Josh passed over the belt of shells
and drew his Beretta.

“I’d like one of those.” This came
from Bridger’s daughter, Heather. She stood in the kitchen doorway,
her expression one of suppressed anger.

Josh looked at the deadly instrument
in his hand, then back to the young woman. Something deep in his
gut told him that the Beretta and Ms. Bridger had a good deal in
common. He thought of the small .22 Backup he had strapped to his
ankle and lied.

“Sorry, I’m all sold out.”

She walked towards him, a knowing
smile on her pretty but cold face. “You’re either being
chauvinistic or gallant; either way I still want a
weapon.”

“Here, take mine,” Jessie said,
handing here his .22 target pistol. “I’ve got my bow.”

Heather Bridger accepted the light gun
with a formal nod. “I thank you, fair archer. May your bolts fly
straight and true.”

Jessie blushed. “No sweat.”

Brad appeared at the side door.
“They’re coming, Josh. Walking right down the bloody
street!”

“Armed?”

“To the teeth! They must have spotted
the vans!”

Josh frowned. He’d hoped to catch them
off guard. He’d been stupid not to hide the vans. Now it was too
late.

“Where’s Flame?”

Brad shrugged. “I thought she was in
here.”

Josh swore, then turned to the boys.
Jessie held up one hand. “I know, Dad. ‘Stay here with the
dogs’.”

Josh shifted his gaze to Bridger. “See
that they do.” He nodded to the bearded man holding his shotgun,
then followed Brad out the side door.

“For Christ sake, Roland, hold the
damned thing still! You want me to cut my fucking
wrists?!”

Roland didn’t really give a shit if
Terry cut his throat. All he wanted was the pain in his balls to go
away from when Flame had kneed him.

“Bitch!”, Roland muttered. “Suckered
me good, she did. But the Old man will fix her good!”

“Hold the fucking knife still or
you’ll fix us both!” Terry himself wasn’t exactly having one of his
better days. But he’d gotten Roland to fumble the switchblade out
of his back pocket and spring the blade. Now, if the drooling idiot
could only hold the fucking thing still he’d soon have his hands
free!

Terry sawed away blindly, his shoulder
screaming from straining around the telephone pole. His hands were
sticky and wet; blood probably, but it didn’t matter. What did
matter was getting some fucking payback!