Ever Onward (50 page)

Walter bowed, his ferret-like eyes
agleam. “As you wish, My Liege.”

When the Change came ten
months ago, Walter had seen Jocco as his savior, an Anti-Christ
come to fill the void left by a non-existent God. Since then Walter
had altered his thinking drastically. Now Jocco seemed like little
more than a smart bully leading dull ones. True, he had the
charisma and leadership abilities that Walter lacked, but he didn’t
posses the far-reaching view of things that Walter did. Jocco lived
from day to day, while Walter dreamed of the ‘Big Picture’. For now
he was content to let Jocco sit on his petty throne, as long as he
pulled the real strings of power.

‘Oh what a tangled web we
weave,

When first we practice to
deceive.’

The future, Walter was sure, would take
care of itself.

Chapter 3
8
:
‘SCAR’

Lord Walter’s Main Temple

(formerly St. Mary’s Col.)

Beverly Hills, California,

May 7
^th
, First
Year A.C.

Standing in front of the mirror, the
man straightened his clean fatigues and tugged his black beret down
to a rakish angle. The silver pin it sported was the perfect
counter balance to the black silk eyepatch. The image that stared
back at him was a far cry from the one he’d have seen five months
ago. Then he’d been little more than a torn and tattered scarecrow
with a scarred face and an infected eye socket. Now he saw a
soldier; a commander of men; bold, daring, someone that you
definitely did not want to fuck with.

Like the number of roads he had
traveled in his rather eventful life, his list of names seemed
endless. Little Brucy to his alcoholic mother; Bruce the Goose to
the neighborhood toughs he’d hung out with; Master Drill-Sergeant
Chillis to the grunts at Fort Bragg. When the world got terminally
fucked up a year ago he became Rambo, then One Eye the Wanderer and
most recently, Captain Scar of the Royal Tax Guards.

He’d come a long way since being
picked up by one of Jocco’s Sweep Teams. A hell of a long way. But
now it all seemed worth it. He thought back on the ‘test’ they’d
given him. After a meal and a couple of beers, they’d put him in a
room with a naked woman tied to the bed. With his one good eye he’d
gazed coldly back at the two soldiers dressed in clean army
fatigues, then moved towards the bed. The woman, her eyes glazed
from drugs, took no notice of his scarred face. Still, she’d
shivered at his touch. He remembered the feel of her sweat-slicked
skin, the smell of her unwashed body.

“Well, Ugly?”, one guard had said.
“Are you going to do her or not?”

He remembered gently moving his hand
over her flat stomach, up between the boney valley of her small
breasts and on up to her slender neck. The woman gave a little
moan, sounding like a frightened animal. With a twist of his large
hand he’d snapped her neck. The frightened mouth relaxed in a
grateful smile.

“Jesus Christ! You can’t
---”

He knocked the first guard on his ass,
drove the second guard’s head into the wall and jabbed stiffened
fingers into the first’s guard’s exposed neck. Both men were out
cold. He then gathered their weapons and waited quietly on the bed.
It wasn’t a long wait. An officer barged in, followed by several
other guards. The scarred man handed over the weapons and casually
asked if he’d passed the test. The officer, a southern-roughneck
named Bobby-Joe Burlis, scratched his head and said he’d let him
know. Scar had shrugged and left.

The next day a guy with a long robe
and a shaved head told him somebody called Lord Walter wanted to
see him. Lord Walter turned out to be a skinny little shit with
glasses; he also turned out to be one of the craftiest buggers Scar
had ever met. He explained how he wanted to start his own little
army, independent from the Great Jocco’s and that he wanted someone
with no ties to the Dark Army to head it. He’d provide the men and
weapons while Scar provided the knowledge and training.

A line from a Dillon song
had popped into his head. ‘When you aint got nothing, you got
nothing to loose.’ “Why the fuck not?”, he’d replied. Lord Walter
had kept his word and the man known as Scar had been working for
the little prick ever since.

Now, five months later, Jocco the
Great had finally noticed him.

He wasn’t too sure how he felt about
that. He had it soft working for Wicked Walter. The tax priests did
most of the work, all he and his men did was guard the shit the
priests collected. Sure, it meant spending a hell of a lot of time
on the road, and you never knew when a robber or some pissed off
peasant would take a shot of you, but it was still a hell of a lot
better than the four months he’d spent reaching
California.

His mind cast back over those tough
times and, despite the warm spring night, he shivered.

Those crazy farmers had trailed us for
months! All the way from the fucking east coast! That stupid shit,
One Arm, was still alive then. Him and Straw and Hank and Vinni.
The three bitches too. Marla, Carie and Wonda. Carie had been
alright. She could hold her own and shoot better than most men.
That peroxide cunt Wanda though, was something else! Always coming
on to the men, teasing them, sticking her big jugs in their faces.
He remembered catching her and Vinni going at it one night on guard
duty. He’d kicked the shit out of both of them. Vinni had taken it,
but not Wanda the Bitch-Witch. She’d gone wining to One Arm. When
the stupid cripple had told him to back off, Scar had come close to
gutting the bastard.

He moved to the table and poured
himself another drink. Not the watered shit Jocco’s troops got.
Nothing but the best for Lord Walter’s tax guards. He tossed off
half the glass, went to fill it, then stopped. It wouldn’t do to
meet Jocco three sheets to the wind.

He smiled to himself. A year ago he
would have chugged the bottle. Since joining the Guards, Mrs.
Chillis’ little Brucy was wising up, thinking ahead, even setting
goals for himself. He’d cut back on the booze and stopped drugs
altogether. Started working out too. Christ! He felt in as good a
shape now as he had when he was in the Army! And when you came
right down to it, saying ‘Lord’ wasn’t much different than
‘Sir’.

He’d also left those crazy farmers
behind. Even if they did follow him south, they couldn’t get at him
now, not with a hundred Guards under his command.

Yet they still haunted his dreams.
There were nights he woke up in a cold sweat, sensing them getting
closer, closer...

“Fuck that shit!”, he said out loud,
reaching for the glass. But after the first swallow, he pushed it
away. The memories however, were not so easily shoved
aside.

Hank’s brains splattering all over the
windshield just outside of Buffalo; Marla disappearing into the
North Dakota night. Then there’d been that time in Wyoming when
Vinni sprouted a fucking arrow in his throat! They’d fled west
then, racing for the coast. They’d almost made it when the ambush
happened. Carie and One Arm both bought the farm on that
one!

Scar knew in his guts that the farmers
were responsible. They’d been hounding them for months; always just
behind them or waiting round the next bend. He’d fed south then,
just him, Straw and Wanda the Witch. In Reno he’d swapped Wanda for
a spare tire and a tank of gas. Bikers got the jeep and Straw just
outside of San Francisco. By the time Jocco’s Sweep Team picked him
up near Fresno he was little more than a walking
skeleton.

Ya, things had changed a
hell of a lot since then! But a dark corner of his mind still
wondered where the crazy farmers were. Part of him didn’t want to
know, yet another part, the larger part, hungered for
revenge.

The poker game had long since been
abandoned by the time the man known as Scar arrived. Guards outside
the wrought-iron gates of the U.C.L.A. campus had verified his pass
and collected his weapons. They’d been damned good too; finding the
hide-out gun strapped to his leg and the spring-knife up his
sleeve. He didn’t mind. He hadn’t come here to off anyone. Besides,
he still had his hands and feet, and up close that’s all he’d
need.

A young private led him over the
university grounds to the marble steps of the faculty building. Two
more guards checked his pass, frisked him once more and showed him
through the massive doors. A female orderly led him to the main
hall, announced him, then left. He’d never been to one of Jocco’s
little shin-digs, but he’d heard the rumors. Now he saw first hand
that what he’d heard was true. King Jocco the First was a real
party-animal.

A long table, littered with the
remains of a meal, dominated one end of the room. Despite the warm
night, the fireplace was blazing. Generators had been hooked up to
run the lights. Rock music blasted. Several people, all
semi-dressed and completely whacked, danced around. A dozen other
people just lounged about. All were laughing and drinking and doing
dope. One couple was humping away under the table.

Then a man with wild hair and wilder
eyes was beside him. A long bayonet in a gilded scabbard hung from
his camouflage webbing. He’d seen Pussbag before, but only from a
distance. Up close he was even more off the wall than he’d
thought.

“Come. He’s waiting.”

Scar followed the weird looking man
down to the far end of the room. Dancers, drinkers and naked women
parted before them like Moses doing his thing at the Red Sea. Even
the noise seemed to fade away.

And there, on the far shore, sat
Jocco.

Scar held the other man’s gaze for
what seemed like an eternity. It wouldn’t do to show any weakness
here.

“Should I kneel, kiss your ring or
what?”

Pussbag, standing beside the throne,
stiffened. Jocco’s wolf-gray eyes never flinched. “What do you want
to do?” The voice was as cold as the eyes, yet strangely
soft.

Scar looked around. “Have a
beer.”

Jocco nodded to an aid, then turned
back. “How did you get those scars?”

“A hunting accident.”

“And the eye?”

“Same way.”

“I’m told you were a military man.
What was your rank?”

“Drill sergeant, Fort
Bragg.”

“Were you any good?”

Scar shrugged. “I work for Lord Walter
now. Ask him.”

Jocco leaned forward. “I’m asking
you.”

“Ya, I was good. Still am.”

“And these tax guards you command, are
they up to your high standards?”

Scar glanced at Jocco’s officers
before responding. “As good as anything you’ve got.”

“Really?” Jocco motioned for Roy
Heller to join them. “You know Major Heller?”

The scarred man shook his head. “I’ve
heard of him”.

Jocco’s eyebrow shot up. “And just
what have you heard?”

Something that might once have been a
smile crossed his scarred features. It was not a pretty sight.
“That his troop kicked a lot of ass during the draught down
south.”

Jocco sat back, looking the one-eyed
man up and down. “Major Heller and his men are going on another
little mission for me. They’re objective is to find a rebels camp
and eliminate it. I was thinking of sending some of Lord Walter’s
tax guards along. Interested?”

The beer arrived and Scar took a sip.
“That depends. What’s in it for me?”

Jocco leaned back, ready to set the
hook. “The usual. Fame and fortune.”

Scar grunted. “Shit, fame is for
assholes. As for money, Lord Walter already pays me more than I can
spend.”

Taken back, Jocco frowned. “A man of
few appetites, or at least, not the usual ones. Tell me captain,
what is it that you do want?”

For the first time during the
interview, fire came into Scar’s good eye. He jabbed a thumb at his
mutilated face. “What I want is to get the bastards that did
this!”

His interest pricked, Jocco again
leaned forward. “I would have thought, since you now command Lord
Walter’s tax guards, revenge would be easily come by.”

“Not when the bastards are over three
thousand miles away!”

Jocco’s eyebrows creased. An
interesting twist this. Now, how best to use it? “And just where
are these
‘bastards’
you seek?”

“In a little shit-burg way outside of
New York,” Scar growled.

“New York City?”, Jocco asked,
disbelief heavy in his voice.

Scar nodded and drained his
beer.

“In a world gone mad, you traveled
three thousand miles, wounded and alone? You expect me to
believe
that?”

“Believe what you want, Lord. All I
know is that it took me over four months to cross the country,
fighting every step of the way. There was over a dozen of us at the
start --- even picked up some others on the way. None of them made
it but me. Hell, if some of your boys hadn’t found me, I’d be dead
too.” Scar glanced around, holding up his empty can. “Any more
beer?”

Suddenly insight struck Jocco like a
bolt from the blue. A plan began to form in his mind; something
that, until now, would have seemed too grandiose even for him.
Grandiose, yet simple at the same time. Control of not only the
west coast, but the east as well! His mind’s eye began to lay it
all out before him; the Army of the Dark Stranger rolling eastward;
through the mountains, across the plains and on into the booty-rich
cities along the Atlantic. From Miami to New York --- his for the
taking! Like a modern day Alexander, he would carve out not just a
petty kingdom, but an empire! The cost would be enormous, but then
the guns, slaves and coins they would bring back would pay for the
trip a thousand times over!”