The Rabid Brigadier (2 page)

Stone tried to calm himself and be objective as he started forward toward the next three, their steel blades and axes caught
for a split second by an errant beam of the moon, flashing into his eyes with a telegram of death. He didn’t have to kill
all of them, for Christ’s sake, he thought to
himself as he suddenly changed direction in mid-stride, pulling them off balance for a second. Just get through them, to the
road ahead. He could outrun them there. There was just this three, and then two beyond them.
It was a football game, that’s all
, he tried to bullshit himself,
and I’m the ball
.

Plan made, Stone came straight toward the three rather anxious individuals who were zeroing in on his body like it was Christmas
roast, and again feinted to the right, so that all three of them veered that way. Like a receiver in full stride, he turned
his leg and pushed off with the right foot, suddenly spinning him away from them again, catapulted by the force of the motion
like a ricocheting rock. He swung the machete forward as he spun by the closest of the scavengers, a man with a long black
beard that reached almost to his stomach and a mat of twisted hair piled high on his head. The motion was so quick that none
of them quite realized what had happened for a second. Stone just suddenly was gone—and then the two scavengers turned and
saw their pal with his hands to his face screaming, or trying to scream.

For the machete had gone point first into the opened mouth of the man, cutting all the way into his throat and out the back
of his neck. It was as if he was a sword swallower, only he wasn’t. His eyes rolled back in his head, looking like overcooked
eggs about to burst their shells as the man tried to scream. But with the blade filling his entire oral cavity it was a little
difficult. A gush of liquid swam out from all sides of the machete as his severed jugular vein fed out a stream of red through
his lips. He looked as if he was one of those statues rich people or would-be’s had on their lawn, spitting out a little fountain
of water. Only this was blood.

His black beard turned red, bright red, red as Santa’s
Christmas hat, and gurgling pink bubbles of foam he fell forward. The handle of the blade slammed butt-end first into the
dirt, pushing with all the weight of the scavenger’s two-hundred-seventy pounds plus into the machete, pushing the blade in
a kind of circular motion. The sharp edge sliced through everything that was left and the entire head pulled free of the body,
somehow still horribly alive—eyes rolling, quivering lips whispering moans of incredible pain.

But Stone was long gone. The moment he felt the machete dig in he let go of it and shot forward. The remaining two, huge leather-faced
things, with spikes where teeth should have been, their frames covered over in immense, badly sewn buffalo hides that still
stank of bison urine, came toward him. One was swinging a long axe, the other twirling a hooklike weapon that he swung on
the end of a spiked chain. Just the kind of guys you’d like to go bowling with. Stone watched the orbiting hook coming in
toward his chest like a meat hook searching for meat to sink into and timed himself. As the orbit just took it by, he launched
himself straight toward the bearer. By the time the hook spun around again, Stone was already inside the man’s reach. He caught
the inside of the hook with his left hand as he slammed his knife hand up and inside right between the man’s legs.

The scavenger seemed to shoot like a rocket into the blood-scented air as his genitals exploded from his body. He had the
most terrified expression Stone had ever seen on a man. Stone grabbed the handle of the hook as it fell from the air. The
wood-cutting axe of the attacker bit into the dirt just inches from his foot as Stone let the hook go toward the man’s chest.

The tip of the hook caught the flesh scavenger just beneath the rib cage and as soon as he felt it dig in, Stone pulled back
hard like a fisherman landing a bass. The eight
inch hook dug deep up and under the ribs, hooking into the right lung. Stone stepped back another yard, pulled on the chain
as the man came helplessly forward, walking as if on his toes, as he sucked in hard for air. Stone wrapped both forearms around
the chain and pulled with every once of strength. The hook ripped forward and tore right through the rib cage of the man,
exploding in a tidal wave of blood and lung and whatever the hell else is stuck up there inside the chest. It was as if a
bomb had gone off inside him. He toppled forward like a tree pouring blood and lay there quivering and letting out sounds
that sounded like the mews of a dying kitten.

Stone rose to his feet and raised the knife hand, ready for the next man. And still they came toward him, howling in mad rage
even after seeing six of their number slaughtered like cattle. The son-of-bitches were stupid or brave. Maybe they were the
same fucking thing, Stone thought disgustedly. But he didn’t have to fight them anymore. The road lay just ahead. Dark, snow-covered,
but he could beat them in a flat race. He turned in a flash and shot into the dancing shadows as the moon flickered in and
out of the darkening clouds overhead, creating a kaleidoscope of rippling ribbons of darkness and light. They lumbered after
him, screaming, enraged, swinging their slicers with wild flailing arms. They came down the road in their stinking furs and
thick coats of handmade armor from wired-together rows of tin cans like a herd of mastodons who didn’t know they were already
extinct. But Stone was gone, disappearing into the darkness. They kept on for almost fifty yards, with a lot of huffing and
puffing just for face’s sake. Then they stopped.

CHAPTER
Two

I
F DOGS can pray then this one was praying with all the fervor of its canine heart, praying a message of supreme thanks that
Martin Stone was walking toward it from out of the mist-shrouded forests. The bull terrier had begun to think that he was
never coming back, that he was gone, or dead. It had greedily eaten all its food and water within the first few hours of his
departure. Subsequently it had had nothing for days while it stayed hidden in the thick bush where Stone had left it and the
Harley. But now he was here. It would drink. It would eat.

Its eyes grew big as creampuffs and it whined out a shrill childlike screech as its muscular white body trembled wildly. Suddenly,
as if unable to contain its enthusiasm, the bull terrier jumped high in the air, twisting around in a corkscrew motion like
a dolphin spinning in water. Stone couldn’t help but laugh and grabbed the dog around the collar, pulling it toward him so
it slammed into his chest, bounced off him,
hit the ground and then shot right back up again like a cue ball looking for a game of billiards. It put its paws on his chest
and sniffed him with a strange expression. Stone looked down and saw that he was covered from just below the neck to mid-thigh
with blood and specks of purple flesh. The dog sniffed hard again and then jumped down to the ground in disgust. Good, Stone
thought. Excaliber wouldn’t lick human blood. He didn’t want it to ever acquire a taste for homo sapiens or a hell of a lot
of people would be missing tails, and other things. But the bull terrier was smart; it knew that mankind was too bitter a
steak to chew.

“Yeah, I’m here. Master is back.” The dog whined greedily, its nose aiming up toward the canteen on his waist. Stone took
it off and the fighting dog let its huge tongue slap out of its mouth several times in restless anticipation. Stone reached
down and poured a stream of the cool liquid into the animal’s empty bowl. Its face hit the stuff with a splash and it began
lapping away madly so that only about half the water actually made it into its throat. But it was the idea that counted, and
it looked up happily after about a minute of machinelike licking.

Stone grunted hard as he lifted the huge Harley 1200cc Electraglide from its side, hidden in the center of a doughnut of thick
shrubs. It was hard going pushing the mobile battle-wagon through the wooden tendrils that grabbed everywhere with thorny
fingers. But after about five minutes he pulled it free, out onto a deer path, and mounted up.

“Come on, dog. We gotta get out of here before some of my recent acquaintances come looking for more action.” Stone patted
the thick leather seat behind him on the purring bike and Excaliber looked over from where he was sniffing a dark, fungi-covered
wet log, nosing around for black beetles. Suddenly the pitbull found one and
snapped it into his jaws. He crunched hard, popping the armor shell like a peanut, and swallowed it with a look of gourmet
delight. Then he turned and ran, reaching the Harley in two quick strides. Without breaking step the bull terrier jumped and
landed smoothly on the back, gripping its front and back legs around the sides of the seat like a starfish wrapped around
a clam. Stone looked down at his hand. It was throbbing painfully, the top of it red and swelling already. The teethmarks
of Ear’s few molars were clear on the flesh. It was infected with that slime’s mucus. God only knew what kind of diseases
Stone was going to get now.

He reached around behind him on the bike into the medical box, quickly took out and rubbed on Ampicillin and Tetracycline
Salve over the wound and then popped down some pills of the same. His father had prepared, among many things, a number of
combat-usable ointments and medicines—just a few tricks he had picked up in his twenty years fighting in Southeast Asia and
Latin America. How it would work against human saliva was another question.

Stone pulled back the accelerator on the handlebar and the bike picked up speed along an ice and snow patched road that headed
quickly up into the lower slopes of the Uinta Mountains, Utah. Dr. Kennedy, the double-talking, snake oil salesman extraordinaire
who had helped get him into the now decimated Last Resort, had also been able to get out with Stone’s sister April just minutes
before Stone sent the place into a smoking hell. He trusted the man with his life. Kennedy must have run into trouble, and
had to split fast. There had been enough guards after them all back there. He wouldn’t let himself think for even one second
that they hadn’t made it. No way. No fucking way. But where would he have headed?

Stone slowed as the bike approached a steep road that
angled sharply up and around in a long twisting motion, up the side of a towering mountain. The night seemed to grow darker
by the minute as thick rolling storm clouds filled the heavens above, a churning sea of mile-wide fists that threatened to
pummel the earth at any moment. Rangely—that was it. Kennedy had mentioned that he used Rangely for his base in this part
of the country. A place where he had friends—people who would hide him. It was about sixty miles to the east, which Stone
knew would be closer to one hundred and twenty or more through these twisted mountains and valleys. He exhaled a breath of
deep weariness and sped up slightly as the dog barked for a second, as if feeling his master’s anxieties.

Stone rode through the night seeming to ascend forever into the mountains, into the very heavens, which twisted in a sea of
black that and felt like just yards above his head. The moisture condensed down from above in sheets of gray, filling the
slopes with a thick cold mist that coated him and the dog with a cloak of liquid. Even with the deep grooved tires of the
Harley, Stone had to take it easy on the ice-sheened one-lane road, the edge of which dropped thousands of feet to a chasm
of rock-hard teeth ready to smash anything that came hurtling down into pudding. The bike’s headlight burnt a dim hole through
the icy fog, just enough for Stone to edge on into the darkness.

At last they reached the peak. Though he couldn’t see it, Stone could feel the ground level off fairly rapidly, go on for
about two hundred feet then start down again. Moving slow as a turtle, Stone eased the big bike down the far slope, absurdly
slow for a machine of that size and capability. But if they went over the edge, it wouldn’t be anything but twisted junk.
And so its power was reined in as Stone kept both feet on the icy road, just sliding along down the side.

Suddenly he sucked in, a breath of awe. For they had dropped instantly out of the cloud level. And below, as far as the eye
could see, was a fairyland of hills and streams, low valleys and darkly colored geometric shapes of fields and small towns.
The moon sliced through the cloud cover several miles off, sending down a stream of white beams that lit the terrain with
a brilliant merciless light. He felt for a split second as if he could see all the world, melting into weaving shadows at
the end of the horizon.

Another wave of weariness swept over him. And this time he could hardly fight it. His knees felt like they were about to buckle
beneath him. His body hurt bad from the force of the explosion the day before. He had been trying to deny it, but some of
his joints felt as if they could hardly move anymore. He had to rest, to eat. He hadn’t eaten for days. He saw a sudden outcrop
that came right out of the mountainside—a plateau several hundred yards wide with a band of dense shrubs covering the edge,
creating a natural windbreak. Stone pulled the bike off the road and across the wide ledge to the far side, away and unseen
from the road. He turned the engine off and the night was suddenly eerily quiet.

He stepped off the bike and the autorest popped out from the side, letting the bike sink onto its wide metal foot. Stone pulled
out a tarp from one of many black alloy cases that were fitted in racks around the back. Pulling out two collapsible tent
poles, he quickly erected what would pass for a small lean-to and then pulled down the flaps on both sides so that they and
the entire bike were virtually enclosed. Already it seemed a little warmer, with the ice-edged night air held at bay by the
ripstop nylon walls. The pitbull awoke suddenly from where it had been sleeping on and off on the back seat and sat up, staring
at Stone from the top of the Harley.

“After the work’s done the wonderdog awakens. As usual,” Stone said, giving a halfhearted evil eye to the canine, which yawned
so wide that Stone was sure the animal’s jawbone would Snap apart at the seams. But the sharklike jaws clamped loudly shut
again and the dog looked at Stone with its inscrutable almond eyes, and whined intently. “Well, you woke too soon, pal. The
work’s not all done.” Stone opened one of the survival cases stacked on the back of the bike and took out a small stove. He
turned a knob and the gas heater/stove lit instantly, sending out a reassuring wave of heat through the makeshift shelter.
Placing it on the ground, Stone warmed his hands over it for a minute, trying to get his joints and knuckles a little bit
looser. He washed them in the heat, rubbing the hands from palms out, down the fingers, trying to shake off the pain and injury.