The little pickup raced down the highway. It was a charming little thing. Spots of rust and dirt on the white paint. A two-seater, only enough room for a single passenger, along with a toolbox crammed in behind the seats. The bed was empty, other than a few twigs. The paint there was even more scratched up than the rest of the vehicle. A hunk of metal was mounted on the roof, its purpose unclear.
Brake lights and screeching tires. The truck barreled off of the highway and onto a backroad. It left a cloud of white dust in its wake. Rocks were thrown as it tore past the lines of leafless trees and rusted up barbwire fences.
John kept his eyes on the road, his mouth shut. His hands were locked around the steering wheel.
Gavin braced himself as the pickup drifted around S-curves. Through his eyes one could see the wheels turning. He was coming to terms with what had happened. Blood and screams played back, over and over again in his mind, the horror pulsing out in quick thrusts.
John stood on the brake. The truck slid across the rocks and powder, coming to a halt in front of a sturdy looking gate. No trespassing signs, some more threatening than others were mounted on it. His mailbox looked like it could survive a nuclear war.
The driver got out. He opened three locks, untied the heavy chains, opened the gate. He got back in, drove the truck into his driveway. Then he got back out. After closing and resecuring the gate the vet drove the pickup down the long driveway. Patches of dead grass grew in the middle of the little road, which was just two dirt lines that the tires would ride along. Tall sticks stood on either side of the rough dirt track. In warmer times his yard would have been teeming with grasshoppers, ants, and spiders. Now this miniature jungle slept. After a few minutes they reached his home.
The fence that lined his property was only just visible, that was the size of the place. This fence was high and strong. The flag of the United States flew from atop a pole. A red motorcycle was parked beside a matt black muscle car, both under an awning.
In the backyard, railroad ties boxed in three raised gardens. A wooden shed nearby contained gardening tools and supplies. Further off, an old mule drawn plow slowly rusted out of existence.
The cabin was two stories tall. A simple rectangle made of stained wood. The only thing of note was the stone chimney. The pair got out of the pickup and went into the structure.
On one wall, a collection of banners. A Gadsden flag: the snake reared up, ready to strike those that would do it harm. A Goliad flag: a bloody sword raised in defiance. A Come and Take It flag: its cannon a mocking dare. And the old stars and stripes, its colors inspiring many, causing rage in others.
On a shelf, a statuette of a bald eagle sat next to a model of a muscle car. History books and encyclopedias in long lines. Car repair guides. Weapon maintenance manuals. A collection of Tijuana bibles. A spent rifle cartridge, the words “No Hope,” roughly carved into it.
A shadowbox full of military awards was on display. Rows of gleaming badges, each rendered in a statelier shape than the last. A dozen shiny medals hung from colorful ribbons.
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He had no couch. A lounge chair was positioned in front of a modestly sized television. Beside this were two small tables. One was bare, save for an empty beer can. The other held a record player and a decently sized collection of albums.
John got to work without word or gesture. He moved deeper into the cabin, heading up the stairs. He came back less than a minute later with an ammo box in each hand, two bandoleers crisscrossed over his shoulders.
Two doors were connected to the living room. One led to the kitchen, which was small and spartan, and a storage room filled with canned food and other supplies. The other led to the staircase. There was a tiny bathroom off to one side.
On the second floor there was a cozy bedroom. In this, a writing desk sat in front of a window, overlooking the backyard. A typewriter. Piles of papers. He wrote of many things: women, war, the evils of the federal government.
A collage of nude women cut from porno mags were tacked up to the wall beside the window, mosaic of bare flesh.
A balcony ran around the top floor, overlooking the living room. A large window overlooked the front yard, a fully loaded, bolt-action rifle leaned against the wall beside it. From this balcony a room could be accessed where John kept an arsenal of weapons, ammo, and gear.
Gavin broke the silence, “I don’t suppose that you have any more of those rockets?”
“No. That was my last one,” John said, almost in monotone.
“There’s something that I have to ask you. Did you really kill those freaks last year?”
His reply was without hesitation or emotion, “I wiped them out completely.”
“It horrifies me that you can just take a life without remorse.”
John’s reply was totally calm, “They did the same. The difference was that they targeted the innocent. Yes. I killed them without mercy, with nothing but joy. I killed every last one of those bastards and hid the bodies so deep in the woods no one will ever find them.”
“How could you bring yourself to do it?”
“The truth is that I never really left Nam. The even worse truth is that I started to enjoy it. The horror of it cuts into you, reaches in and does something.”
“I’m sorry,” Gavin said, it was done sincerely.
“Don’t be. You are way too young to be responsible for any of it. We need to focus. What’s the plan?”
“The plan? That thing killed two dozen men without breaking a sweat! How can we hope to stop the other one?”
“We killed it. We can kill one of them, we can kill the other. You put enough firepower on target you can kill anything.”
Almost as if it was by design, like he wanted to give his point an extra punch, he popped the top of a table off. Inside of it, rows of combat rifles, stacks of loaded magazines.
“Damn,” Gavin whispered to himself.
John smirked, “I’m just getting started.”
They loaded up the weapons, a methodical and pleasant process.
“What about you? Do you really believe in God?” John enquired.
“The question behind the question: am I a shyster? Am I trying to start a cult?”
“Ya, that’s what I meant.”
He thought about it some, “If I bring them closer to the lord using unscrupulous means, did I really do anything wrong?”
“That kind of answers the question. And to answer that, well, I don’t know. In Vam the enemy would wipe out whole villages, their own people, kids and all, just for being friendly to us.”
“And you think that the VC would say something similar to what I said? That the ends justify the means?”
Hard and fast knocks on the front door startled them. Weapons were made ready, aimed at the door as a second volley of knocks came. A woman’s voice called out.
John turned to Gavin, nodded toward the entrance, a grim look on his face. Taking up a shotgun, the young man made his way over to the door. The older of the two kept a combat rifle pointed at the portal. Gavin took up a position near the handle, checked the space behind himself.
More knocking, more desperate cries. Bracing himself, Gavin turned the lock, flung the door open. He darted backwards, fat barrel of the scattergun leveled at the door.
There stood Jill. Her head bobbing up and down, her mouth sucking in quick breaths. Her eyes were locked open, full of things that John had not seen since his time in the jungle.