STRONG LANGUAGE, ADULT SITUATIONS
Psycho Rodeo
Reilly Conall
Chapter 1: Rollout
Joel 3:10 – Beat your plowshares into swords, and your pruninghooks into spears: let the weak say, I am strong.
Early May, 2036:
Frigid blackness seeped through the walls of the old tack barn. The rifle’s receiver was colder than the high desert midnight.
Longshot worked in a deliberate rhythm, smell of gun oil sharp in the air. Clean bore, perfect scope, trigger just so. Out here you got one shot. His shot was gonna count, brother.
Bet on it.
Coffee steamed nearby. He moved automatically, honed by years in the service, a lifetime of hunting.
His gaze drifted to a curl-edged photo he'd tacked to the rough wood wall two years ago, after what happened.
Erin mid-laugh, face to the sun, championship buckle the size of a dinner plate cinched at her waist. Barrel racing champion.
She brewed a beer so fine, folks waited weeks for a case. A woman of rare beauty, said an article about her championship.
Rare beauty… Yeah.
He was on the other side of the hill, fixing a pump when he got the call. Pastor John’s voice cracked, groping for words that didn’t make sense.
“There’s, there’s— been an incident, Rick. Behind the church. It’s Erin,” John wept.
Shard of glass in his gut.
The local UNAG Commissar, with a soft face and empty eyes, explained it with bureaucratic detachment.
Unfortunate accident. Inexperienced soldier from some backwater country, startled by Mrs. Bowman. He tried to “restrain her,” to “keep her from raising an alarm.”
His hand simply slipped over her mouth and nose. That's all.
Tragic, but it happens in tense occupation zones like this one.
Rick clenched his fists so hard, he felt bones moving. He knew what “startled” meant. He’d seen how foreign soldiers watched the local women. Erin would never raise an alarm without cause. She would fight. It's who she was.
A champion. Not a victim.
OFFICIAL REPORT:
Masterpiece of Sterile Lies
Soldier transferred.
Own safety. Prevent reprisals.
Blah blah.
Bullshit.
Murdering bastard spirited away, before Rick found his name. No trial, no Justice. Not for Rick, not for family, nor friends, counties or towns.
No fuckin' NOTHIN. An empty place where his beautiful wife used to be
He remembered standing behind the little white-steepled Baptist church where they married. His scout-trained eyes saw more than trampled grass and scuff marks in the dirt.
He was reading a desperate story:
Erin's Valiant Struggle To Live
He saw where she fell, her life smothered. She was too beautiful, too strong in a world run by weak, predatory men.
Longshot screwed the suppressor onto the rifle barrel. Metal whispered as threads engaged. A final, deadly sigh. The ache in his heart had cooled from a raging fire long ago.
He looked at the photo again. Erin’s radiant smile focused him. This wasn’t politics, nor freedom.
It was a promise, made to her ghost, kneeling in trampled dirt behind the church. Praying with his hand on the earth. The face in his mind: Head of the snake, only the first to go.
There would be a price for what he did.
A headless rattlesnake keeps striking.
But it dies anyway.
It was a start. A single payment against unpayable debt.
And Longshot was the collector.
Early August, 2039
A crooked line of traffic cones wandered down the middle of the narrow dirt road, to a single sawhorse topped with barbed wire, stretched across the dirt road and stapled to a big pine tree.
Four exhausted men stood in the August heat. They weren't in the resistance. They were just tired men with no prospects, watching their land slipping away. Desperate homesteaders planning to shake down neighbors and delivery trucks.
Freckle Face Tim was a lightly-built twenty year old who kept wiping his palms on his jeans, adjusting his grip on an old AR-15. His Uncle Bob had told him to look mean. Mostly he looked like he needed to take a piss. The beat up boonie hat, fatigue pants and shades added a little badassery. Not much.
The sun was just touching the western ridge of Burnt Water Mesa, rays beaming through shadowy dust when two battered Humvees approached the makeshift roadblock.
The Continental Guard patrol rolled up. Four mercenaries in two Humvees, plastic windows unzipped in the canvas tops. The lead vehicle stopped short, second one parked at an angle.
The Sergeant at the wheel in front yelled out the window.
“What. The FUCK. Is THIS?”
Charlie Acre, a big man in straw hat and overalls, with a cheek full of chewing tobacco stepped forward.
“Road’s closed. Turn around.”
He spit a stream of tobacco juice across the barricade, gesturing in a vague circle.
The Sergeant laughed once, short and harsh. “Closed? Yeah, WRONG. Every damn road is ours, hillbilly. Move that shit now, or pay the price.”
“Not this road!” Uncle Bob called out. “Get outta here!”
He was draped in ill-fitting military gear on his potbelly frame, wearing a tiny helmet perched on top of his head.
The fourth man, tall, slim and bald, John Dandy, grinned and slapped Uncle Bob on the shoulder. He flipped off the soldiers, turned around, farted loudly and fanned his cowboy hat behind himself at the patrol.
The homesteaders all laughed, bumping fists, strutting in circles like roosters.
The Sergeant sighed. He reached up and thumbed loose the thong on his shoulder holster, gripping the Beretta 92 for a second. It felt good, and it helped keep him calm. He let his hand fall away.
Always something. How come everybody in Arizona is an asshole, he wondered. His team was short, a couple weeks from finishing this hellrun and going home.
“Don't make me get outta this goddam truck. Move that shit outta the road. Think about your neighbors.”
John Dandy held up a hand, rubbing his fingers together. “We're thinkin’ about ‘em alright!" he grinned.
He farted again in a different tone, pointing at the soldiers with a comical surprised “O” on his face.
Freckle Face Tim displayed his rifle with a sneering grimace, growling while doing some kinda stompy hick dance, leaning over his rifle like he was playing guitar.
The Sergeant looked at the other soldier in the Humvee, eyebrows raised. He opened the canvas door. Freckle Face looked up in surprise at the sound of the door latch clacking open.
One big combat boot hooked the other, causing a stumble. Tim's sweaty palm slipped, and his finger hit the trigger. The shot cracked loud, ringing across the mesa.
Uncle Bob, scared shitless, lit off hard with the Mini-14.
"THEY'RE GONNA KILL US!" He screamed. “SHOOT EM SHOOT EM FUCKSHIT DAMN!”
The Sergeant, struck through the canvas door in the ribs by Tim's accidental discharge, ducked back in, drawing his Beretta as he fired desperately at Freckle Face Tim through the hinge gap.
Tim backed up across the narrow dirt road, towards the trees, blood on his face, ducking and running as Uncle Bob's frantic spray-and-pray hit the Sergeant in the face and the soldier jerked back against his seat.
Bob was pumpin’ trigger, strafing his rifle across both vehicles back and forth as he ran to the right side of the road, crouching over as he went. Tim took cover behind a tree trunk, hosing rounds into the side curtains of the rear vehicle.
The inexperienced foreign mercenaries paid the price for slack discipline. They were caught half in, half out of their trucks, firing back in pure reflex, but they were already hit through the rubber fabric tops and doors, as they tried to find cover.
Everything was smoke, noise and panicked rednecks screaming. Terrified hillbillies were dumping magazines like the end of the world, brass pouring at their feet.
The soldier on the passenger side of the rear vehicle came out sprinting for the trees, firing rapidly at the Screwups.
Big Charlie leveled his AK-47, dropping him with a round to the kidney. The last soldier, in the front truck, firing quick and level, hit Charlie in the arm and the big man cursed, dropping the rifle and falling to his knees.,
Blood splashed everywhere inside the canvas-roofed trucks, splattering windshield glass, lives pouring into sand, spraying into sunset.
The guy in the front truck tried to stand up in the door. John Dandy’s AR-10 boomed rapidly, pumping rounds into both vehicles through the windshields, then he was suddenly staggering backwards.
Big Charlie, firing the shorty AK one-handed, and Freckle Face were laying rounds into the last man standing until he fell back into the Humvee. Men screamed over and over, then went quiet.
The sergeant slumped slowly out the driver's doorway, head settling into sand. A rifle slid out the other side of the truck and clattered to the ground.
Somebody kept shooting, long after the bodies stopped moving. Finally the bolt carrier locked back, CLACK. It was Freckle Face. His pants were soaking wet.
Silence reigned.
The four greenhorn Screwups stood among spent casings, ears ringing. One soldier was still twitching against a tire on the rear vehicle. He let out sort of a wet cough, sagging over.
Slowly they inched forward in a knot, one hesitant step at a time. Then they stood looking at the thing they'd done.
“Jesus,” Freckle Face nearly whispered, voice cracking. He turned around and fell to his knees, throwing up. His hat was gone and one ear was bleeding. The smell of urine and shit drifted with the smoke.
Uncle Bob peered past the open driver's door of the rear vehicle into the bloody cabin. “Holy shit.”
Big Charlie grimaced. His straw farm hat sported two new holes. He spit his chewing tobacco out, checking out a through wound in his left bicep.
“We’re fucked," he announced.
John Dandy looked up and down the road, leg bleedin’ bad. Real bad, hard to walk. This shit wasn't funny now.
Uncle Bob grabbed Tim's shoulder. “Beat it, guys. Long way home, through the trees. Move.”²
They melted into the pine and juniper like spooked deer, leaving the road, the bodies, and their half-assed idea behind.
Later that evening at the Commissar’s office in Burnham, fluorescent lights buzzed quietly in a pale glow.
Apache County Sheriff “Two Gun” Tommy Higgins stood in front of the Commissar's desk, hat in hand, face carefully neutral.
His Sam Browne leather kept an HK 9 on the right side, a .45 Army on the other and a Glock 10mm in a shoulder rig, under the armor vest on his left. His desert camo was tucked into knee length Danner snakebite boots.e
“Four Continental Guard,” he said. “Ambush on the upper mesa. Looks amateur. And I mean: REAL amateur. Patrol’s all dead.”
The Commissar rubbed his tired eyes. Just what he needed. “Freaking Burnt Water Mesa. Any ideas?”
Sheriff Higgins shifted his weight. “Guy up there, Rick Bowman, used to be Resistance. Big Storm was his show. But… somethin’ happened a while back. Retired now, seems like. Don’t hardly move anymore.”
The Commissar leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “I remember him. Wife, right? Killed behind the church? Years ago.”
Higgins nodded yeah. “We used to call him Longshot in high school. Should pick him up, see what he can tell us. Might know these goofballs. I'll follow him around, see where he goes.”
The Commissar picked up a pen and signed an order form, handing it across the desk. “Captain Alexandros can detail a crew.”
Morning light, warm and gold, slid across the highest parcel on Burnt Water Mesa. Rick Bowman busied himself with coffee, listening to the vintage radio.
Local events and weather. Apache County Fair comin’ aup in a couple weeks. He still had quite a few of Erin’s quilts that folks hadn’t seen yet. He’d likely enter one or two, bring her home another ribbon, he thought, looking up at her wall full of bright ribbons.
Big Dog Concho gave him a happy, tail-wagging, smile-faced look that said,
‘Morning! Great day, HooMon. Stop yer whining.’
What a great dog. Concho pressed against him, sat for his collar, turned and sat dignified, waiting at the door.
Rick grabbed his Carhartt jacket and Shady Brady hat. Leaning in, he got his rifle case from the hidden compartment in the back of the ‘50s Frigidaire and opened the trailer door.
The crisp morning air, still chilly from high altitude night, hit him as he stepped out, Big Dog standing easy at his side.
The new day’s sun, a burning disc just clearing the trees, cast long red shadows across the dusty yard. Coffee steamed out of his huge mug. Longshot stood on the wide pine porch of the '57 Mobiliner he’d withdrawn to, five long years now.
He took a deep breath, scanning across a hundred miles of mountains, hills and woodlands range. Scents of juniper, pine and damp earth filled his lungs. Blooming holly bushes added a touch of honey to the fragrance. Smell of home, part of his soul.
Looking over the valley, sipping hot black coffee and feeling the sun, he knew: the moment was here. Time to rejoin the Resistance. Five years he'd been planning. Waiting for the right moment, when the future would become… now.
Needed to drop the trailer that was still hitched to the pickup.
Rick started heading for the truck, pausing when the acoustics of the terrain up here, rolling ridges, told him he had visitors. Diesel engines.
Humvees, still a mile out, maybe more, climbin’ the long grade.
He could just about pick out individual voices on the wind when they spoke. Rick smiled. Only one outfit at this end of the road, twenty-seven miles into the trees. His place.
Rick grabbed his rifle and stepped off the porch, making for his faded yellow ‘69 F-250, parked near the weather-beaten tack barn. With faded “Cowboy Up” letters stretched across the back window, this ole workhorse had seen more sunrises than most living men.
Rick opened the passenger door, tilting the seat forward, swung the false seatback up to reveal a specially-made compartment, slid his rifle in and cinched it tight.
He moved the pickup around back, out of sight from the driveway, putting the last of his stuff in.
Rick sent Big Dog Concho to wait around back, then he went up the side stairs onto the porch. He took a position, hiding by a big, thick log support post, watching the gate.
Two Continental Guard Humvees drove up and parked in a loose wedge blocking the gate, seventy-five feet away, diesel engines idling.
Four men got out. One stayed with the vehicles. He turned to look down the long hills falling away over the river valley, lighting a cigarette.
Longshot smiled again. Typical dumbass CG contractors. Another guy grabbed his rifle, heading off to clear the tack barn.
The remaining two mercenaries walked straight up the front steps, onto the porch. The Sergeant reached up to knock on the door.
Big Dog stepped out from the shadow of the house, a hundred and sixty pounds of gigantic menace, letting out a low, rolling rumble. The two men spun around, looking back down the front steps, eyes wide.
“Whoah boy,” the private said, hands coming up, “Easy, buddy. Good boy.” TAYLOR said the nametape over his right pocket.
The Sergeant unbuttoned the flap on his holster. Rick moved quiet and easy, stepping out silently, behind him. Hooked the Sergeant smooth around the neck with a forearm, pulled him behind the post, locked him in a sleeper hold and felt him go slack in seconds.
Rick pointed at Private Taylor.
Concho launched, grabbing one of Taylor’s wrists and ran off, dragging the man around the corner of the house on his face. Rick glanced at the Humvees.
Cigarette guy couldn’t hear anything at that distance over the idling diesels. Shoulda shut ‘em off. Fuckin' losers. Rick went off the front stairs, twenty feet to the tractor while Cigarette Guy was looking the wrong way
The rifleman came trotting back from the tack shed. Rick slipped out from behind a tall seven-foot tire on his big ’58 International tractor, stepped in close behind and looped the man’s own rifle sling around his throat.
He choked him for a few seconds, then wrenched the rifle loose and butt stroked him with it.
The soldier went down hard, unconscious. Longshot stepped across him and jacked the rifle's charging handle.
Cigarette guy finally looked around. Yard was empty. Seemed… quiet.
His head snapped back the other way. Concho stood ten feet away, teeth bared, eyes locked on him like he was a juicy steak.
The soldier didn’t hesitate. He jumped into the nearest truck, backed out and hauled ass down the road. He would take at least forty-five minutes to reach Burnham.
Longshot whistled once, low. Concho trotted over, tail wagging like it was just another chore and enjoyed having his ears scratched as a reward.
On the way to the pickup, Rick spotted Private Taylor sitting against the tractor shed, dabbing at a bloody nose, face scraped from the dragging. No point in questionin' these clowns.
They wouldn't know shit. Longshot punched Taylor's forehead as he looked up, and the man sagged over.
Sensing the morning’s seriousness, Big Dog landed easy on the passenger side of the thick bench seat, deep grunt signaling his quiet affirmation as the heavy door banged shut.
Longshot pulled himself up into the driver’s seat, stowing his hat in the spring-loaded hat holder on the headliner. Taking another good slug of hot coffee, he twisted the key and the big Ford coughed, monster 428 under the hood erupting into a satisfying rumble, shakin’ the whole cab.
He let it idle, the vibrations a balm for the unrelenting ache in his heart.
“Time to head down the hill, Big Dog. Pretty sure Benegan’s got something tasty set out for you.”
‘Stop wasting time then, HooMon! Let’s get after it!’ Concho said with his eyes, scanning from his customary place on the other side of the cab.
The livestock trailer rattled as they pulled out. No time to unhitch it now. He took the back way off Burnt Water, a rugged switchback route through the woods. Nobody really used it anymore.
The road dropped off the rim, into the trees, then through Owens Canyon, high mesa shrinking in the mirrors. Heading for Crazy Creek Firebase.
One thought rang through: The future is now.