High up in the trees, the overnight sniper watch shift settled into their spots with their thermoses of hot coffee, a sandwich or two, and high powered scopes equipped with night vision. Their prying eyes continually roamed the surrounding countryside, vigilant for any out of the ordinary movement or disturbance. So far, the night had been a quiet one.

Thankfully.

Cleese left the armory tent, having bid Wolf a good night after a few too many shots of whiskey and a few too many rounds of chess. The whiskey had come first and, once a mutual interest had been discovered, the chess soon after. You could say a lot of things about Wolf, but he wasn't dumb. His playing had been some of the best Cleese had ever seen. Not that he was any kind of master chess player, but Cleese had learned a thing or two about the game from some of the faculty of the rec center he'd frequented as a kid back when his mom was busy working. While he wasn't going to give Kasparov a run for his money anytime soon, he was no slouch when it came to the game of kings. Wolf was a solid player and, to Cleese, that spoke volumes as to the kind of man he was.

Winding his way through the a.s.sorted tents and recreation vehicles, Cleese felt the cold night air against his skin and was grateful for it. The crisp, biting chill in the wind meant that the seasons were changing, and despite all that had happened over the last few weeks, Life went inexorably on no matter what the machinations of Man were.

As someone far better than he once said, "And so it goes..."

It was still a little too early for him to try to get to sleep, so he decided to take a stroll through the campground and get a sense of the place after the majority of people had hit the hay. It was a habit he'd picked up early in his life: roaming through the house in the early morning hours, making sure everyone was safe and snug. Sleep had always been a ghost he chased but only caught for small bits of time. Wherever he ended up living, he could oftentimes be found walking the halls in the dead of night, watching over the house and making sure the doors were locked, the windows were secure, and everyone was covered and warm beneath their blankets. In many ways, the feel of a place late at night gave him a better sense of itself than it ever could when there were people around to confuse the issue. When it was quiet the house would speak to him, telling him its secrets.

As he walked, a voice from his past came echoing from the recesses of his intellect. "The night hath been to me a more familiar face, than that of man; and in her starry shade, of dim and solitary loveliness, I learned the language of another world." It was a piece of a Lord Byron poem, one of his mother's favorites, that had stuck with him over the years. His brain couldn't recall what he'd had for lunch the day before, but the important things-the things that nurtured his soul-he always seemed to remember.

Earlier, he'd met a few of the men who kept the line outside the compound safe as they collected their weapons and ordnance. He felt a lot more secure having done so. They were, to a man, capable and well-equipped. After meeting them, he'd been satisfied that they could put down anything that might encroach on the camp from outside. Anyone with a keen eye could see that they had a bold combination of vigilance and duty in their eyes. It seemed like an almost sacred obligation that they'd undertaken, each being well aware of the fact that the safety of them all depended on their attentiveness. Every so often throughout the long cold night a m.u.f.fled rifle shot would be heard when one of the snipers caught sight of something making its way through the surrounding forest and toward camp. After a while, people didn't even notice it. The random pop and crack sounds soon became part of the soundtrack of the camp.

If more than a few were heard, however, the group would take it as a signal that something was up and they'd all grab their firearms and go to Full Alert. The residents had their own posts specified where they were to report should something untoward occur. It had, from the beginning, been of one Wolf's highest priorities that everyone in the camp remained well trained and ready.

It was another one of the things that made him a good leader.

The thing that gnawed at the back of Cleese's mind now though was the mult.i.tude of unsavory things that might potentially take place inside the compound. People were people, after all, and people... sucked.

And it was that thought that brought up the mental image of Bartlett. Cleese couldn't shake the bad feeling he had regarding him. The guy had been an a.s.shole when they'd first met, and after the incident at the drug store and the face-off with Jenny in the mess line, he was someone who Cleese knew he'd need to keep a watchful eye on. His years of dealing with the drunken public had given him a sixth sense when it came to such things. Both Jenny and he had made that fat f.u.c.k lose face in front of the local populace and that was a recipe for trouble. Bartlett was someone who harbored a deep-seated hunger for power and now he'd gotten a taste of it. He wasn't going to give up even a small amount of it without a fight. For anyone to take the spoon that fed that desire away from his ravenous mouth was to deny him his drug of choice.

And to deny any junkie his dope was always a dangerous proposition.

By now, he'd found himself near the roach coaches and saw that the metal doors covering the serving windows were pulled down and closed up tight. The smell of cooked meat lingered over the area like an aromatic pall as did the rich odor coming from the large canisters of brewing coffee which seemed to be constantly percolating. Alongside them on a small table plastic containers sat with pre-made sandwiches inside. The cooks made sure to always have some sort of food available during the night. It was important to keep the watch shifts caffeinated and fed.

He walked past the Mess area and continued on to the RVs, heading toward the tents on the far side of the campground. Cleese cast his gaze skyward and saw through the trees a large moon suspended in the sky. Strings of clouds moved lazily across its bright yellow-orange face, giving it a veiled, sad look.

Far off, a coyote wailed mournfully.

Strolling along, leisurely enjoying the feel of the night air on his face, Cleese caught the sound of several hushed voices whispering excitedly in the darkness. He almost dismissed it and continued on his way, but then a loud slap punctuated the exchange. Changing the direction in which he was heading, Cleese soon found himself near the far perimeter of the camp. There a large family-sized tent sat, looking bluish-grey in the moonlight. He stopped and listened intently. He c.o.c.ked his head to one side and closed his eyes as he tried to pinpoint the source of the slap. This far out, it could have only come from inside the tent. As he ambled over, he saw two men exit the tent, both shaking their heads in what looked like disgust. The moonlight threw a cold light across their faces as they headed off into camp.

Hines and Harrison.

Now obscured by the shadows at the side of the tent, Cleese turned his head and looked through the uncovered mesh window. Inside, he saw a group of broad figures, cloaked in varying shades of shadow, standing inside hunched over something curled up into a ball on the ground. He was just about to step away figuring it was none of his business when the thing on the ground spoke.

"Fred... please. You don't want to do this."

Jenny.

"Shut up, b.i.t.c.h! You don't know the first thing about what I want to do."

Bartlett.

"Yeah, but she's soon gonna learn, right?"

Pugnowski.

Cleese didn't wait to hear any more. He drew the flap open and stepped into the cramped tent. Once inside, his added bulk made for some very confined quarters.

"Gentlemen..." he said, his voice dripping with menace. "Is there a problem here?"

As one, what remained of Bartlett's men stepped backward and pressed themselves against the side of the tent. Like little boys who'd just been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, their faces betrayed not only their guilt, but also their intent.

Bartlett was the first to step forward.

"Get the f.u.c.k outta here, Cleese," he growled and then did the unthinkable. He poked his left hand's index finger against the center of Cleese's chest. Not once, but twice.

Cleese was someone who was not exactly fond of being touched by people he didn't know. In fact, he absolutely hated it. The only thing he hated more was being touched by people he didn't like. That feeling, coupled with what was obviously going down in the tent, provoked an immediate response. With blinding speed, he caught Bartlett's index finger in his fist and twisted it roughly. The sound of bones breaking was painful in its tenor. Cleese then pushed the shattered appendage back toward Bartlett's wrist, hyper-extending it. Bartlett fell to his knees before he knew what happened. His cry of pain was a welcomed thing to Cleese's ears.

"Jenny," Cleese said gently, but firmly, "get up and on out of here."

Jenny slowly climbed to her feet and ashamedly tried to arrange her twisted clothing about her. From the look on her face, things had already gone well past the point she felt comfortable. Looking down toward the ground, she did her best to pull her hair back and into something less disheveled. As she pa.s.sed, her eyes were wet with tears.

Cleese counted himself fortunate to have happened along when he did.

"This ends now!" and he gave Bartlett's finger another twist.

Bartlett cried out and then cursed under his breath.

"Don't make me tell you again."

Cleese let go of Bartlett's finger and stepped back toward the tent's flap. He bent slightly and, never taking his eyes off of the men before him, ducked out of the tent. Once back in the night air, he turned and gave Jenny the once over. She was clearly-and justifiably-upset and her clothes bore the marks of where she'd been grabbed by Bartlett and his crew. One side of her face burned a bright red in the half-light from where Bartlett had clearly slapped her.

"Are you ok?" Cleese asked gently resting his hand around her shoulder.

She nodded and, now feeling safe, immediately burst into tears.

Just then, the tent's door flap was roughly thrown aside and Bartlett came storming out into the moonlight. His face was flushed and he was holding his left hand protectively to his chest.

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h! I am gonna kill you!"

At a different time and in another place, Cleese would have fed this fat dolt his teeth, but as he held Jenny and felt her warm tears against his chest, he thought it best to get her clear. He'd tell Wolf about all of this later.

"Hey, motherf.u.c.ker! I'm talking to you!"

Then again, talking to Wolf could probably wait a few minutes...

Cleese let go of Jenny and gently eased her behind him. Once she was more or less protected, he turned on the enraged Bartlett.

"No..." Jenny said softly, touching his back, "It's not worth it."

By now, Bartlett's clique had followed him out of the tent and had adopted an aggressive stance; flanking their clueless leader. Cleese hoped they'd be smart and not push the issue. He'd really hate to have to hurt anyone.

Ok, he was lying about that last part.

The truth was that a part of him really wanted to put a hurt on these f.u.c.ks just on general principles. Another part, wanted to jack their s.h.i.t up if only for what they'd done to the girl.

Still... First things first.

And the first thing was to get Jenny out of harm's way.

Pugnowski came up next to Bartlett as if offering his support. Despite his posturing, Cleese was convinced the f.u.c.k would go down like a shooting gallery target the minute s.h.i.t got tight. Surrept.i.tiously, he checked on Spanky and Alfalfa. In their faces, he saw the very things he wanted to-fear and misgiving. Whatever had transpired inside the tent, it had now blossomed far beyond what the other men were comfortable with. Sure, they were onboard when the coast looked clear, but now... Now that there looked to be storm clouds ahead, they weren't so sure. Cleese met their gaze and pushed his intent.

Thankfully, they backed down.

"Jesus, Fred..." Del Castillo said under his breath, "Let's just go, Bro."

"f.u.c.k you!" Bartlett shouted. Now that some smart part of his intellect had fired up, it was obvious how big this f.u.c.kup was. Wolf favored Jenny. Always had. Knowing him, he'd probably be p.i.s.sed enough to throw them all out of the camp no matter what their perceived worth might have been. Even with a rifle or two, they'd all be slaughtered by the mult.i.tudes that still swarmed the cities. Their deaths would not only be grisly, but they'd be met in short order.

"Yeah, Fred," Cleese said and smiled a malevolent grin, "just go."

"f.u.c.k you!" Bartlett repeated and then, suddenly, Pugnowski's rifle was in his hands. The barrel waved erratically in the air, but its business end was pointed directly at Cleese's chest.

"What did I tell you about that pointing a gun at me, Buddy?" Cleese asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. "One might come to the conclusion that you don't listen."

The sound of the rifle's safety clicking off was as loud as a cannon.

Cleese stared intently at Bartlett and tried to second-guess if he was really going to pull the trigger and, more importantly, when. At this point, Bartlett had nothing to lose and probably thought if he could just shake the Etch-a-sketch hard enough things would somehow return to the way they'd been.

Simple f.u.c.k.

"Now, think, Freddie-boy... Think hard. D'ya really want to do this?"

Cleese slowly rose up onto the b.a.l.l.s of his feet and prepared himself for the movement he hoped would get him out of the way of the bullet. He knew his timing would need to be perfect, but given how close they were to one another, it would be tight. Seeing how worked up Bartlett was, he figured negotiation was now out of the question. He'd just have to hope the man had enough of a "tell" that he'd have time to get out of the way.

At least that was the plan.

Time seemed to slow and milliseconds seemed like minutes. Behind him, Cleese heard the soft sound of feet moving in the dirt. From the length of the stride, he could tell that Jenny had taken advantage of the shift of focus and was now off and running to get help. From the rhythm of her steps, she was moving pretty d.a.m.n quick, too.

It was at that moment, Cleese saw Bartlett's brow constrict and a small wince cross his features. Then, a minute tightening of his shoulders became evident and his right bicep constricted. Suddenly, the rifle fired and Cleese threw himself backward like a limbo dancer. Standing as close as he was, the concussion of the rifle was deafening. Cleese felt the air split just over him as the bullet tore through the atmosphere. As he fell, he caught a glimpse of Jenny as she ran for the safety of the surrounding tents a few yards away.

Then, to his horror, the back of her head erupted in a splash of red. A piece of something skipped off of her skull and sailed into the bushes next to the trail. He heard a pained grunting sound and then what remained of her head was slapped forward. Her body fell lifeless to the ground and bounced against the dirt on impact.

Rage swept over him like a violent storm, darkening his vision and setting his blood to boil. In a blink of an eye, Cleese was back on his feet and had crossed the distance between Bartlett and himself. Bartlett's face slowly expanded into the cla.s.sic "Oh, f.u.c.k!" expression and then his vision ratcheted down onto the big man standing in front of him. He tried to lift the gun and point it at Cleese, but he was already too close. Cleese slapped the barrel away with one hand and followed up with a vicious uppercut. The blow smashed into the front of Bartlett's throat.

Bartlett's grunt of pain was cut short, halted by the knuckles of Cleese's fist.

Cleese quickly raised his hands overhead, and brought both fists down onto Bartlett's collarbones, putting all of his upper body strength into it. A sickening crun-crunch sound echoed in the darkness. Between the searing pain which exploded across Bartlett's chest and the rapidly bruising tissue in this throat, it was impossible for him to catch a breath. Every time he tried, it felt like daggers were being pushed deep into the meat of his neck and shoulders. There was a sudden constricting sensation in his chest that felt like there was an elephant sitting on it.

As for Pugnowski and Del Castillo, they'd fallen back several steps once the gun went off. What had started out as a pursuit of a good time had now gone terribly, terribly wrong and they knew it. It was bad enough that Cleese saw what was going on in the tent, but now Jenny was dead. There was no way around it, all of them were utterly f.u.c.ked. It was a situation none of them ever imagined they'd be in, but here they were. And from where they now stood, it was not an enviable place to be. Both of them slowly stepped back and tried to appear as small and unthreatening as possible.

Bartlett fell to his knees; his breath labored and wet sounding. Pugnowski's rifle had fallen from his grip and it laid there like a eunuch in a wh.o.r.ehouse. Bartlett clutched both of his hands over his chest, impotent and unable to protect himself from any further damage. His pain-wracked face lifted skyward as he begged the ever-silent moon for forgiveness.

It was then that the light of the moon went out and Cleese fell upon him.

Cleese landed on him and drove his shattered body to the dirt. With wet, packing sounds, he vented his anger on the man with a flurry of hacking punches and brutal twists of Bartlett's already damaged anatomy. An ear-piercing shriek broke the stillness of the night, its timbre was high pitched and desperate.

And then, the sound was abruptly cut off as if it had been stomped on unmercifully.

Finally, his fury now spent, Cleese pulled himself off of Bartlett. The body on the ground before him lay broken and distorted in ways that defied both logic and reason. Bartlett's decimated corpse sprawled on the ground, his limbs bent at odd angles, his head turned savagely facing the wrong direction.

Once back on his feet, Cleese stood panting in the night air. Soft plumes of fog streamed out of his flared nostrils. From his hands to his elbows, his arms seemed to be coated in a thick substance which appeared black in the spa.r.s.e illumination. He turned to face Pugnowski and Del Castillo and stared at them, his eyes burning with a fierce intensity. They both looked as if Death itself had come to claim them.

Already, the killing of Bartlett was a fading memory in his mind. He'd killed people before-when they'd deserved it... and, let's face it, some people deserved to die-but this... This was a killing that needed to happen. More than any others before him, Bartlett was someone who had literally signed his own death warrant. He'd done so the minute he'd forced Jenny to go into that tent. His shooting of her... well, that was him making sure the ink was dry.

With the sound of a rifle being shot within the confines of the compound, a general alert had been sounded and people were already running to investigate. The tableau that greeted them was one that both broke their hearts and turned their stomachs. A few of the women moved to cover Jenny's body, but left Bartlett's out in the open, ignored and unattended.

Cleese stood over Bartlett's corpse, lost inside the whirlwind of his thoughts; his blood still boiling, his anger remaining unabated. He continued to glare at Bartlett's crew and silently wished for one of them to say something, anything. Even with Bartlett's blood on his hands, his retribution was far from sated and therefore incomplete.

A hush fell over the crowd as Wolf stepped out from the fold and into the clearing between the tents. What he saw before him made his flesh turn pale. Cleese met Wolf's gaze, shook his head, and looked away.

"What the f.u.c.k's happened here?' Wolf asked, his voice cracking with anger.

"Ask them," Cleese responded and jerked his thumb toward Pugnowski and Del Castillo.

Wolf turned to face the two men and saw the guilty look on their faces immediately. They'd been drinking, that much was obvious. He could tell that from the redness of their cheeks, their open-mouthed breathing and their heavy-lidded stares. Wolf knew instinctively that the rest of the story was not going to be one he was happy with. It was then that he noticed the front of Pugnowski's pants and his unzipped fly. Wolf looked over at Cleese and recognized the anger that still burned in the man's eyes.

Slowly, his gaze wandered over the scene before him and nothing he saw made much sense. Bartlett's crew stood there like a mouth-breathing Greek chorus, looking guilty and ashamed. Bartlett's battered body spread out in the dirt like a rag doll that had gone through a lawnmower. Cleese stood hovering over his dead body like an avenging barbarian whose vengeance was something no possible amount of blood or sorrow could sate.

And then... and then he saw Jenny.

Wolf closed his eyes and tried to push back the tears of grief and frustration.

Against the blackness of his eyelids, a waterfall of images of the young girl came flooding into his mind. He saw flashes of her warm and rea.s.suring smile, the moments of tenderness she always seemed to have for the frightened children or the injured, and then there was the scope of her potential as a person-and as a woman-if she could only survive these dark and dangerous days.

And now...

Now, her young body lay face down in the dirt, unmoving and growing cold in the midnight air. Her smile now stilled forever. Her kindness offered up as compensation for her sin of naivete. Her limitless potential now leaking from her body in the form of her life's blood, reparation paid to a gutless egomaniac who'd decided to dole out his own idea of heavy handed retribution for her crime of slighting him.

"s.h.i.t..." and then the tears came.

The next morning, after a sleepless night in which he'd gathered several versions of the same story, Wolf thought he had a pretty clear idea of what had gone down. The bottom line was that there were now two people dead in his camp and two more who would have to leave if for no other reason than for the good of the camp. There was no other way of handling it, from what he could tell.

No matter how you diced it up, it was a s.h.i.tty proposition. From the loss of innocent life to the inevitable deaths of those who would have to be sent away, it pained him to know that it was avoidable on all fronts.

And then there was Cleese. Yes, he'd killed Bartlett, but no one really held that against him. The consensus amongst the camp's inhabitants was that Bartlett got exactly what he'd had coming, given his crime. Cleese only did what everyone there wished they could do. Plus, in the short time he'd been here, Cleese had proven himself to be a substantial a.s.set. He was good with gun, concerned about the others, and he didn't seem to mind putting himself in harm's way for the good of the cause. All of that meant something around here.

But then again, from the looks of things, he was also something of a s.h.i.t magnet.

Wolf decided he'd have a talk with Cleese before making any hard and fast decisions in his regard. Truth was... he'd hate to lose him. Not only was he a good addition to the team, but he played a mean game of chess.

Wolf left his tent and headed for the roach coaches. He figured he'd get himself some coffee and maybe something to eat, then he'd pa.s.s along the judgment that he hoped would set things right.

G.o.d knew... after he did, he would probably not want to eat again for a very long time.