Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) (73 page)

"You sure that's him?"

The Colonel walked over and spat on the body. "That's him, sonofabitch had a bald head just like that."

Erik glanced past the Colonel into the open door behind him. "Yeah, but I mean are you
absolutely
sure?
 
A lot of the convicts have bald heads.
 
Think, sir. This is critical—"

"I think I ought to remember the man who killed my neighbors and burned down their house, don't you?"

Erik ground his teeth in frustration. "My mom didn't die." Erik didn't point out that if the Colonel could have mistaken her death, he might not have ID'd Spike correctly, either.
 
"Did you see him with your own eyes—were you close enough that—"

"God dammit son! That's him! That Spike! That's the son of a bitch that killed your father!"

As Erik stood staring at the Colonel, a shadow crossed the doorway.

The Colonel opened his mouth to say something when a puff of red mist materialized out of his chest and he straightened his back in surprise, his eyes wide. He opened and closed his mouth but only a choked gurgle and some pink foam escaped. His eyes blinked and locked on Erik before he glanced down at his chest at the rapidly expanding red bloom on his dirty shirt.

He staggered forward and turned, pointing at the new arrival in the doorway. Erik turned away from the Colonel and saw a mountain of a man fill the hole in the wall and stoop to enter.
 

"He's wrong, that's not me.
 
That's Tommy Three-Ball."

Jesus Christ! That's the biggest man I've ever seen!
Erik took an involuntary step backward as Spike approached.
 
In spite of all the chaos erupting outside, the man appeared calm and collected as his eyes swept over the room and took in the carnage. The pistol he held looked like a child's toy in his meat-hook of a hand.
 

"You the one behind all this?" he asked in a deep voice.

Erik stared at the monster before him straining the seams of an Essex County Sheriff's uniform.
Holy shit…

Spike brought the pistol to aim at Erik's chest. He ignored the Colonel as the old man crashed into the far wall and slumped to the floor.
 

"Keep your eyes on me boy—anyone shot through the back like that don't usually get up." He flashed a crooked smile exposing straight, stained teeth.

Erik's fear evaporated when Spike smiled. Rage coursed through every fiber of his being. This was the man who had murdered his father. This was the man who had burned his home down. This was the man who had ruined everything—the one who had taken away his future life and that of his family. This was the man who destroyed the town of Ticonderoga and ripped apart countless families.

"I'm sorry it has to end this way. You look like a big strapping fucker.
 
You would've been a pretty good raider, I think—you look like you got some Viking in you."

Erik stared at Spike. His fists clenched, a movement that the bigger man immediately noticed.

"Really?"
 
Spike glanced at the pistol in his hand. "You got a pair of balls on you, don't you?"

"So I keep hearing," Erik said.

"Well, say hi to your old man for me," Spike said with a laugh. He pulled the trigger.

Erik closed his eyes and wondered what the bullet would feel like as it plowed through his sternum. Would it be painful? Would it be so fast that he didn't feel it?

Click
.

Nothing happened.
 
Erik opened his eyes and realized Spike's gun had misfired.
 
He watched as the huge man quickly racked the slide and aimed at Erik again.

"Sorry about that—let's try it again." He pulled the trigger.

Click.

Spike looked down at the pistol and frowned. He dropped it and cracked his knuckles, the sound like firecrackers in the small room.
 

"Fuck it. I always liked killing people with my bare hands, anyway."

Chapter 78

Something to Die For

E
RIK
LOWERED
HIMSELF
INTO
a fighting stance and brought the empty shotgun up in front of him like a staff.
 
He stepped past the Colonel's body and kept his eyes locked on Spike.
 
The two of them shifted position like sharks circling prey.

Spike made the first move, lunging at Erik with a massive right fist.
 
Erik sidestepped it with ease.
 
His eyes flicked to the desk in the corner and he adjusted his path to avoid bumping it.
 
Spike took the opportunity to jab out with his left hand.

The punch wasn't all that hard—Erik surmised Spike was right-handed—but it was enough to knock him off balance.
 
Erik rolled his shoulder angrily, forcing the throbbing sensation to go away while he glared at the grinning giant.

"You're quick, I'll give you that," Spike admitted.

Erik held his tongue and focused everything on staying alive.
 
A voice in the back of his mind screamed
'playing not to lose makes you lose.'
 
He decided to take Spike's confidence level down a notch.
 
Sure, the giant convict was bigger and clearly stronger—he looked well fed, too.
 
But he didn't know Erik practiced martial arts.

If I just had my sword…

Spike noticed the shift in Erik's stance and braced for a punch.
 
Erik took advantage of that and swung the end of the shotgun like a club, feinting right.
 
As Spike shifted to avoid the shotgun, Erik swung out with his left leg and landed a solid blow to the bigger man's knee.
 
Spike grunted and hopped back out of range, his eyes burning.

"So it's like that, huh?"
 
Spike put his hand in his pants pocket and withdrew a blackened railroad tie.
 
"This here's how I got my name.
 
This here's what killed your old man."

Erik stared at the crampon.
 
The Colonel said Spike had driven it straight into his father's head.
 
Erik's eyes narrowed.
 
It would look wonderful sticking out of
Spike
's head.
 

Spike opened his mouth to speak again, but Erik rushed him.
 
He swung the shotgun in a flurry of strikes, left, right, and left again as he forced the bigger man back.
 
Erik screamed as he surged forward, ignoring the occasional spark as Spike's weapon glanced off the shotgun barrel in a clumsy attempt to parry the incoming attacks.

Erik paused as Spike threw a punch, then recommenced his attack when the bigger man flew off balance.
 
Spike cursed and staggered back as the barrel grazed his cheek, snapping his head back.
 
Erik shrugged off the vibration that shot up his arms and swung backward with the stock, narrowly missing Spike's neck.

"God
damn
it!" Spike hissed as he stumbled through the small door outside, clutching his cheek.
 
He backpedaled quickly as Erik charged through after him with a roar.

Erik ignored the slackening gunfire from outside.
 
His peripheral vision picked up several people on the fort's walls, but he didn't bother to figure out if they were friend or foe—it didn't matter any more—he focused on the man who'd killed his father.
 

Spike took another big step back.
 
Erik swung the shotgun like a baseball bat with all his might, aiming to land the stock on Spike's head.
 
The convict's eyes flared and snapped to the wooden club sailing at his face.

Faster than Erik thought possible, Spike's left arm shot up and deflected the shotgun like it was made of balsa.
 
Before Erik could recover the backswing, Spike's hand latched onto the shotgun.

Erik stepped back massaging his wrists after Spike tore the shotgun away.
 
He expected Spike to use the captured weapon as his own club, but the big convict tossed it aside with a sneer.
 

"Only a pussy would use that thing when they had this," he said, holding up the crampon.
 
"You're gonna die just like your old man."

Spike lunged and Erik leaned back, barely avoiding the hissing piece of metal as it passed in front of his chest.
 
He stumbled in the dirt as he backpedaled, ducking and weaving under Spike's relentless assault.
 
The man was huge, strong, and incredibly fast.
 
Erik's mind raced as his eyes darted around the open courtyard.
 
Other than the empty and discarded shotgun, he spotted nothing he could use as a weapon.

Pain suddenly exploded in his right shoulder as the head of the crampon connected with Erik's arm.
 
He grunted and spun away to the left.
 
His hand went numb with the impact.
 
He skipped backward out of range as he rotated his arm, trying to shake off the pins and needles down its length.
 
That's gonna leave a mark.

A woman screamed.
 
Spike paused.
 
Erik jumped sideways and used the space he gained to search the small crowd of people cautiously entering the fort.
 
Great, I have an audience.
 
Where the hell is Ted?
 
Why doesn't he just shoot this big bastard?

"Erik!" called out Brin.
 
Her voice echoed through the cluttered parade ground.

Erik and Spike paused, both seeking the source of the interruption.
 
Spike saw her first.
 
"Who's that?
 
Your woman?"
 

"Don't do this!" Brin yelled.

"Nice.
 
I ain't split me a Chinese Elm before."

The blood rushed through Erik's and he charged, ignoring the pain in his right arm.
 
"She's Japanese!" he yelled as he ducked Spike's clumsy swing and landed a solid left uppercut to the bigger man's gut.
 

Erik's knuckles cracked—Spike's abdomen was solid as iron.
 
The force of his punch and the speed of his attack was enough to surprise the larger man and send him reeling backward, but Erik knew he'd done no real harm.

Spike's laugh confirmed Erik's fear.
 
He wasn't going to go down by punches and kicks alone.
 
He was too strong, too big, too fast.

Erik ignored the screams and shouts of encouragement from the crowd.
 
Brin had disappeared.
 
Erik hoped she'd gone to get Ted.
 
Gunfire still crackled off and on from the other side of the fort's walls.
 
The M4's distinctive
pop-pop-pop
rang out again.
 
Whatever was going on, Ted appeared to be otherwise engaged.

Erik desperately swept the parade ground with his eyes again, looking for anything he could use as a weapon.
 
How could there be so much crap piled around and no weapons?
 

He could always make a break for the shotgun, but Spike seemed to know what he was thinking and placed himself conveniently between Erik and the discarded firearm.

As they circled each other again, Erik worked his way closer to the crowd.
 
He saw a mixture of hope and defeat on the faces that stared back at him.
 
He half-worried they might try to attack him to gain favor with Spike, assuming their savage master would win.
 

The woman with the black eye and the blanket—one arm around his mother—stepped forward and yelled to get Erik's attention.
 
"There!" she said, pointing at a rusted old pitchfork leaning against a kayak.
 

Erik darted forward and snatched the ancient tool from the pile.
 
He held the thick tines pointed toward his opponent.
 
Spike laughed.

"Really, Kelly?" asked Spike.
 
"I thought we had something."
 
He turned to Erik with a sneer on his face.
 
"Swing that thing at me and I'll shove it up your ass.
 
Then I'll shove it up hers."

"Kill him!" Kelly shrieked.

Erik held his ground as Spike rushed him and quickly slid to the left, avoiding the skull-crushing swing of the crampon that would have ended his life if he'd stood still.
 
As Spike moved past to recover his balance, Erik slashed at his exposed side with the rusted farm tool.
 
He felt the thick tines bite clothing and flesh but knew any wounds he left as he spun away would be superficial at best.
 
He needed a chance to stab but Spike wouldn't hold still.

"You're going to pay for that," growled Spike as he gingerly touched his ribs, fingering the torn uniform.
 

Erik swallowed.
 
He saw the hard packed muscles ripple through the jagged tear in Spike's shirt.
 
The man must lift weights twenty hours a day.
 

Spike rushed again and parried Erik's pitchfork with his crampon.
 
He grappled the oak handle with his other hand and tried to rip the pitchfork free like the shotgun.
 
Erik was ready though and twisted in the opposite direction, catching Spike's shoulder with the tines.
 
The convict howled and smashed his hand down on the handle, severing the metal portion of the pitchfork from the handle.

Erik staggered back from the blow and held the splintered piece of oak, now reduced to a little over three feet long.
 
He easily dodged the rest of the thrown pitchfork as it sailed toward him.
 
Spike laughed again.