An explosion, the echoing crack of pistol fire.
The Red Stripe’s head exploded above the temple, hair and bone and blood flying up and away. His whole body vibrated like some obscene tuning fork before it collapsed.
Sheila stood a dozen feet away, holding an enormous automatic pistol in both hands, her open shirt flapping in the breeze, a look of wild animal rage on her face.
Bill had wrested the rifle away from the last Red Stripe. He stood over him, about to bring the rifle butt down on his head.
“Wait!” Mortimer shouted.
Bill took a step back, but still held the rifle ready to strike.
Mortimer bent and pried the pistol from the dead Red Stripe’s hand. He took it to the Red Stripe near Bill, aimed at a spot between the Red Stripe’s eyes. There was fear there, and he held his hands up feebly like he might ward off the bullet.
“Now,” Mortimer said. “I’m going to need you to answer a few questions.”
They used Sheila’s ruined shirt to tie the captive’s hands behind the trunk of a thin pine. He sat up against the bark, looking afraid.
Sheila put on her only spare shirt, a navy blue turtleneck, and joined Bill and Mortimer in staring down at the prisoner. They made a menacing trio. Mortimer held the.38 revolver he’d liberated from the head-shot Red Stripe, and Bill cradled one of the deer rifles in his arms. Sheila’s automatic turned out to be a.50 Desert Eagle, and Mortimer marveled that the little girl had not been knocked back on her ass when she’d fired the thing.
The Red Stripe said his name was Paul.
Sheila said they couldn’t give a shit and pointed the giant gun at his face.
“Just hold on.” Mortimer took her by the elbow and pulled her back, felt her muscles tense. “I want some information.”
“Look, I really don’t know much,” Paul said.
“We’ll decide that.”
“I didn’t even want to be a Red Stripe.”
Bill smirked. “You just in it for their generous medical benefits?”
“I got drafted,” Paul said. “They found me down in Georgia. I was just minding my own business and scrounging for food, and they picked me up and said I could join up or they would put my head on a pike as a warning to everyone else.”
“Like hell,” Sheila said.
“I’m telling you true, man,” Paul said. “Let me go, and I’ll run in the opposite direction.”
“If you didn’t want to be a Red Stripe, then why didn’t you three just run off now while you had the chance?” Bill asked.
“They always make sure there’s at least three of us together. The guy with the pistol was our unit leader, and we can never know if the other two will gang up on us if we try to run away. They always rotate us around, so we can’t ever trust anybody.”
Mortimer recalled the three Red Stripes he’d killed up on the mountain. “Check the rifles, Bill. How many rounds?”
Bill looked in each rifle. “Only one bullet each.”
Mortimer thought about it and nodded. “I think he’s telling the truth.”
Sheila snorted. “I think he’s a lying sack of shit.”
“I ran into three Red Stripes before,” Mortimer told them. “They only had one bullet each.”
“That’s right,” Paul said. “You see? They don’t want us to mutiny.”
“Why did you attack the Joey Armageddon’s in Cleveland?”
“I don’t know,” Paul said. “They said attack, so we attacked.”
“Who gives the orders?”
Paul said, “The company captains give the orders to the unit leaders. I just do what I’m told.”
“I mean the head guy. Who’s in charge of the whole deal?”
“Nobody knows.”
“He’s lying.” Sheila thrust the gun back at him.
“I’m just a grunt.” Paul cast a pleading look at Mortimer. “You got to keep her off me, man.”
“Like you were staying off me a little while ago?” She spat at him, and it landed on his ear.
“That wasn’t me, man. That was Brandon. He’s, like, a fucking animal.”
“You didn’t try to stop him.” Cold hatred in her eyes.
“I told you. I’m just a grunt.”
“You must’ve heard rumors,” Mortimer said. “Something about your leader.”
