The Tank

The Tank, Chapter 5

Chapter 5

        I was trying to wiggle my arms and my wrists, trying to find some way out of the zipties. But I also was trying not to move. I wanted to be silent, invisible. I wanted them to concentrate on their game. I wanted them to forget about me. Unfortunately, Abe kept glancing over at me. He was the biggest of the gunmen, with a blond beard and long hair that made him look like an ugly Thor. At first I thought he was worried I was looking at his cards and letting the others cheat. But then he turned and looked at me for an uncomfortably long time, and I suddenly realized he was undressing me with his eyes. “What do you say we make this more interesting,” he suggested, never taking his eyes off me.

        Marcus, his coffee-colored skin marred with milky burn scars, but down his cards and eyed Abe suspiciously. “What do you have in mind?”

        Abe finally took his eyes off of me and turned back to face his compatriots. “We play for the girl.”

        “The girl belongs to Axel.”

        “I mean once he breaks her in,” Abe explained. “Sloppy seconds.”

        Now the rest of the gunmen eyed me. I knew why. They didn’t try to make a secret of it. They wanted me scared. It was part of their fun. But I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction. I knew I wouldn’t survive the night, so what did it matter? Better to go out quick then like their previous whore. So while they were examining me, I spit at Abe. I hit him right in the face. He didn’t get angry. He just smiled, stuck out his tongue, and licked it right up. “We’ll share a lot more than spit, me and you,” he assured me.

        Suddenly a bell jingled, signaling the opening of the front door. All eyes, including mine, turned to the surprise visitors. They were Cordite, Tex, Maverik, Ratchet, Cagney, and Lacey.

        I didn’t know who they were, of course, not yet. I didn’t know I was looking at my saviors. They weren’t the first drifters I’d ever seen. After the bombs there were drifters everywhere. Just like these guys, they were mostly military, sole survivors of battalions or regiments that had been completely wiped out, no orders left to follow, like us, just trying to survive. You couldn’t trust drifters. They were often as bad or worse than Axel and his gang. Kind and gentle people didn’t survive the war, and definitely didn’t survive the aftermath. I didn’t know it yet, but Cordite’s group was different. They weren’t kind, and they definitely weren’t gentle, but they had a kind of honor, a code. Later someone would joke that they were like samurai from an old movie -- the seven samurai. There were only five of them, but the name stuck. Even now that’s how we remember them.

        Jack, the barkeep, was the first one to interrupt the stare-down and break the silence. “No dogs allowed.”

        Cagney bristled. “I didn’t see a sign.”

        “Never needed a sign. First dog I’ve seen.”

        Cagney frowned and snapped her fingers. “Guard.”

        Lacey trotted out of sight. The rest of the group stepped forward. But Jack stopped them again. “No guns, either.”

        Cordite eyed the Kalashnikovs slung across the chairs of the Gunmen. “What about them?”

        “They got a special license.”

        Cordite shrugged and unslung his M-16. The others followed his lead, stowing their weapons in a gun rack next to the door. They then sauntered over and took a seat at a neighboring table. Tex cast a discerning eye toward the bar. “I thought I smelled beer.”

        “You got cartridges?”

        Tex pulled a clip from his ammo pouch and deftly ejected five bullets onto the table. “Of course.”

        “Then you smelled right.” Jack got busy filling a pitcher with home brew.

        Abe smiled as he took note of the newcomer’s military uniforms. “How’s the war going?” He and the other Gunmen chuckled.

        But Cordite kept a straight face. “Didn’t you hear? We won.”

        Cagney smiled and played along. “Yeah, we’re on our way to a victory parade.”

        Jack arrived at their table with a pitcher and five glasses. Tex threw back a draught and raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Not bad.”

        Ratchet, however, cut straight to the quick. “Where you get the wheat?”

        “We own a farm,” Abe bragged.

        “They’re lying. It’s not their farm.” I should’ve kept my mouth shut, but I couldn’t.

        Abe just shrugged. “Well, we own the people who own the farm.”

        Cordite eyed me with apparent interest. “And who’s the girl? A hostage?”

        Abe shook his head. “Entertainment.”

        “We could use some entertainment,” Cordite suggested. “She for sale?”

        Abe considered the proposal. “We’ll trade her. One of ours for two of yours.” He pointed at Cagney and Ratchet. Cordite burst into laughter. Abe frowned. “What’s so funny?

        “It’s just that…Ratchet and Cagney aren’t very entertaining.”

        Offended, Cagney kicked Cordite hard. “How would you know?”

        Abe pushed back his chair and stood up, trying to intimidate the newcomers with his imposing height. “Maybe we should see for ourselves.” There was a sudden clatter of chairs as the rest of the gunmen stood up, following Abe’s lead.

        Cagney smiled and also stood up. “Only if I get the first kiss.” She leaned over toward Abe and then, instead of kissing him, smashed her beer mug straight into his jaw. The big man dropped, out cold, before the brawl had even begun. That helped even the odds, but it was still six against five. An instant later, though, Lacey crashed through a window like a black and tan heat seeking missile. She knocked Marcus to the floor and locked her jaws around his neck. Now it was five against five.

        The Gunmen were still confident; overconfident, it turned out. They rushed into the brawl, fists first. But Cordite and his team didn’t mess around. They didn’t treat the fight like a barroom brawl, they treated it like an assassination. Their blows weren’t meant to hurt or intimidate; they were meant to incapacitate: throats crushed, kneecaps broken, internal organs burst. Within a minute the whole thing was over. All the Gunmen lay moaning, unable to walk or talk, wondering what the hell just happened. Cordite grabbed a Kalashnikov off the back of a chair and pointed it at Jack. “Drop it.”

        He was just in time because Jack was raising a sawed-off shotgun from under the bar.

        Jack saw he was outdrawn and dropped the weapon.

        Cordite then took a minute to examine the Kalashnikov. “Knuckleheads brought guns to a fist fight and didn’t even use them.” He slung the weapon over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

        On the way out, Cagney cut the zipties that bound my wrists. “We’ll give you a ride home if you want.”

         I was speechless. I nodded my head “yes”.