Ever Onward by Wayne Mee Page A

guns, a 50 mm. swivel cannon turret, and
was heavy enough to either push aside or plow through wrecked cars.
It could also, in Bobby-Joe’s own words; “Hump along like a whore
on a quart of moonshine!”
    George the Man leaned out the window
of the Troop Transport. “Hey, Boss. Where do you want me to park
this fucker?”
    Jocco’s cruel smile took in the
parking lot of the Holiday Inn. “Right in the front lobby,
Georgie-boy. It looks like rain.”
    George’s eyes widened, then a cruel
smile of his own lit up his pale face. “Fucking-A, man!
Fucking-A!”
    Moments later the high plate-glass
windows shattered as Georgie – Porgie smashed his way into the
lobby of Barstow’s Holiday Inn. Grinning like the savages they were
fast becoming, Nathon Hight and Rege Shehe, the two other drivers
Jocco had recruited, followed Georgie’s lead.
    On a low hill near the edge of
Barstow, Manuel Estaban Gazara, called Rat by everyone but his
mother, sat astride his new Honda 350. Both the dirt-bike and its
rider were filthy. Rat’s long, greasy black hair was tied back by a
headband as red as the numerous pimples on his sallow face. Dressed
in a mixture of studded leathers and high boots, the eighteen year
old looked like something out of a Mad Max movie. A Smith &
Wesson .38 Special hung from a new shoulder holster. A 12 gage
Defender shotgun, it’s black pistol grip sticking obscenely up out
of a rifle scabbard, was strapped to the Honda’s
gastank.
    Rat squinted against the blowing sand
as he watched the scene below him unfold. At first he thought that
the Army had arrived. The idea had sent twin shivers of anger and
disappointment coursing through him. Manuel the Rat liked things
just fine the way they were, thank you very fucking much! Wild n’
crazy n’ free for the taking! And he sure as shit didn’t want any
Law & Order types fucking things up!
    Before the Change, he had had nothing;
he had been nothing. A petty thief; a small time pusher; hanging
out with a bunch of big-mouth Chicanos who strutted and swaggered
but did dick all. Now they were gone and he was left --- and
everything was his. So Rat was less than ecstatic when the four
Army trucks rolled into the parking lot of Barstow’s Holiday
Inn.
    Then the crazy fuckers had driven
right into the front lobby! The sight nearly blew his mind! Fucking
glass everywhere! No regular Army pussies would do that! Rat smiled
to himself and turned the ignition key. The big 350 purred like a
cat about to spring. He drove down the far side of the hill,
through the sand dunes and up onto the hard surface of I-15. It
would be dark soon and he had a few things to do before he came
back and checked out these crazy gringos.
    Private Pamela Gliss, unafectionately
known as Pam the Bitch, finished field stripping her M-16, snapped
the 20 round clip back into the magazine and worked the slide.
“Lock ‘n load, boys and girls! It’s party time!” George, along with
Tim Galt and Bobby-Joe Burlis, were passing a bottle back and forth
and watching a porno movie on the wide screen Sony in the hotel’s
lounge. A bleached blonde with jugs that made Dolly Parton look
flat-chested was bending over a surprised but happy Maytag
repairman. Pam the Bitch, deciding to give the boys on the couch a
little show of her own, fired a triple burst from the hip. The
hollow nosed slugs shattered the glass, imploding Japan’s greatest
contribution to the Western World.
    “Jesus-fucking Christ, man!”, George
yelled. “It was just getting to the good part!”
    “Ya!”, Bobby-Joe drawled. “Ol’
Georgie-boy here was ‘bout ready to shoot his own load!”
    Pam the Bitch placed the butt of her
M-16 against her crotch and rotated the barrel in a slow circle. “I
just thought three big pussy-eaters like you would like a little of
the real thing.”
    Tim Galt, more than a little drunk,
nudged Bobby-Joe. The night before Private Pamela Gliss had quite
eagerly joined in the latest initiation ceremony.