C Box - Winterkill

From inside trailers, he heard shouted curses. Someone threw something heavy into a wall. If the intention of the song was to drive the Sovereigns crazy, Joe thought, it appeared to be working.

A door flew open and a man Joe didn’t recognize stood framed in the light of his propane lamp. He swung an automatic rifle up across his body and leaned into it. A furious burst of fire lit up the night. Although the man was shooting at the speakers-and hitting them, judging by the sharp pings of metal-and not toward Joe, Joe sunk to his haunches and dug for his Beretta.

Another burst shredded the speakers with holes, but did little to stop the sound.

The song ended and, after a brief pause, started up again. Only this time it was louder.

Joe heard a sudden rustle close behind him, but he was too slow, and too cold, to react. He felt a heavy blow above his ear that sent him sprawling clumsily forward, snow filling his nose and mouth.

He never actually lost consciousness, but the orange flashes that burst across his eyes and the thundering pulses of pain in his head prevented him from fighting back as he was dragged from his place in the trees into the compound.

Two men wearing oversized white fatigues and carrying scoped SKS rifles wrapped in white tape pulled him by his arms. Snow and ice jammed into his collar and into the top of his pants. One of them had taken his pistol.

Sliding easier now over the packed snow of the compound, Joe tried to twist away. They immediately let go of him, and kicked him in the ribs with their heavy winter boots.

The first kick was true, knocking the air out of him and leaving him writhing in the snow. He was suprisingly lucid, he realized. He knew what was going on around him as if he were watching it from somewhere else-he just couldn’t do much about it. It wouldn’t be that much of a surprise to him if someone pressed the cold muzzle of a shotgun to his neck and fired. Oddly, he didn’t fear it. That just seemed like part of the deal.

“Stop, I think I know him.” It was Wade Brockius. His voice was unmistakable.

Joe heard the crunching of snow from across the compound.

One of the men kicked him again, although not as effectively this time. Joe partially blocked it, and absorbed most of the blow in his forearms. “Asshole,” the man spat.

Joe rolled and blinked as Brockius shined a flashlight in his eyes.

“Yeah, I know him. He’s that game warden.”

“We caught him at the edge of camp, bobbing and weaving when Clem shot at that speaker.”

Joe suddenly realized that the music was still playing, and even louder. Still “Danke Schoen.” But here was a hideous screaming along with it.

Joe started to sit up, but the pain in his head roared back and he sank down onto an elbow, waiting for his sudden nausea to recede. He kept his free arm up, wary of more kicks. Brockius knelt and wrapped a large arm around Joe and helped him to sit upright, to Joe’s relief. Joe’s mouth was full of hot blood and melting snow. He spit a dark stream out between his knees.

“Don’t go anywhere quite yet, boys,” Brockius said to the two men.

“Do you have to listen to that every night?” Joe asked, testing his voice. It sounded shaky.

“Since last night,” Brockius said. “I think we’re going to be serenaded by Wayne Newton every night now.”

“Clem shot the hell out of those speakers,” one of the men in white said. “But it didn’t do any good.”

“We’ll cut the fucking wires,” the other said.

Brockius nodded absently, but his eyes stayed on Joe.

“Mind if I come in?” Joe asked. “It’s pretty cold out here.”

Brockius considered it, then shook his head.

“You’re the second person today who wouldn’t invite me in,” Joe said absently. “I don’t know what to think about that.”

Brockius showed a slight smile. “There are some things in my trailer I really don’t want anyone to see.”

Joe thought: weapons . The ATF had conducted raids for less. Either that, or Brockius’s fax machine was loaded to broadcast more subpoenas and liens. Or both.

“What in the hell are you doing here?” Brockius asked.

Joe thought carefully before he spoke. The two men in white continued to crowd him. They blocked out the light where he sat.

“I wanted to see for myself if April was here and in good health.”

“She is. I already told you that.”

Joe looked up. “And I wanted to see if Spud Cargill was up here.”

Brockius cursed, and shook his head. “Why does everybody think that man is up here, goddammit!”

“Because there was a report that he was,” Joe said. “And because if he is up here, there will be… trouble.”

“Trouble we can handle,” one of the men in white said.

The other one chuckled at that.

“Look,” Brockius said, his voice commanding as he leaned close to Joe. Joe could smell onions on his breath. “I’m going to tell you the truth, because I don’t ever want you up here again. You could have gotten yourself killed real easily.”

“That’s right,” the more obnoxious of the two men in white agreed. Again, the other chuckled.

“Spud. Cargill. Is. Not. Here.”

Joe studied Brockius’s face, looking into his soulful eyes.

“That man tried to join us last night. He did come here. I spoke with him, and I turned him away.”

“Why didn’t you tell the Feds that?”

Brockius rolled his eyes and roared, “I DID TELL THEM HE WASN’T HERE.”

“They just didn’t believe you,” Joe said softly.

“How unlike them,” Brockius spat.

“Where did Spud go when you told him to leave?”

Brockius shrugged. “To wherever he came from, I guess.”

Joe felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him. He was no closer to finding Spud now than he had been when he started. The pain in his head had reduced to a steady thump in his right temple. Joe reached up with a bare hand and cleaned packed snow out of his ear.

“Did you hear me?” Brockius asked.

“Yes. And I believe you,” Joe said.

“Jackbooted thugs,” Obnoxious White growled. “People that hide behind their regulations and their badges while they’re skinning a rabbit on a tape.”

Yes, Joe realized. That was the horrible squealing sound he heard with “Danke Schoen.”

There was a long minute where no one spoke. The screaming of the rabbit was like icy metal rubbing along Joe’s spine. Finally, it stopped.

“It’s going to start up again,” Obnoxious White said. “Is it all right with you if I go cut that fucking wire?”

Brockius looked up. “Watch out for booby traps in the trees. I wouldn’t put it past them to trip-wire the trees.”

Obnoxious White snapped on a flashlight that was taped to the barrel of his SKS rifle and walked away toward the fence and the road.

“Do you mind if I say hello to April?” Joe asked. “I saw her earlier.”

“You mean you spied on her.”

Joe nodded. “Yes, I did.”

“Did she seem happy to you?”

Joe hesitated. “She didn’t seem unhappy.”

“Then your question is answered. You can go now.”

Brockius helped Joe to his feet. His legs felt weak. He had lost one of his snowshoes. While his head still pounded, the pain in his ribs hurt worse. He could feel a stabbing sensation with each deep breath.

“Your man broke my rib, I think.”

“You’re lucky it wasn’t your head.”

“He did a pretty good number on my head, too,” Joe said, feeling slightly giddy for some reason.

Brockius walked Joe toward the edge of the compound where he had been dragged from. The other man in white stayed for a moment, then handed Joe’s pistol to Brockius before going to help Obnoxious White cut the wires. Obviously, the wires hadn’t been found yet, because the song started up again.