On the Warpath...Part 1

The excitement among the young men grew tangibly as we made our way on foot across the two-lane highway and into the broken scrub of the nearby hillside. What would have been a brisk five minute walk was over in less than three as the men bounded up the hill, each breaking his own path through the loose dirt, slippery stone and tough little bushes that tried in vain to stop our progress. The youngest looking warrior reached the top of the hill first, held up his rifle in triumph and let loose a bloodcurdling yelp that was echoed by another seven eager voices as they themselves topped the hill.

Down at the bottom of the other side of the hill, a small collection of ATV’s and crosscountry motorbikes waited. The young men swarmed down the hill in a rush, yelping and shouting as they did, in a way that must have sent shivers down the spines of many ancient foes.

Soon, the excited voices of the men were joined by the alternating roar and sputters of the many bikes and ATV’s. Dust began to fly as tires spun, the sputters of idling engines were replaced with sounds of gunned motors.

There were four ATV’s altogether, two for Officer Jacks and his partner, and one each for Clarksson and myself. The motorbikes were apparently for the young, which only seemed appropriate.

Officer Jacks stood up from his seated position once his ATV was running, and made a circling motion with his right arm, finishing in a sweeping motion towards the north. The other officer led the way with the first ATV up the clearly marked dirt trail, with Mr. Clarksson and myself following closely behind, Jacks taking the rear. The bikes didn’t bother to stick to the trail, each roaring off in his own unique direction.

After about a mile of tedious climbing and following the switchbacks of the trail, we broke into a flat area that allowed us to spread out from the trail and truly open up the engines for maximum speed.

It was an awesome sight, as we formed up into a ragged flying V formation, zipping through the light scrub of the high desert. Long hair and beaded necklaces trailed in the dry wind. Even I could feel the pressure of the wind blowing in my face, a feeling that brought back a rush of memories from my own youth of riding snowmobiles in the winter and waterskiing on the lakes of Michigan.

It took us another 15 minutes of hard riding to get to the place where John’s truck was sitting. The four ATV’s pulled up to the battered, but newer looking truck, as we dismounted to examine the vehicle. Most of the young men contiinued past the vehicle and gathered in an excited huddle about a hundred feet down the trail. Many were pulling out cigarettes, while a couple seemed more interested in checking their weapons for ammo and any dust that might have gotten caked in them from the ride.

Jacks was pointing out various things to Mr. Clarksson, but my attention was drawn to a small leather pouch that lay half-buried in the dirt near the ruined front driver’s side tire. There were clear signs of a struggle, blood could be seen spattered on the white paint above the tire, like John had been dragged from the vehicle and placed against the side of the truck. I bent down and picked up the pouch, recognizing that it was his medicine bag.

Ignoring the activity around me, I focused on the bag in my hand, trying to picture it around John’s neck, as I had last seen it. I found myself flowing into the Spirit World, but instead of heading for the Underworld as I usually would, I found myself int he Middle World, looking down at the scene of the truck, but apparently at sometime in the recent past. I could see the three other vehicles clustered about the truck, two late model civillian Hummers and a battered Suburban that had swerved in front of John, causing the accident. There were at least six men in the dark suits, sunglasses and clean shaven faces that signalled hired guns who thought of themselves as more than mere mercenaries.

John sat on the ground with his back to the vehicle, near the same tire I was physically standing near, as another man towered above him, a man I recognized from the my earliest memories after I was brought back. He was a tall, extremely dark skinned Haitian Voudoun Priest I knew by the name of Papa Locks for his long, nasty smelling (according to Dr. Geek anyway) dreadlocks. I couldn’t hear anything that was being said, but it was clear he was confronting John about something or another. I remembered his deep, accented voice, and the pleasure he seemed to get out of how he intimidated those around him with his appearance and manner. The only person I ever saw him give any deference to was Drake himself, but even Drake didn’t push and demand from Papa Locks the way he would from his other servants.

I saw Papa Locks strike John across the face with a powerful fist and rip off the medicine pouch from John’s neck, casting it into the place where I came to find it. Standing up, Papa Locks jerked the much smaller John to his feet, despite John’s obvious injuries, and threw him into the arms of one of the dark-suited men. All of them piled into the Hummers and the Suburban and continued down the main dirt trail to the north.

Officer Jack’s voice brought me back down into my body, “Agent Bones, are you OK? What have you found there?”

I shook my head to clear my thoughts, a meaningless jesture now that I didn’t have brains to shake loose. “I found John’s pouch. I was able to look back into some of the incident and see those who took John.”

Mr. Clarksson looked up at that from the bloodstains on the fender, “What did you see?”

I described the scene to them and expanded a little more on what I remembered of Papa Locks.

The other officer asked, “So, you saw at least six men besides this priest?”

“Yeah, my guess is that there were two or three more still in the vehicles, I didn’t see anyone get into the driver’s door of any of them when they loaded back up.”

“How were they armed?”

“I didn’t focus on weapons, but I would presume that they all had at least sidearms. I didn’t see
any rifles, but they may have stayed in the vehicles as well.”

Jacks piped in, “Well, we know they have at least one automatic weapon, they used it to deter our pursuit into the canyon.”

“Alright,” said Mr. Clarksson, “We know approximately how many men they have, the kind of vehicles they are driving, and that they have taken themselves into a canyon with no easy exit. They’ve had John for at least three days now, maybe longer, so we need to bust some ass and see if we can’t get him out of there. I don’t want to jump anyone’s command here, but we need someone to take command of the situation and get a plan worked out and put into action. Any suggestions?” He looked at the two officers and myself.

Officer Jacks was the first to defer, “Mr. Clarksson, I’ve heard plenty about your experience, I think you’d be the perfect one to lead the situation.”

They looked at me, I raised my hands in surrender, “Look, I’m in no position to lead anyone else. I trust you, Herne, and it appears that these officers do as well. You have also read about the kind of things I am capable of, so by all means, take charge.”

He nodded, “Very well. First thing is, we need to get closer to the canyon, and we need to do so quickly. Since they have off road vehicles, we need to take our bikes and ATV’s much closer than planned, in case they try to break through, we want to be able to have wheels available. Once we get closer, we can come up with an assault plan that fully maximizes the armor that we have here.”

He said this last while rapping my chest plate with the hilt of a rather large, very sharp looking knife that had appeared in his hand almost magically. The metallic thunking sound drove home the point to the two reservation officers.

(part 2 to follow in the evening)