The Secret Files of Lucky Ford: The Butcher and the Black Tide, Part 7 of 13

Lucky Ford has been confronted with the horrors wrought by Hellbörg, inadvertently placing the people the mad doctor has terrorized the most in harm’s way. Then, the officials must make a terrible decision.

The Butcher and the Black Tide is now available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, and as a DRM-free ebook.

This is Part 7 of The Secret Files of Lucky Ford: The Butcher and the Black Tide. If you haven’t read Part 1. Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, or Part 6 yet, check them out before reading any further.

Content Warnings: Violence, Gun Violence, Animal Violence, Death, Gore, Mild Swearing, Tobacco Use, Drug Use, Body Horror

TUESDAY MORNING, JULY 13, 1943
LAS ENCRUCIJADAS
THE SIERRA ESPUÑA MOUNTAINS, SPAIN

The volcanic storm raged against the old building. Lucky woke at each noise in a sweat, gun in hand. The groans of old wood and howls of cinder-edged wind sounded exactly like I-soldiers to his sleep-deprived brain.

If the sounds didn't wake Lucky, it was dreams that did: scenes of Grease killed and butchered for parts to be sewn onto other people’s bodies.

He only had three hours to sleep after O'Laughlin left, and of that his longest stretch of unconsciousness couldn't have lasted longer than twenty minutes.

The sun didn't rise so much as it bled through the ash clouds to create a red glow over Las Encrucijadas. Lucky sat up and looked around. Despite his fitful sleep, their canteens had been filled in the night, their magazines had been reloaded, and he found four bundles of food wrapped in butcher paper.

Mandario’s people had been trained well. False shadows and imagined ghosts had woken Lucky all night, but in reality there had been a flurry of activity feet away that had never disturbed him.

The meals and materiel told Lucky that Mandario's militia was desperate to get their visitors out of their hair. They'd been fighting for their lives and scraping by for months, but chose to give up ammunition and food. Their guests were worth more to them gone than having their hard-earned provisions in hand.

Emilia was nowhere to be seen. Her bedroll looked untouched. Bucket was curled up across the room, wrapped up in his bedroll like a mummy, and Miller was posted up at the window with his M3 grease gun at the ready. Lucky didn't know if he had slept, or if he even needed to sleep. Miller hadn't yet noticed that Lucky was awake.

Bucket began to stir. He cradled his Thompson so close that Lucky was afraid he might shoot himself when he woke up. He screwed his eyes shut against the dull morning glow and let his hand creep out from his bedroll, grasping around until his found his glasses. They slid onto their familiar perch halfway down his nose, but still he didn't open his eyes. The pack of smokes appeared in his hand as if by magic, and he expertly flipped a fresh one into his mouth. It was only after he chewed on the unlit cigarette for a few seconds that he was good and ready to look around.

“I'd like to have a talk with whoever made morning so damn early,” he grumbled. He looked down at his Thompson and tested its weight with one hand. He could feel the fresh slugs the militia had put into his hundred-round drum. “Somebody reloaded our heaters while we were sleeping.”

“Looks that way,” Lucky said. He removed the clip from his Colt to show Bucket the stack of new .45's gleaming inside. Bucket inspected the new brass in his magazine as well.

“Miller, where's Emilia?” Lucky asked. The gas masked man didn't seem to hear him. “Miller?”

“Oh, Private Ford, so sorry, I am a bit out of sorts,” Miller said, He seemed embarrassed for feeling out of it, but Lucky didn't blame him. It had been a long few days for everyone. It was almost a relief to see Miller distracted, like it proved he was actually human.

“Miss Emilia is outside with Father Mandario, discussing last night's events,” he answered.

“Guess it's about time for us to head out,” Lucky said. He gathered the supplies that had been left for him during the night. The people of Las Encrucijadas hadn’t left any wiggle room about the dawn deadline and Lucky was ready to move.

“I believe that is what they are discussing now,” Miller replied. Lucky peered out between the shutters.

Emilia and Father Mandario were arguing. Lucky put on his helmet and walked outside. The ash was still coming down in fluffy, gritty flakes. After two nights it was piled halfway up Lucky's jump boots and each step he took into the town square raised big gray puffs.

“You heard the Irishman,” Emilia was arguing. She was helmeted and her exasperation was so evident that Lucky could hear it through her voice filter: “They will be back, and you will need our help.”

“We have already been given everything we need,” Father Mandario explained, crinkling his face to assure her.

She stalked away from him and kicked over the heaved church pew, raising a cloud around her.

“You have seen what they can do!” she shouted, her voice rattling and artificial.

“Yes, as have you,” the old priest replied, careful not to raise his voice. “There is nothing for you to do here save anger them further. You can only disrupt plans that have been in motion since long before la Medida came. Your friends have their own cause. Help them.”

Mandario noticed Lucky trudge up and continued:

“This town carved its place in the world from three dirt roads and a trickle of warm water. We have fought the Francoists tooth and nail and we were ground into dust. Yet still we remain, and still we fight. We can take care of ourselves. It is up to you to protect your own.”

A group of armed irregulars approached the old priest. He put up his gnarled hand before Emilia could object again, saying:

“Please excuse me, we have many preparations to make. It seems as if the time we have been preparing for must be now, bolseteros or no. You and your friends' presence draw many unwelcome eyes. We can no longer wait.”

With a wrinkly smile, Mandario hobbled away to join his people in a tense discussion.

“We have to get moving,” Lucky told her as the militia fighters walked away. She didn't hear a word.

“He is wrong,” she mumbled to herself, her voice reverberating with anger.

“You can't change that,” Lucky countered.

“These people need us,” she said.

“There are people who need us more,” Lucky said. He was getting desperate. “People they've already hurt.”

Emilia spun around, her glare burning through him like jet of molten thermite even through her helmet.

“Your friend is already dead,” she growled, “And do not pretend to care about the others. People had been dying here for months before you cared to come.”

“You don't know that he's dead,” Lucky shot back, close to yelling.

“Neither do you, Private Ford.” Miller said. He and Bucket had joined us in the square.

“These people just risked their asses for us,” Bucket added. “We owe them our help, whether they want it or not.”

“Us being here only makes it worse for them,” Lucky tried to reason. “We can't do anything but make Hellbörg want to destroy this place that much more. All we'd do if we stay is force them to die alongside us.”

“What else can we do?” Miller asked. “We are ill-equipped to confront the Romanian's forces in a direct attack. Perhaps we could organize another ambush, but their numbers, Captain Espada’s panzerritter armor, and their I-solders make even that a dangerous proposition..”

“Agreed,” Bucket added. “And if we go after them, there's four of us fighting them at home. We catch them out here, we choose where. We can fortify a spot to jump ‘em and have the whole militia at our backs.”

“Yeah, a small town militia made up of half-starved civilians with antique guns, trained to fight by a doddering old man, with a rich girl who lives in a cave,” Lucky snapped. He was getting mad, but those words struck a nerve in Emilia. She pushed Miller aside and grabbed a handful of Lucky's shirt.

“I have spent the last six years of my life fighting and surviving,” she snarled. The pointed nose of her helmet trembled an inch from Lucky’s face. “How dare you...”

Miller interrupted her.

“That's not what he meant, Emmy.” His ice-blue eyes looked soft behind the glass lenses. “The Portuguese are hired killers, and their lives and sanity depend upon the murder of everyone here. Our enemy is fighting for their lives as much as we are.”

Emilia shoved Lucky away, but she was still shaking. She threw her coat around her shoulders to disguise her trembling shoulders.

“That's exactly how we stop them,” Lucky said. He had to convince them that laying in wait for these killers to return was suicide for everyone. “They fight for the paycheck, and the smoke. We cut that off, they'll leave on their own. If the Romanian is gone, so are they.”

“We don't have the firepower for that,” Bucket said. “Can't even dent that Espada bastard's armor, much less take down one of those I-soldiers, and there's no telling how many of those things Hellbörg has cooked up.”

“The Romanian has not fielded them before,” Emilia answered.

“So our being here has put him on edge,” Miller replied. “He is willing to bring all of his weapons to bear upon us.”

“That is why we will fight here, on our ground, with as many guns by our side as we can find,” Emilia declared. Lucky shook his head.

“The only thing we choose about a fight here is how many of these people will die with us. If I'm going down, I'm at least finding Grease first,” he declared. “Alive or otherwise.”

He studied Miller, Bucket, and Emilia in turn. None would meet his eyes.

“I'm not saying my friend is any more worthy of our help than these people,” Lucky added. “But he's already in trouble. If we circle around and cut the head off the Romanian's forces now, we save these people. Guerrillero tactics.”

“They need us here, now,” Emilia said with a finality that told Lucky there were no arguments left for her to hear.

“And you two?” Lucky asked Miller and Bucket.

“I'm afraid I agree with Miss Emilia, Private Ford,” Miller answered solemnly. “Our resources are best utilized here. If we protect these people, not only do we thin Doctor Hellbörg's ranks, but we also deny him the prisoners he needs. Our best chances for victory lies in holding this town.”

“What about you?” Lucky demanded of Bucket.

“Sorry, it's just...” Bucket couldn't even look up from the ash-covered ground. He had been forced to watch his assistant, Dutton, get tortured and murdered right in front of him just two days before. “I can't just let these people die. I have to stay.”

Lucky understood where Bucket's head was. Dutton was what had brought him to Spain. He was seeking some kind of redemption.

Lucky knew the feeling.

Both Bucket and Miller were right and they knew what they had to do, but Grease still needed help. Lucky had to find him, in whatever state he was in, and make sure he got home. Lucky owed him that much.

Lucky zipped his lip and began patting down his pockets and gear. All he had left was his pistol and knife, a few clips, and enough food and water to walk for a day. Not a lot to take on a mercenary army of monsters and murderers. Not a lot to do much at all, but something had to be done. Sitting and waiting would help no one, especially when the Colonel's four day deadline was creeping up, closer by the minute.

“Then the only thing I can ask for is directions,” Lucky said.

Emilia pointed to a spot on the treeline just south of the rising sun’s oozing bleed.

“Avoid the road, it belongs to the Romanian,” she advised, “But do not stray too far. The land is... unnatural.”

“Yes, stay within sight of the road, Private Ford.” Miller added. “Walk south until you reach the coast, then head east. The battery has a ten-inch cannon, it would be hard to miss.”

“You will smell it before you see the gun,” Emilia said. “What they do not drop into the sea, they burn. Be careful of Espada's patrols, and the eastern and western approaches are mined.”

“I'll stay vigilant,” Lucky assured them. There wasn't any more time to wait around or to be polite. He flipped his Colt's safety off and began the long walk away from them, toward the coast. Bucket called out as he walked away:

“Hey!” he shouted, “This may add a little bite to your bark.”

Bucket handed him a long gun he'd gotten from the from the house and a satchel packed with a couple frag grenades, a spare canteen, and a couple dozen rounds. Lucky threw the bag over his shoulder and inspected the gun. It was an old but well-maintained Carcano bolt-action rifle, an Italian workhorse that could put rounds downrange with accuracy and reliability. It would do the job.

“Do what you need to do, Lucky,” Bucket said, “Be careful, and good...”

His face split into a huge grin when he realized what he was about to say.

“Good you-know-what.”

TUESDAY MORNING, JULY 13, 1943
SOUTHBOUND ON THE ROAD TO THE COAST
THE SIERRA ESPUÑA MOUNTAINS, SPAIN

Lucky felt like he had been walking for days. The ash was most of the way up his shins, and it concealed roots and knobs that caught his boots sure as any tripwire. The sun’s bleed had been bleached away to a filtered, lifeless gray by the cinder haze.

He kept the coastal road a hundred yards off to his left, close enough to stay on track, but far enough that he could duck into cover if he caught sight of the Romanian's men. So far, there was no trace of them, but he wasn't going to bet his life on them being too far away.

He paused to check the rifle: even the smallest speck of stray grit jamming its antique workings could do him in. He was blowing feathery soot out of its bolt carriage when a foot hit mud up ahead. Lucky was on his knee inside a breath, scanning the woods, rifle to his shoulder.

A doe stood trembling ten yards ahead of him. It was the most pathetic creature Lucky'd seen since the Crying Maiden in Vesuvius. Like that tortured whale, this deer was suffering with no comprehension of anything but pain.

The doe's brown fur was stained black by ash sticking to her oily coat. She was vainly trying to find a sip in a soot-clogged stream. The clear spring water that she craved had been reduced to sludge the color and texture of molten road tar. Lucky could smell the sulfurous minerals coming off that gritty slime from where he was kneeling.

She watched him with bloodshot, crusted brown eyes, trembling but unafraid. One of her legs hung limp. A bloody line of saliva oozed from her open mouth down into the volcanic mud. She was already dead, she just hadn’t laid down yet.

On another day, in another place, Lucky might have been able to do something to help. But not there. There was no sign that the cinders would stop falling any time soon. The only thing he knew for sure was that this deer would soon collapse somewhere in these woods, terrified and blind, choking to death on her own poisoned blood.

Lucky moved slowly as he unhooked one of the full canteens from his belt. He filled its cap with clean water and held it out toward the animal. She was only a few gentle steps away. She didn't move, didn't take her eyes off of him. Lucky took another step, and another, sliding through the gray drifts toward the doe.

There was nothing to be done for her but ease her suffering. Something as simple as a sip of water could make all the difference near the end.

She was no more than three yards away when Lucky heard the engines. Not one or two, but an entire convoy of sputtering cargo trucks coming inland from the coast. There were no flatbeds for I-soldiers: each of the dozen vehicles was a soft top packed with bolsetero troops.

The doe's head popped up when she heard the approaching rumble. Lucky peered between the trees. Each vehicle had two lookouts riding the running boards, scouring the woods for enemies. They wouldn't abide an ambush on their way to Las Encrucijadas. Any spotter with two eyes and half a brain would easily see where he had left himself exposed, distracted by the wounded deer.

“Damn,” Lucky whispered.

The doe's ears flicked toward Lucky when he cursed, then went back to the trucks. He didn't think twice, he had to get to cover. Slick as he could, he dove behind the nearest poplar, astonished and relieved to see that he hadn't kicked up a cloud when he moved. He fell back against the tree, feeling every ounce of exhaustion that had been building up in his muscles since he'd boarded the C-47 to Sicily just four nights before.

Before Lucky's back hit the tree, he realized his mistake too late to stop it. His impact against the trunk shook every limb on the polar, loosing a cloud of soot from where it’d been clinging to the canopy.

“Double damn,” Lucky hissed. Ash landed all over his helmet, shoulders, and gun. He blew the fresh grit from the rifle breach, but hoped he wouldn't have to use it. Hopefully the bolseteros would just think it was the wind, or they'd miss the disturbed ash altogether.

“¡Á escuerda!” a bolsetero lookout yelled from the road. There was a hiss and crunch as the trucks slammed their air brakes on the dirt road. Lucky dared to peek around the tree trunk: all twelve trucks had stopped, each packed with mercenaries with rifles at the ready, looking for a fight.

Lucky remembered the panicked fusillade these bolseteros had unleashed when he had parachuted in. They didn't care about saving ammunition; they'd open up at the first sign of danger. Lucky stood no chance so long as these jumpy trigger men were watching his position. He was trapped.

The wounded deer had already disregarded the bolseteros and directed her attention back to the contaminated stream. On the road, the mercenaries were unloading from the trucks and forming a firing line. Lucky looked back at the deer as she choked through the ash muck in an attempt to find a sip.

“You still got some spring in your step, don’t you?” he asked her. He hunkered up as tight and as low as he could against the tree and fished around through the ash, finally finding a stone the size of an acorn.

The bolseteros had to have something to shoot at.

“Sorry, girl,” he whispered. The doe looked up from the toxic stream and stared at him. Lucky told himself that he would just be speeding along what Vesuvius had started with the poor animal, but it didn't help his conscience any.

“Sorry.”

Lucky whipped the pebble over the doe, nailing a tree right behind her. Her head popped up and her bloodshot eyes went wide. She raised a gray billow as she struggled to spin around spot the cause of the noise. Lucky tucked up behind the poplar, balling himself up as tight as he could.

The bolseteros spotted the movement and began shouting again. The firing line was forming into a wedge, homing in on the disturbance in the ash. The deer saw them coming. She darted away, her painful gait kicking up a rooster tail as she knocked cinders off trees and underbrush while crashing through the forest.

“¡Lá!” a bolsetero yelled, then fired his rifle. In an instant the forest was filled with whipping bullets and Portuguese curses. Each screaming round brought down more ash. The woods were quickly cloaked by falling soot. Lucky couldn't see ten feet in front of him; the bullets were disturbing so much soot that it blocked the little sunlight had fought its way through.

The doe disappeared into the chaos. Bullets opped pruning trees around Lucky. The bolseteros’ aim had moved to follow the doe’s trail.

It was time for him to jet.

Lucky took off as fast as he could, trying his best to be quiet as he raced away from the road, away from the bolseteros. He ran until he couldn't hear any more gunfire.

It was nearly an hour before he thought it was safe to take a swig of water.

Lucky slowed from a sprint to a trot, then walked until he collapsed onto a pad of soft green moss at the base of a tree. He studied the woods around him as he unscrewed his canteen.

This part of the forest was even darker than the rest of the soot-coated valley. The moss was cool under his hands. There was no ash on the ground here, not anywhere within eyeshot.

No gray, just green. Lucky knew he was tired, but how could he have missed that? He looked up in the canopies above, hoping to see more of the wonderful greenery.

The trees looked like birds' nests, interwoven with dead branches and dried vegetation, tied together tight as the seat on a wicker chair. These alien structures arced from tree to tree, lacing between every canopy as far as Lucky could see, forming a thick blanket high above the forest floor.

Whoever built this had done so by hand, each branch and twig and piece of grass expertly placed to create a impenetrable weave. This was an artificial structure, so extensive that it must have taken years to create. Someone had special interest in this land. Lucky unhooked the strap on his pistol holster and stood.

As Lucky walked through the darkened grove, he began to notice other objects woven into the lattice overhead. There was an old wagon axle, tied into the canopy with dried vines. Nearby, blanched scraps of fabric were laced between the branches. Lucky wandered further into the artificially-covered forest. Near the center of the grove he found a rusted car door, maybe from a Chevy pickup, suspended twenty feet above the ground next to some chalky sticks. Only a dry crunch underfoot brought his eyes back down to the ground.

He had crushed an old bone under his boot. It was long enough to have come from a man's arm. Lucky jumped away and drew his Colt. His heart was pounding. The exhaustion twisting his muscles after his escape from the road was replaced with a direct injection of pure adrenaline. Lucky spun, scanning the woods around him, searching for hidden enemies. Finding none, his attention returned upward.

The suspended white sticks he'd noticed before were a set and a half of human femurs, scored with deep bite-marks before they’d been hung up for display. Lucky scanned the rest of the canopy: there were dozens of human bones laced into the trees.

He was in la tierra muerta, the dead land, the place tainted by Department Three's experiments. Lucky fought to push down the surge of panic as quick as it welled up.

Something hissed in the gloom behind him.

Lucky spun on his heel, finger on the Colt .45's trigger. A pair of glowing red eyes glared down on him from a pool of shadow within the lattice. He lined his sights up between the ruby beads. Before he could fire, he heard the click of sharp teeth. Lucky glanced to his left.

Another set of glowing eyes was watching him from another dark perch. Whatever they belonged to was ready to pounce. Lucky set the second creature on the back-burner and turned his aim back to the first. The single set of predatory eyes had been replaced by a dozen. Lucky risked another glance to the left: two dozen beady eyes peered down on him.

Just for the hell of it, Lucky made sure there were another twenty of the things behind him and to his right.

Lucky held his Colt steady with his right hand and drew his knife with his left. Whatever these things were, he wasn't going to make it easy for them.

“I don't have all day...” Lucky growled.

The first creature loosed an ear-piercing squeal and lunged at him. Lucky's Colt barked in response, splitting the pouncing predator's narrow green skull with lead.

In an instant, the air was filled with screeching green monsters and roaring .45's.

Copyright © 2023 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Dudu Torres. Spanish translations by Caitlin Gilmore.