The Billy Club Bastard Case Files: The Case of the Gray Man's Grim Tidings, Part 3 of 3

Mickey Malloy and Doriane finally get face-to-face with the Gray Man, under the swirling storm he created. Can they stop his dastardly scheme? And can Mickey stop himself from committing the same mistakes again?

This story is featured in the anthology Bourbon, Bullets, Broads, and Bourbon, which is now available as a Kindle ebook, in paperback, or as a DRM-free ePub.

This is Part 3 of The Case of the Gray Man’s Grim Tidings. If you haven’t had a chance to read Part 1 or Part 2 yet, stop now and check them out first.

Content Warnings: Violence, Gore, Death, Mild Swearing, Alcohol Use, Nazis

SATURDAY MORNING, JANUARY 12, 1935
IMMANUEL CHURCH
NEW CASTLE, DELAWARE

“Forgot it gets this cold,” Mickey said as he shivered. His cotton suit was made for Tampa summers, not Delaware winters; wind cut through it like it was wet paper. He clutched the flask in his pocket but had yet to take it out for air. For now, his only source of warmth was the little old lady clinging to his forearm.

“When was the last time you left Florida?” Missus Queen asked.

“I leave Florida,” Mick snorted. “But it's been since... it's been a while since I've been this far north.”

“Since Harold, I believe,” Missus Queen said. She was watching as the groundskeepers shoveled dirt into the hole. Mick's eyes flicked two rows over, where her son was buried. She saw him looking. “You can say his name, it is fine, Michael.”

“No, it's... I know I can,” Mick muttered. He remembered the kid like he was standing in front of him, with that nervous grin and his wide blue eyes. He remembered Harold confident, strong, firing at targets and leading the way. He remembered him bloody, and still. He remembered burying Harold Queen twice. The flask in his pocket felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

Missus Queen squeezed his arm.

“You only knew him for a short time, for the worst days of his life,” she said. “I wish you could remember him like I do.”

“Me too,” Mick grunted. He swallowed, his throat dry, his stomach churning. He nodded at the freshly dug grave: “Older or younger?”

“Dwayne was my late husband's younger brother,” Missus Queen told him. She pulled her shawl tighter and shivered. Mick felt like he should put his arm around her. She looked so small, so thin. He didn't. Her nieces and nephews were all over the place. He couldn't be the only person there for her.

“I only met him the once,” Mick whispered. “I'm not sure I belong here, maybe I should head out.”

A few glares shot his way.

“Dwayne didn't ask you to come, I did. And he treated me like his own sister,” Missus Queen said. Mick nodded. She'd been writing him letters for years. Since the thing with the Lohmann kid, he'd found time to write back. He'd known her son for all of three weeks, those last three weeks. He'd been there for him when she couldn't, and as far as Mick could tell, he was as close to Harold and she could get. She smiled and patted him on the hand. “They're selling the house, you know.”

“What house?” Mick asked.

“Dwayne's home,” she said. “His children are grown now, they think that big house is a waste. With everything going on, they need the money. They've all moved to the city, anyway.”

“Have't you lived there for... what, twenty years?”

“Twenty-two, since Lonnie passed,” Missus Queen replied.

“So you're going to live, where, with them in the city?”

“No, they're putting me up in an apartment just down the street from here,” she told him.

“I guess you never want to leave this town,” Mickey said. Another icy gust chilled him to the bone.

“Everything I ever loved I lost in this damn town,” Missus Queen snapped. She began rifling through her purse while she talked: “Nobody asked me where I wanted to be.”

“I'd understand if you wanted to stay. It's where your husband is, and, ah, Harold.” The name caught in Mick's throat, but he pushed past it. He squirmed in his seat, causing the wooden chair to creak under his bulk.

“Michael, I could be on Mars and still be as close to Harold and Lonnie as I am now,” she said, gesturing at the paired gravestones three plots over. Her teeth chattered, and she extracted a small flask from her handbag. She unwrapped her scarf just enough to take a healthy swig, much to Mick's surprise. Another flurry of whispers erupted from the rows behind them.

“Hush, you,” Missus Queen hissed.

“I told you I lost my house?” Mick said.

“You did, and you lost Candace, as well,” Missus Queen sad. She capped her flask and stashed it back away.

“More like she 'got lost,'” Mick grumbled. “Point is, the insurance money came through. I got my eye a new place. It's got a couple apartments built in, and an office. Not as fancy as the place they'd put you up in here.”

“Michael, I wouldn't accept charity,” she tutted.

“No charity about it, Missus Queen,” Mick insisted. “I'm about ready to open a business, a private investigations firm. I know a lot of guys, so it's going to grow quick. You were a clerk, right? Back when you met Mister Queen?”

“I was, but that was so long ago,” she said. A wave of shushes rushed over her and she waved them off, saying: “I've been 'shushed' by you people for twenty-two years. You're putting my last family in the ground, I can damn well do whatever I please.”

“Missus Queen...” Mick tried, but she waved him off, too.

“No more 'Missus Queen,'” she said. “You're my friend, Michael, not the paper boy.”

“So what do I call you?” he asked.

“Marge,” she said.

“On the condition we lose the 'Michael' thing. Only grandmothers and judges call me that. Mickey, to friends.”

“Agreed,” she said. “From here on out.”

“So what do you think? It's about seventy in Florida right now.”

A quake ran up Marge's spine, making the black feathers in her church hat tremble.

“Seventy, you say?”

“And sunny,” Mick said. “No charity. I need someone who can hold Malloy Investigations together. To run payroll, assign agents to cases, bill billables, pay payables, coordinate between the partners, keep our licenses in order.”

“Partners? Michael, that all sounds very extensive,” she said.

“Mickey. And yeah, it will be, I'm working on it, I have some retired guys out there who'd love to get on board, and I got guys on the inside from state agencies on down to Pinkertons. People know me. You'd be helping me get it all started.”

“Started? How far along are you?” she asked.

“Well, your first order of business would be getting my licensure paperwork submitted. And getting the insurance company to write me that check. And then we got to buy the building.”

“Michael - !” she objected. He wasn't even ready for his first step yet.

“Mickey,” he corrected. “Say, you don't have any felonies on your record do you? You ever fired a shotgun?”

She grinned, and Mick couldn't help but smile back. It was nice to see someone excited about the future for once. They must've looked quite the pair smiling like circus clowns at a burying.

“Have I ever fired a shotgun? Who do you think Harold's shooting coach was? I was our women's club skeet champion three years in a row.”

“Good to hear, very good,” Mick said. “At least one of us will need an iron.”

“'An iron?'” she gasped, trying not to laugh at his slang.

“Hey, I can't get one anymore, I told you. It's a bum rap.”

“And why, exactly, would I need 'an iron?'” she demanded.

“For shooting, Marge, for shooting,” Mick said.

“Fair enough,” Marge said. “This calls for a drink.”

“What does?”

“To us,” she said, holding up her little flask in a toast. She suddenly scowled. “It is extremely impolite to leave someone in the lurch for a toast, Michael. I could see that half-pint in your silly linen pants before you even got to the cemetery gate.”

Mick fumbled for his own flask, then held it up and clinked hers.

“Why 'to us?'” he asked.

“Would you put that away?” someone behind them hissed.

“Pearline, I'll put you away if you do not start minding your own business right now,” Marge hissed. She didn't even have to look at the objector to know who it was. Her scowl shifted back into a beaming smile for Mickey, and she said: “To Malloy Investigations.”

He drank to that. The bottom-shelf rye burned as much as it warmed, but any little bit helped.

“When do we start?” she asked. Her little knee was bouncing up and down in anticipation. Had he just reverse-adopted a new mother?

“No rush. I mean, you got time to get everything in order 'round here,” Mick said. His head was swimming. The building wasn't bought yet, 'Malloy Investigations' was just a note he'd found crumpled up next to his bed that morning after tying on a few too many the night before, and the only cop, detective, agent, or even security guard who'd risk talking to him was Bob Cross.

“No need,” Marge hissed. She turned around in her seat to nod at one of the pallbearers who'd just turned the corner with their burden. “Stan there had all my things crated up about ten minutes after the coroner took his father away. I am ready to go when you are.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Mick replied. He had a lot ahead of him, but until that moment, nobody was counting on him to do a lick of it. Beside him, Marge was absolutely buzzing.

Mickey slumped back in his chair and polished off his flask while he watched another Queen get carried by in a box.

THURSDAY NIGHT, JULY 9, 1942
PAWLEY'S ISLAND BEACH
SEASIDE, PAWLEY'S ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA

“You ready?” the Billy Club Bastard asked. The kid gulped, her nervousness audible even over the storm. She couldn't quite get out the words so she just nodded. The Bastard's voice brokered no objection, deeper and wilder than the thunder: “Go do it.”

The kid pulled her hood over her head and slid her aluminum sling-shot into its holster. Her ammunition was wrapped in wax paper and secure in waterproof pouches on her web gear. She belted her slicker tight and dashed out into the dunes. The Bastard watched her go.

He was soaked to the bone. The storm the Nazis had whipped up was no illusion. It was real and howling and as strong as any hurricane he'd weathered in Tampa. Airborne sand and shells turned the wind into a rasp. He pulled his bandanna up as high under his eyes as it would go, flipped his own trench coat collar up, then stalked in close around the dunes, in the opposite direction Doriane had gone. He stayed low, then peered out to sea.

The Bastard's gut feeling had been right. It was a U-boat, a smaller model he hadn't seen before. Its black hull was beached halfway out of the surf, and its prow was split open into two tall doors like a crab's mouth. Orange light beamed out. Rows and rows of crates filled its guts.

The Bastard tried counting heads, but gave up after Kriegsmarine kept streaming in and out, carrying boxes in pairs. These crates were received by fully uniformed Silver Legionnaires who loaded them into a trio of idling trucks.

With their maelstrom above, they did not have to be subtle. Each truck had its headlights blazing, and a banks of arc lamps atop the U-boat lit the whole beach.

The Gray Man stood off to the side, watching the process happen. His hands were in his pockets, and he'd done nothing to avoid the rain. His gray hat was plastered flat to his head, his gray coat hanging off him, soaked through. He didn't glow this time, and the lights cast his shadow long; this time, the Gray Man was real.

“Guess ghosts don't do too much lifting,” the Bastard said. He imagined he could see the Gray Man's disdain on having to work with worms and traitors, even if they were flying the same flag.

He'd been studying Silver Legion files since the Head Hunter thing in Charleston. The men he saw out there, with their gold epaulets and tri-corner hats, operated as the First Minutemen Fusiliers. They'd once been part of the Legion's first cell, the one a Schmidt started in Asheville, North Carolina, before they splintered off. Too loud, too violent. The Silver Legion was a movement, and they needed local support to grow. When your most vocal members are a Nazi-brokered alliance of Bundsmen, Klansmen, and abused Great War vets threatening civil war, you got to get a new image.

These crazies, the Fusiliers, went to go live in the woods. They didn't want to do parades, protests, or debates. They wanted to play with guns. Their livery and literature was all about starting a second American Revolution. The Bastard could see where they were coming from: there was a lot wrong with the country, and there was a whole lot that needed to change. Trouble was, that's where his agreement ended. The particular assholes that were getting soaked on the beach loading up on Nazi weaponry were trying to use fascist money to turn the clock back to 1776. They weren't interested in fancy modern things like suffrage, federal bureaus, or emancipation.

“These nuts have enough guns,” the Bastard reasoned. It was time to break up this party.

Marge had packed a little travel bag for him. He opened it to find the Bastard's club was on top, of course. It was heavy and reassuring in his hand. It was solid, and dependable. It would work in the dark, in the rain. He'd saved more lives with it than with any gun he'd ever had. He’d left his SMLE rifle was back in the car.

Underneath the club, Marge had packed a dozen canister grenades in like eggs. He had smoke, pepper gas, and his new favorite: the M-29 acoustic-ballistic bomb. Or as the officials called 'em, ‘drum grenades.’ These little beauties popped without shrapnel, projecting a deafening wall of air that hit as hard as a deuce-and-a-half. Most officials refused to use them, they were too unpredictable. A single drum grenade was as likely to stun a man as it was to knock over an apartment building.

The Bastard brought four of them. They'd be perfect for clearing a beach.

He stalked between the dunes, getting as close as he could without exposing himself. He stay low, then hucked all four grenades, one after the other. The rain didn't foul his aim, and the wind covered up the sound of them thunking into the wet sand.

The first one popped between two Legion trucks, louder than any cannon shot or thundercrack. It was like they got hit with train. Both vehicles rolled onto their sides with a crash. The traitors that had been standing nearby went flying.

The second drum grenade had plunked into the third truck's open bed. Its blast flattened the cab and shattered the crates that had already been loaded. Gun parts and splintered boards shot out the back like a volley of arrows, knocking a couple Legionnaires and kriegsmarine off their feet.

The Bastard was moving before the third grenade went off. It had landed not two yards from the Gray Man's position. The ghost moved like a viper, reacting faster than anyone should. He dove backward, away from the bomb, pressing himself flat into the ground before it burst. Sand and seawater geysered upward, following the concussive wave that ripped his hat and cloak away.

The last drum grenade bounced into the U-boat's open maw. Its blast knocked the remaining crates off the shelves, dented the open doors outward like a sledgehammer, and burst every single arc lamp hooked to the boat. The beach plunged into darkness. Its abused hull rang like a church bell at midnight.

The Bastard reached the few Nazis still able to stand when the rain dropped back down in a relentless, heavy sheet. It had been lifted away by the wave of hard air, and it fell all at once. When it hit, it hit by the gallon, enough to stagger the already-stunned goons.

The beach might as well have been in cave. The moon couldn't cut through the unnatural storm. It didn't matter. The Bastard didn't need light, he hunted by night. Each swing of his club felled a Silver Legionnaire, each backhand tossed a kriegsmarine aside. He left creased skulls and bent bones in his wake.

Men were screaming, and those that could run, ran. They didn't get far, the kid saw to that. Kriegsmarine scrambled back aboard the U-boat. Its engine churned to life.

The Bastard clipped the last Legionnaire across the scalp and trudged forward through the surf. The U-boat's black maw laid open before him. He snorted. He had fought his way through black pits before; he had survived then and he'd survive again. He put one steel-capped boot on the ramp and felt someone grab his shoulder from behind.

“Not smart,” he grunted. He hefted his club but before he could bring it around, he was in the air, flipping ass-over-elbows off the end of the ramp.

The Bastard landed like a bag of crap, hitting the wet sand hard enough to leave an imprint of his body. He scrambled to his feet to find the Gray Man standing between him and the idling U-boat.

“Hey buddy,” the Bastard said as he pushed himself out of the surf, “You must be in a big hurry to become a real ghost.”

“Who are you?” the Gray Man demanded. He really was just like how the kid had described him: hairless and pale as a corpse. He looked like a god damn mole rat.

“I got a few names, pal, unfortunately you won’t be able to pronounce any of them around a broken jaw,” the Bastard grunted.

“Oh, I see,” the Gray Man said. His eyes rolled back in his head and his back went rigid. His pupils reappeared after a second. “According to the Schmidts' reports, you are Michael Malloy. A founding member of the Office for the Cataloguing of Unusual Occurrences.”

The Bastard's whole body tensed. They knew him. Which meant they knew Marge. They probably knew Bob, and Candy'd be in trouble too, wherever she was. God damn that Eizhürst.

“That's a hell of a name to throw around,” the Bastard grated.

“It is my highest priority to eliminate members of the Office,” the Gray Man droned, like he was reading off his grocery list. He snapped out of it and smiled, pulling a straight-bladed dagger out of his coat as he said: “Killing one of your First Eleven would be very helpful for the Fuehrer.”

“Didn't know I was a lowlife celebrity. Maybe you can bump me off and old Adolf'll get you a nice scratch behind the ears and a dog biscuit,” the Bastard suggested. The Gray Man's smile disappeared.

“You have no idea what I am, do you?” he wondered.

“If I have to guess, an over-eager albino thespian,” the Bastard grunted. He didn't know how much time the kid would need to pull off her part of the operation, but he intended to give it to her.

Before him, the U-boat's engines roared, belching diesel exhaust skyward. Her drum-grenade-deformed doors shook with false thunder as she churned to life.

“I am the next race of man. The Brotherhood. The Aryan was the height of nature's prowess. The Brotherhood is the height of Aryan prowess. Chemistry, biology, psychology, engineering: all of the Aryan masteries built me from nothing,” he gloated, shouting his brain-washed nonsense over the storm. His eyes rolled back and his spine tensed again, just for an instant.

“Yeah, looks like they made you real ugly, bud,” the Bastard said. The more Nazi bullshit this guy spouted, the more of these strange spells he'd have. He had to keep the Gray Man talking until he found his opening. “I got to be honest, you look about forty, pal. I figure National Socialism wouldn’t've gotten funding for this kind of circus act ‘til what, ‘thirty-three, ‘thirty-four?”

“What?” the Gray Man demanded. He was blinking a lot.

“I don't know if jerry taught you math, but you are no ten-year-old boy. You sure as shit didn't come from the womb like this, buddy.”

“I am an engineered manifestation of - !” he ranted, until his eyeballs went rolling and his spine contorted into an arch. It only lasted a heartbeat, but that was all the Billy Club Bastard needed. He surged forward, his boots splashing through the storm surge. The Gray Man recovered from his fit and brought his blade up, but it was too late to dodge. The Bastard's club caught him under the chin and line-drived him up the ramp. His body hit the metal so hard that the hull rang again.

The U-boat groaned. Water began churning at its tail. They were pulling out. The Gray Man sat up, ignoring the blood and teeth tumbling down his chin.

“Conspiring with doubt,” he blubbered, at least that's what the Bastard thought he was saying. He rose to his feet. The hit had sent his knife somewhere out into the water. Instead, he raised his fists and set his feet, like a boxer. He taunted the Bastard with his empty hands, and each word he spoke send red flecks flying: “Do you fight like an animal, or like a man?”

“This is war, men die,” the Bastard said. He drew his club back like he was setting up at home plate.

The Gray Man stood before the Bastard, letting the driving rain bead on his naked scalp. The blood staining his chin and chest went inky and pink. Enough of it washed away in the deluge that the Bastard spotted a tattoo etched between the mans collarbones: 'VII.' The Gray Man smiled, then leaped like a jungle cat.

The Bastard swung for the fences, but the bleeding creep twisted in mid-air, spinning under the swing to land a flat foot in the middle of the Bastard’s chest. He went sprawling, and the Gray Man pounced after him.

Stomp after kick after hammering punch came after him, but the Bastard was able to deflect or block each blow. He rolled and rolled, finally getting enough distance between himself and his attacker to regain his feet. He grabbed a handful of sand and flung it right into the Gray Man's face. The Nazi didn't even notice. The Bastard could see the grains sticking right to the creep's eyeballs, but he didn't so much as blink.

“What the hell?” he muttered.

The Gray Man charged in again. The Bastard's club collided with his forearm, folding it over. He didn't seem to notice. He buried his other fist in the Bastard's gut, doubling him over. A kick to the knee drove him to the sand.

The Gray Man's good hand locked around the Bastard's throat. Red and black oozed into the edges of the Bastard's vision.

“This will help the Reich, greatly,” the Gray Man blubbered through his broken mouth.

“Neat,” the Bastard gasped. He thunked his club into the Gray Man's head and arm over and over, each impact opening cuts and raising goose eggs. He clawed at him with his free hand, punching the Nazi's broken arm, tearing his shirt away. The creep didn't so much as flinch. His grip tightened, and the Bastard's swings grew weaker. The night grew darker with each heartbeat. The Bastard's club arm dropped, limp. His eyes narrowed.

Something thumped wetly, like a giant spitball hitting a forehead.

“What is this?” the Gray Man wondered aloud. His grip loosened on the Bastard's neck just enough to let a couple teaspoons of blood back into his brain.

The Gray Man was staring down at his exposed chest. There was a lump of liquid metal stuck to his breastbone like a giant gleaming loogie. Its edges began to sizzle and steam. The Gray Man sniffed at some distasteful odor. He was smelling his skin melding with the strange goop.

“That stink's you, buddy,” the Bastard wheezed. He recognized the stuff. The Office called it 'cold weld.' It was a gel that hardened into metal when exposed to air. No need for a torch or arc, just apply it and forget. Most of the time it was used to seal doors or hatches in a pinch. Sometimes, it made good slingshot ammo.

The Bastard drew together one last surge of strength, then went low with his club. He heard something pop when it collided with the Gray Man's ankle. Sure, the creep might not react to pain, but structural damage was a whole other beast. Didn't matter if it hurt or not when it couldn’t hold him up anyway.

The Gray Man stumbled and released the Bastard's throat. He tapped the solidified mass of metal attached to his chest, then looked in confusion at his foot, curious as to its failure, then back at the Bastard. His eyes never showed pain, or anger. Instead, they just looked focused. He saw the Bastard, and nothing else. He lurched forward on one foot, hands outstretched, reaching again for his target's neck.

An impact whipped the Gray Man’s skull back, sending him sprawling onto the ramp, kicking and grasping at his face. The Bastard lurched to his feet.

“Well shit,” he grunted when he saw what had happened.

The Gray Man was desperately clawing at the lump of cold weld covering his mouth and nose. He only had seconds before it went from the consistency of clay to that of lead. His legs were lashing out, shoving him further and further up the ramp, closer to the U-boat's open hold. He might feel fear or pain, but his deep, animal instincts still knew to freak out when he was being asphyxiated.

Water churned behind the U-boat. Its screws were turning in reverse. It was desperate to get out to sea, away from the Bastard. The Gray Man was halfway aboard before hydraulics began to draw the twin doors shut. The groaned and objected, but they moved. The Gray Man's kicks grew more frantic. He was only halfway inside. When the doors sealed, he'd be left halfway outside.

“This is going to be messy,” the Bastard said. He stumbled forward, gasping on sharp air that hurt to breathe, trying to reach the Gray Man and pull him free. He wasn't going to make it.

An instant before the doors would've clipped him in half, hands appeared and grabbed the Gray Man by the shoulders. He kicked once more as they dragged him inside. The warped doors slammed as shut as they could get behind him. The U-boat retracted its ramp like it was slurping up a noodle, then lurched backward, out to sea. The scrape of its hull against the sand was grating even during the deafening storm.

The Bastard watched it go. It prow doors were dented outward, but it could still sail. They might not be able to dive, but they could high-tail it. He wasn't worried about all that.

“Hey, kid!” the Bastard shouted. The sopping wet bandanna muffled his voice. He peeled it off his face.

“Holy hell,” Mickey Malloy gasped. He nearly dropped to the sand right then and there. His gut felt like tenderized beef, his kicked knee was already the size of a cantaloupe, his knuckles burned, and his neck was two sizes too small. Even so, it was nice to breathe freely. The rain soaking through his mask made it feel like he was drowning.

“Hey, kid!” he shouted again, as loud as his bruised throat would allow.

“What, I said!” Doriane shouted back. Mick let the U-boat steam out of sight, then turned around. She'd laid out six squirming, hogtied Legionnaires and two kriegsmarine in a neat row.

“Good shooting,” Mick said. He limped over and examined the ropes binding the Nazis up. They were taut between their wrists and ankles. He plucked one like a guitar string and chuckled.

“I grew up on a ranch,” Doriane explained.

“I wasn't saying a word,” Mick said. “We didn't bring nearly enough handcuffs anyway.”

“I installed two transponders, just in case,” she said before he could ask. “I was able to cold weld them directly to the hull by hand, I did not have to sling shot them.”

“You just walked right up?” Mick asked.

“You make a very good distraction,” she replied.

“Thanks,” Mick grunted. “I think.”

“So what happens now?” Doriane asked.

“Well, last I heard, the Jean Chastel was mopping up a wolfpack up off Hatteras. Shouldn't be too much of a haul to catch this guy, too,” he said, waving in the general direction of the disappearing U-boat.

“The Jean's the one...” she asked.

“Forty-odd kills now, best sub hunter in the fleet,” Mick said, like the Office's Atlantic bureau commanded some kind of armada. “The Jean shouldn't have any trouble with a U-boat that can't dive and has two radio transponders on it.”

“No, it shouldn't,” Doriane said. The wind whisked her voice away. She stared out over the ocean. There were maybe twenty Nazis on that U-boat. Her efforts would most likely send them all to Davey Jones. She went damn near as pale as the creep they'd just shoved out to sea.

Mick felt a pang of guilt. Not for the dead Nazis, those were his favorite kind of Nazis, but for Doriane. She had joined the Office to do math. Sure, her decryptions might lead to nasty stuff, but she had had distance from that. She'd had her own way of contributing to the fight, and Mick had told her it wasn't enough. He'd put her in a position to get blood on her hands. He'd forced this on her. His boozeless stomach gurgled painfully.

He fought to keep people out of this shit. Folks didn't need to know how bad it was. They didn't need to live in a world where their superstitions were weaponized, their neighbors were Nazis, and any cruise or party they attended could end up in a massacre. That world, the horror of it, the paranoia and division that would drive it, was what he wanted to prevent. He wanted to keep ignorance blissful.

Yet he'd taken that away from Doriane, for selfish reasons. 'If he had to live with what was really out there, she would, too.' That reasoning was bullshit. He should've left her in Canada.

“Hey,” he said. She looked back at him after a moment. Mick was almost sure she was crying, but for the rain. He poked the closest bound Legionnaire with his toe. “Any way to loosen these ropes? We should get these boys out of the rain, and I'd rather make 'em hop than carry them.”

She didn't say anything, she just went to work. When the first had enough slack between his wrists and ankles to pogo stick it, Mick marched him out through the dunes and down the road to the truck they'd parked in an old barn. The Nazi fell a couple times on the way, but eating dirt was better than being beneath it. Mick shackled the traitor to the bench seat in the bed and drove on over to Doriane.

They loaded up all seven other prisoners then climbed in the cab. Their clothes soaked through the seats in an instant. Mick took off his football helmet and mussed his short gray hair. Doriane wrung out her brown curls onto the floorboard. She yelped when she sat back, then dug the forked aluminum slingshot out of its holster.

“You're a pretty good shot with that thing,” Mick said.

“We used to plink coyotes with pebbles,” she explained. “I've never, well, hurt someone with it before. I've never...”

She couldn't finished the thought.

“Hey, that Nazi was about to choke me dead,” Mick reminded her. “And as for the second thing, you still haven't. He had an air hole by the time they pulled him aboard.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. The color was beginning to return to her face.

“Yeah,” Mick lied. “You think I'm a good distraction? Try a glob of liquid metal up the beezer! That there is a distraction.”

Doriane smiled.

“He really didn't like that, did he?”

“No, he did not.”

“So what do we do now?”

“This storm they made only lasts a couple more hours, right?” Mick asked. She nodded. “Let's call this in for a clean-up crew. I figure you and me wait it out right here, make sure nobody tries scoop up those guns in the meantime.”

“I'll make the call,” Doriane said. She began fiddling with the radio but got distracted by Mickey. He was patting down his every pocket, looking for something. “What are you looking for?”

“My notepad. That Nazi creep kept going on and on about Brotherhood this, Aryan science that, Fuehrer this, blood that. He sounded like a nut, but he could take a licking and keep on ticking. I want to write this down, seems like an unusual enough occurrence to me. I remember stuff better if I've written it down. That, and I'm about twenty seconds from passing out.”

“Oh, got it, yes,” Doriane said. She dug some papers and a pencil out of the glove box and handed them over. Mick started scrawling down everything he remembered.

“He did not go down easily, did he?” Doriane asked after a few minutes.

“I don't think he felt pain, or fear, or anything, really. I don't know what he was,” Mick said.

“Mon dieu, I am glad he is gone,” she said.

“When I was in grade school, we pulled a prank with a couple turkeys. We let them loose in the school and painted numbers on their sides. 'One,' 'two,' and 'five.' I caught a few smacks with the ruler, but I never spilled the beans that there wasn't any 'three' or 'four.' Taylor Greene, that spineless rat scum, he let it slip. But 'til then, we had teachers and dog catchers on a bird hunt over a whole weekend, tip-toeing down every hallway with potato sacks and turkey calls.”

“Yes, this is a funny story,” Doriane said, nodding along like he was some senile old man that she'd have to put to bed soon. Mick snorted.

“My point is, that creep out there, the Nazi zealot who can't feel pain? He was number seven.”

“There are more,” she said, coming to the same conclusion Mickey had.

“These creeps are resorting to turning themselves into whatever the hell he was. They'll do anything to win. Anything.” Mick stared through the windshield, into the artificial thunderheads scouring the beach. The scattered guns were already sinking into the sand. The furrow the U-boat had left in the beach was nearly filled in. Mick shook his head, saying:

“They don't do this kind of thing to surrender. This is just starting, and they're in it 'til the end. We got to be, too.”

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Copyright © 2023 Daniel Baldwin. All rights reserved.

Written and edited by Daniel Baldwin. Art by Tyrelle Smith.