'Good Days, Bad Days'

Bad Santa was definitely not having a good day! It had started out well enough, with all his boats, men and supplies ready to go shortly after sunrise. And the plan had been a good one --- or so he had thought. His forces coming by water and Gleason's by land, they had intended to attack the little town of Mohawk at noon. The weather and wind had seemed to be co-operating and they were nearing their destination when the bastards came out of nowhere in small, fast boats and ripped through his fleet like angry hornets! Automatic fire hit them from every direction, killing and wounding as the attackers zigzagged around bouncing over the waves!

By the time some sort of order was restored the enemy had already disengaged and were running back in behind the island where they had been hiding. His own yacht had been hit so often that it was taking on more water than his bilge pumps could handle and was in actual danger of sinking! St, Nick ordered what smaller boats he had left follow them while he tried to plug some of the many holes in his hull. His mood wasn't improved any when only three of the eight boats he'd sent in pursuit came back bloodied and bruised.

"What the fuck happened?! He yelled over to a blood-spattered Rings.

"The bastards had a bunch more waiting for us! Some in boats and some on the fucking island!"

St. Nick cursed and looked around for something or someone to take out his anger on. The 'captain' of his yacht, just coming up from checking the damage, got the full brunt of Santa's rage. "Well? What the fuck do you want?!"

The worried man suddenly became a lot more worried. "Ahh, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, sir, but --- ah, the boat is taking on more water than we can pump out."

"So, get some fucking buckets!"

"Ahhh, I'm afraid that won't work, sir."

"No? Why the fuck not?!"

"Because sir, we don't have any buckets."

"So, captain, what do you suggest?"

The man was as white as a ghost. "Ahhh, abandon ship?"

Bad Santa barked out a laugh --- then shot the man in the head.

***

Ralph Gleason's day wasn't going any better than Santa's. He was in the third of the four SUV's that came over the bridge. He'd seen the lead Hummer vanish when a large truck suddenly blocked the one lane. He'd then seen what looked like several groups of aging hunters swarm onto the bridge and, using the derelict vehicles as cover, began firing on the three remaining SUV's and the troop truck bringing up the rear! He'd both heard and seen their bullets striking his own vehicle, shattering glass and punching holes through the metal! The man up front in the passenger seat with Martin Strongheart was hit twice; once in the chest and once in the head. The man beside him in the back was struck in the throat, his life's blood spurting out all over Gleason until the man finally slumped down dead in the seat. Looking out the shattered windshield he saw men and women advancing rapidly up the bridge towards them. He blinked in amazement as one woman, passing the lead SUV that had crashed into a derelict car, shove the barrel of her shotgun in the window and fired twice into the back seat!

"Martin! Get us the fuck out of here!" he screamed as he fired his handgun out the window. Strongheart quickly backed the vehicle up and motioned for the one behind him to do the same.

"Move you ass, White Boy!" the Mohawk growled.

The other driver got the message and started to back up the narrow gauntlet of rusting hulks they had just navigated their way through. The troop truck had already started to retreat back up the bridge --- and all the while the growing mob followed while keeping them under heavy fire.

By the time they had reached the top of the span the lane had once again opened up and there was more room to turn. The troop truck was already speeding back down the far side. The SUV in front of them had been overrun by their pursuers and the one behind them had become wedged in behind a cement barrier while attempting to turn --- and in doing so now blocked in Gleason's vehicle!

"Do something, Martin!" he yelled. "Get me off his fucking bridge!"

"Hold on then, sir! This'll be a little rough!" Strongheart then began to slam the heavy SUV back and forth, trying to make enough room to get past the other SUV still wedged against the barrier. Frantically looking out his side window as he attempted to reload his pistol, Gleason saw a small group of angry townsfolk moving closer. This group however looked younger, fitter, even more determined that the grey haired bunch they had outdistanced.

Gleason's trembling hands finally managed to get the clip into his empty gun. As he shoved it out the window his heart sank as he saw the same woman with the shotgun steadily advancing towards him. She carried her weapon clutched across her heaving chest, but there was a wicked smile on her flushed face.

"Martin! NOW for Christ's sake! DO something!"

Strongheart stomped down on the accelerator. The oversized tires squealed and the smell of burning rubber filled the air as the wounded metal beast shot forward. There followed a thudding, crunching sound as it hit the left rear fender of the wedged SUV. The two men still alive inside looked on in terror as Martin pushed their battered vehicle up the cement barrier and over the heavy guardrail. Like a very large high diver, the unstuck SUV did a spectacular 360 degree turn on its way down to the mighty St. Lawrence.

It hit the water nose first and sliced into the dark water and vanished. Gleason tore his gaze off the place where the vehicle had disappeared beneath the fast moving surface and glanced out the shattered side window ---- and saw the woman with the shotgun and wicked grin fast approaching.

"Martin! Go! Go! GO!"

As usual, Martin did what he was told.

***

Three days later Gleason and a well armed fleet of over a dozen big speedboats left the marina at Alexandria Bay and roared across the river to a meeting with Bad Santa on his island retreat. On the way they passed Bolt Castle off the starboard bow and Wolf Island off the port. There was no sign of any of Rodney Grant's patrols, though a part of Gleason wouldn't have minded a little payback with that arrogant bastard! He'd heard that Grant was now working with Burnham and the people of Mohawk and he burned to avenge not only the death of his son, but to punish the arrogant fools that had dared to stand in his way!

Gleason had with him all the fighters his wealth and power could muster as well as Martin Strongheart and a number of his braves from the reservation. His daughter Alison was with him as well, as was Wade, his eldest --- and now last remaining son.

Wade and his crew of a half dozen hard men had been gone for over two months scouting out the 'business prospects' around the Toronto/Hamilton/Niagara Falls area at the western end of Lake Ontario. When Wade heard that his baby-brother had been killed by an old boatbuilder he had flown into a rage, wanting to go then and there to 'kill the bastard and burn his place to the ground!'

The news that the boatyard was already just so much ashes on the wind was of little consolation when Wade was told that that Billy-Ray's murderer not only still lived, but had set up not one but two elaborate ambushes, nearly killing Bad Santa on the water and Gleason himself on the bridge.

"Where is this boatbuilder now?!" Wade had demanded.

"Hiding in Mohawk," Gleason had said. "A little piss-ant town on the Canadian side between Gananoque and Brockville."

"I know where the fuck Mohawk is, Pops!" Wade shot back, his tone, like the look in his eyes, was cold and hard. "Me and my boys will burn the fucking place to the ground!"

"You may find that a little harder to do brother than you think," Alison had put in, her condescending tone fueling Wade's anger.

"And why's that, little sister?"Wade had spit back. "An old man hiding with a bunch of scared farmers and fishermen?"

"Oh, he's not hiding, brother," she replied. "Martin's scouts tell him that your 'old boatbuilder' is training a small army over there. Also that Rodney Grant and his smugglers from Wolf Island has thrown in with Burnham and added his men to the ranks. So I seriously doubt that he's hiding from us. It's more like he's waiting for us."

Wade had grinned coldly at that. "Well then sis, we better not disappoint the old fucker! So let's go Pops! We'll avenge Billy-Ray by killing every living sonovabitch there! And we'll make the fucking boatbuilder watch them burn --- then throw him in with them!"

***

Sam met Rodney Grant at the Mohawk town dock. The two former soldiers clasp hands and exchanged 'knowing' looks. Both men were well accustomed with ordering others to their deaths, but neither had ever grown used to it. Yet both knew that in order for the majority to survive, there was always a 'butcher's bill' to be paid.

"Your troops are ready?" Grant asked.

"They're trained but not tried," Sam said. "Still, most will stand and fight --- if only because their neighbors are watching."

Grant nodded, remembering what it was like to try and turn farm boys and shoe salesmen into warriors. All of his 'clan' had already proven themselves as true fighters. His problem was that a few of his group liked the 'action' a little too much. Holding them back was always harder then driving them on.

"When do you think they'll make their move?" was Grant's next question.

Sam shrugged. "Soon. Gleason's not the type to wait around for is revenge. 'Best served cold' is not his style."

Grant chuckled. "Gleason's a pussy-cat compared to Bad Santa! That son-of-a-bitch is a Grad A psycho!"

Later, sitting around the pot-bellied stove in Helen's general store, drink in one hand and a gun close to the other, Grant and Sam continued their conversation.

"Which way do you figure they'll come?" Grant asked after downing another shot of Helen's home made vodka.

"Gleason will come by land, and your St. Nick by water," Sam said, holding up his glass for a refill.

Fiona, sitting close beside him, catlike, refilled everyone's glass, including her own. The heat from the stove, the liquor and the excitement of the coming action combined to make her even more attractive than usual.

Helen, watching from behind the counter, had noted the way the beautiful Fiona and Sam had now become almost inseparable, and the fact that she was now sleeping aboard the White Witch made it obvious to all that they had become lovers.

This in itself came as no real surprise to Helen. What did surprise her was the fact of how little it actually bothered her! In fact, she was even happy that he had finally found someone. Whatever high school affection she and Sam had once shared had long ago faded into a casual friendship. She had been married for most of her adult life to Fred Simpson, an insurance salesman from Kingston, Ontario. There she had enjoyed a successful career as a teacher and had raised a family in a red brick house overlooking Lake Ontario. Sam however had lived alone in his boatshed like a hermit ever since he left the armed forces. If he had now finally found contentment in the arms of this beautiful, mysterious, younger woman, Helen was happy for them both --- or at least for him.

As for the stunning and mysterious Fiona, Helen still had her doubts. It wasn't that she thought the younger woman was a 'spy' or a 'plant' from the 'other side', but she'd seen 'her type' before --- exotic, beautiful butterflies always flitting from one man to another, making them intensely happy for awhile, but sooner or later moving on and leaving them scarred, empty and forever lonely. Helen didn't want that to happen to 'her' Sam, but she was wise enough to know that any attempt to warn him would fall on deaf ears. All she could do is wait and watch, and hope that she was wrong about the girl with 'the hint of paradise' in her eyes.

***