'The Brewing Storm'

Each group had been given their orders; each squad had been trained and drilled and each soldier now knew his duty --- to fight against any and all that would do harm to either himself or his fellow friends and neighbours.

It was a tale as old as Time itself, harking back to the earliest days of humankind --- a man clutching his weapon in the dark, willing to fight to the death to save his kith and kin.

***

Judy Litchfield looked down at the short, light, double barrelled shotgun that she now clutched so nervously yet lovingly in the pre-dawn darkness. It had been her grandfather's 'pride and joy'--- just as she had been. Passed down to him from his grandfather when he was just a lad, the elegant weapon was well over a hundred years old. The sleek 'poaching gun' had curling 'open hammers', a graceful 'gooseneck' side break and a slender, dark brown walnut stock the same colour as her grandfather's eyes.

The ancient, engraved metalwork had lost most of its blueing over the years, but to Judy's mind that just made it all the more special. 'Just like grandpa was--- old and worn by time and events, but still active and full of life! Or at least he had been till the damn Covid took him!'

She pushed such dark thoughts away from her--- or at least she tried. But it was always harder at night. During the day she could keep busy with her garden, reading, drilling with militia and her work at the food store. But when the sun set and the shadows lengthened, the old house always seemed suddenly empty and her thoughts always turned back to her grandfather.

Her parents had died years ago when she was still a child. A car crash on the 401 up near Kingston. Her father had taken her mother there to see a 'cancer specialist' and she had stayed with her grandfather. She remembered they had made pancakes and he'd taken her fishing. That night, when her parents didn't return, her grandfather had talked to a policeman at the front door, and when he tucked her in soon after she noticed that he had been crying.

She had stayed with him in the old house all through high school and went to the local community college instead of Kingston University just so she could be near him --- after all, they were all the family either of them had left.

He'd taught her so many things. Besides the fishing and gardening there was canoeing, sailing and hunting. She wasn't very keen on the hunting, but he insisted that she at least learn how to shoot. 'Paper targets and old stumps will do then, Pickle,' he'd said as they walked through an autumn forest ablaze with colours. 'We don't have to shoot any furry rabbits or plump partridge, but a girl needs to know how to defend herself against those nasty 'gypsies'!'

It had been a long-time joke between them, all his 'pet' names for her like Peanut, Pumpkin and Pickle. The 'nasty gypsies' were part of it as well. He used that term to represent anything from an unmade bed, a messy room or someone or something doing what he considered the 'wrong thing'.

She had loved the names and always kept an eye out for any 'nasty gypsies' sneaking around. But more than anything she had loved the old man --- perhaps more than anyone else in her young life.

Then the Pandemic had taken him and left her all alone --- just like it had done with tens millions of others all over the globe. Now, five years later, she still lived in his house, tended his garden, and wore his old hunting jacket --- and also kept his beautiful old shotgun close by to frighten off any nasty gypsies that might come snooping around!

In reality she'd only had to use it twice: once she had pointed it at four strangers who were raiding her back garden. However as they started to run off she had lowered the weapon and called them back, telling them they could each take two things, but no more. All four had quietly made their selection and nodded their thanks, all the while keeping a cautious eye on the competent looking young woman with the diminutive shotgun. The other time she had fired a warning shot in the air and frightened off three 'gypsies' that were attempting to rob Mrs. Billings, her neighbour from across the street. She had the second hammer cocked and ready, but fortunately it wasn't needed.

And now, waiting in the cold, pre-dawn darkness, her fellow members of the North Shore Militia all around her, the collar of her grandfathers old coat turned up against the morning mist coming off the river, with his 'pride & joy' clutched tightly in her hands, she waited for the nasty gypsies to once again try to cross the bridge.

***

Before the Pandemic Charley Hogg had been a successful businessman. He ran a small but lucrative Home Renovation company. He employed three full time workers, a secretary and a bookkeeper. For the first twenty some odd years he had worked eighteen hour days, six if not seven days a week. Three years before the Pandemic he 'semi-retired' and his son Charley JR. took over. During those three years Charley SR. had indulged his life-ling passions for hunting a fishing. A new bass boat, a thousand dollar fishing rod, several new hunting rifles, including a Limited Addition over & under skeet gun that was more a work of art than a weapon. He also went on three 'Big Game Hunts'. Two in Alaska and one in Africa with the well known American real-estate broker, Ralph Gleason from across the river in Alexandria Bay. At first Charley had been thrilled that a big shot like Gleason even knew about him, let alone invite him on one of his famous 'safaris'! However, even before Gleason's chartered plane touched down on the 'dark continent', Charley knew that the big-shot real-estate mogul was anything but a 'nice guy'. By the time the hunt was over Charley couldn't wait to get as far away from the creepy old tyrant as he could!

Safely back home in Mohawk, Charley and his wife Gabriella/ 'Gabby' had taken their yearly month long cruise to places south, sunny and warm. Also both of them had taken up golf and even tried square dancing for a spell. 'Semi-retirement' in the good old pre-Covid days had been sweet indeed!

Now however, five years after the Pandemic, all of it was gone like smoke on the wind. The business, the wife, the son, all of it --- except for Charley himself.

Not for the want of trying however.

At first Charley had thought the grief would kill him; that his lungs would soon burst to match his already broken heart. But they didn't and he continued breathing, somehow unscathed by the deadly virus that had killed his entire family and more than three quarters of the humans on the planet.

Next he tried booze --- to drown his sorrows in the bottom of a bottle. He started drinking in the early summer of the second year and finally sobered up in the late spring of the third, accomplishing only the loss of thirty pounds, his health, most of his friends and all of his self-respect.

He tried religion for a while after that, but God didn't seem to be listening --- or if He was, He didn't seem to give a shit about Charles Bruce Hogg Sr. 'Perhaps' Charley often thought when in one of his more cynical moods that 'God could be a tad overworked lately, what with the great influx of souls due to the Ending of the bloody World!'

Charley had also considered blowing his brains out with his Limited Addition over & under skeet gun, but he found that using such a beautiful work of art for such a sordid affair was somehow repugnant to him. He briefly contemplated using one of his more mundane guns, but finally came to the realization that, on top of all his other faults, he was a sniveling coward as well. Despondent, disillusioned and desperate, he turned once again to booze.

Then, a week or so ago, he'd heard all the church bells ringing and someone had told him there was an emergency meeting at the old white church up on the hill. Still far from sober he had joined the throng following the bells. There, inside the small crowded church, standing in the back, his head pounding and his body calling out for a drink, his life had suddenly changed. He heard Helen, the widow that ran the general store, ask for everyone's help. To stand together and fight off a common foe. Next Doc Stone had spoken about the same thing and finally the reclusive boatbuilder, Sam Burnham stepped forward. He too spoke about the need to defend themselves against the rath of man that was blaming them all for the death of his son.

At first Charley didn't really understand how someone could blame a whole town for the someone's death --- however when he heard that the man's name was Ralph Gleason, Charley quickly changed his mind. All the shock, disgust and humiliation that he had suffered at Gleason's hands during that seemingly long ago African safari came rushing back.

The loud laughter and raised eyebrows from Gleason's rich cronies, the snide remarks about the 'Canadian carpenter' that had 'come to play with the big boys'. Then there was the incessant humiliation of absolutely everyone that Gleason came into contact with; the air stewardesses, hotel managers, the porters, trackers, guides and cooks! Everyone fell victim at one time or another to Gleason's cruel streak and acid tongue!

So when Charley heard Sam call for volunteers to help protect the town, the despondent, self-loathing 'Canadian carpenter' was one of the first to raise his hand and step forward.

Now, a week or so later, he was cold, cramped yet strangely excited as he sat waiting for the dawn. He wasn't alone any more, but with fifty or sixty other long-time duck and/or deer hunters, each with their weapon of choice clutched nervously in hand, each straining both eye and ear for any sign an approaching boat through the thick early morning mist.

Surprisingly Charley hadn't chosen his customized, one-of-a-kind skeet gun, but a heavier, more robust Remington semi-automatic 12 gage that had belonged to his father. It had a long, fully choked barrel that kept the shot close together, making it the perfect weapon for hitting ducks, geese or men several hundred feet away.

He had reluctantly traded his skeet gun for two full boxes of 12 gage #2 Goose Shot Express shells and a used but still very functional eight shot Taurus .22 revolver. Not the most lethal caliber out there, but easily carried, concealed and very deadly up close.

Unlike their American 'cousins', handguns were not commonly found in Canadian homes. Charley, though an avid hunter since he was a teenager, had never owned a handgun of any kind and had only fired one once or twice in his life. However, the Taurus was a an old fashioned revolver, not a more modern, clip loaded, semi-automatic. Release the thumb safety, point and pull. Pop, pop, pop! Eight times if needed.

'Easy, peasy, lemon squeezy!'

Charley however still preyed that he wouldn't have to ever use it, but then going up against a man like Gleason and his gang, it couldn't hurt to have a back-up plan!

***

In both Gleason's and Bad Santa's 'camps' things were equally as busy. Preparations had been made for a second attack, once again both the river by boat and the International Bridge by wheeled vehicle --- only this time they'd be ready!

Scouts would be sent out far in advance of the main party, functioning two-way radios were to be used extensively by both groups, careful attack plans had been made and contingency plans as well. As St. Nick had so succinctly put it: "There will be no fucking fuck-ups this time, and if any asshole doesn't do their job, I'll have their fucking head on a stick!" The men and women of both attacking camps clearly got the message.

Two young women in Gleason's group however were still uneasy about certain aspects of the plan. The young 'punk-mercenary' with the half shaved head called Twigg and Gleason's own daughter, Alison.

Twigg's real name was Dorothy Twiggly and she had been a fourteen year old rebellious teenager when the Pandemic struck. Back then she was living in 'The Cottage', a half-way house for 'troubled youth' in the Brockville, Ontario, about an hour's drive east of Kingston. Her mother was a juicer and pill head and he father was a dead-beat and long gone. She herself had seemed to have inherited the worst traits of both her parents, with a large dose of a nasty smart mouth and a 'fuck-you' attitude thrown in.

Now, five years later, at the ripe old age of nineteen going on thirty-nine, Twigg was a rough, tough, bad-ass that knew all about guns, survival and that most men were just steaming piles of shit!

What bothered her about the coming attack on the 'good people of Mohawk' wasn't the expected wanton violence or Gleason's order to 'kill every goddamned motherfucker you see', it was the fact that those same goddamned motherfuckers had learned how to fight back! She had been on that bridge a week ago and one of the few lucky bastards to make it out alive --- and she had absolutely no burning desire to push her luck by trying it again!

She'd been with the Gleason group for several months now, earning her keep as a scout, guard and all round hard case. She was known as a tough little bitch with a foul mouth, a sharp tongue and an even sharper blade that she enjoyed using.

When he was alive, Billy-Ray had told anyone that would listen that she was 'one of his bitches', but the truth was that the diminutive heir to the Gleason fortune had been frightened of her. When he first tried to force himself on her she had pressed one of the several blades she carried against his inner thigh and threatened to 'start cutting things off if he didn't get the fuck away from her!'

After that, in order to 'keep face', Billy-Ray had kept her in his 'posse' --- but hadn't made any more 'romantic overtures' in her direction. Now, with the little shit dead and daddy dearest gone all bat-shit crazy over getting revenge no matter what, Dorothy Twiggly was thinking that it was high time to get the hell out of Dodge!

***

Alison Gleason was another woman that was not over keen on the up-coming attack --- though her concerns were not quite the same as Twigg's. Always a pampered, spoilt, over-indulged 'daddy's girl' even before the Pandemic, she was now having second and even third thoughts about dear old daddy's sanity. "He's been acting strange ever since Billy-Ray's death," she told Martin Strongheart as he was gearing up. The attack was planned for just before dawn and it was now not far off midnight, the appointed hour for the Gleason 'troops' to move out.

"Well, what do you expect, Kieflin?" Martin said, using the 'endearment' that he knew she liked. "His youngest son was murdered."

"Billy-Ray wasn't murdered!" she said with considerable force. "He was shot and killed, but he wasn't murdered!"

Martin shrugged."What's the difference?"

"Self defence," Alison put in quickly.

Martin was already shaking his head. "That's not how your father sees it, Kieflin. For him, Samuel Burnham murdered his son --- and he wants --- and is going to get --- his revenge."

"He wasn't there, Marty, but we were!" Alison all but shouted. "We both know that Billy-Ray went there to kill Burnham for standing up to him and his stupid 'posse'! And we both saw Billy shoot first, not the boatbuilder --- the same man by the way that could have killed you the other night on his boat but didn't!"

That caused the whole event to replay again in Strongheart's mind. Himself, his cousin Charlie Greyeagle and Freddy Longtree had silently paddled a canoe out to Burnham's anchored boat --- only to be met by Sam and his shotgun. Greyeagle lost his foot but all three could have just as easily have lost their lives --- but Burnham had let them go. He even let Martin apply a tourniquet to his asshole cousin's leg! When Martin had said that he'd have to come back, Burnham merely nodded, accepting the fact.

"I'll be bringing more men next time," Martin had added.

"You'll need them,' had come the calm reply.

Martin had spent a lot of time since then thinking about that particular conundrum. He knew that he owed his life to Sam Burnham --- yet he knew that he also owed it to Ralph Gleason as well!' '

Alison was not yet finished driving her point home. "You are here now, Marty, with me, because of Sam Burnham. You owe him for your life. Hell, I owe him for your life!"

She moved quickly to him and took his hand. "If I lost you Marty I wouldn't want to go on. I couldn't --- not without you!"

He pulled her close and smiled, her golden mane mingling with his raven coloured one." You won't lose me, Kieflin. I told you, the shaman blessed me at my birth. Said that I'd outlive the ending of the world."

"That's bullshit and you know it!" she replied. "Besides, we've both already 'outlived the bloody world'! The 'old' one at least --- and in this 'new one' is even more dangerous!"

He kissed her gently, stroked her cheek, then reached for the tactical vest on the bed. It was heavy, loaded down with ceramic plates, its pouches bulged with extra magazines for his several weapons.

"Don't go," she said quietly as he settled into the vest and did up the Velcro flaps.

"I have to, Kieflin. Your father is counting on me."

"My father is using you! Just like he does everyone!"

"Alison, I have to go. I owe him."

She barked out a mirthless laugh. "You owe him nothing! What has he ever done for you besides make you do his dirty work?! Make you do things you didn't want to do. Things that hurt you inside. Hurt your soul!"

He went silent at that, for she had hit upon something that he did his best to keep hidden --- even from himself. Ralph Gleason was more of a father to him than the violent drunk that had sired him ever was. Gleason was a hard man, a ruthless man and at times a very bad man, but he had always treated Martin fairly. Since he was a teenager Gleason had always shown him a 'rough kind of kindness', had rewarded him when he did good and punished him when he screwed up. The lessons had been harsh and the punishments tough, but he had learned quickly and after a year or so the young Mohawk was 'top dog' in Gleason's crew, even treated equal with the heir to the throne, Gleason's eldest son, Wade.

Gleason had taken Martin aside one day and confided in him that he was 'concerned' about his youngest son, Billy-Ray. 'The boy's emotional like his mother was,' the older man had said. 'Moody, unpredictable. I never knew what the hell she would say or do and it's the same way with the boy!'

Martin, only nineteen at the time, wasn't really sure what the old man wanted from him --- but Gleason soon made it clear --- he wanted a baby-sitter for his son --- someone to follow him around and save his ass when needed.

"I'm not sure I can do that, sir," Martin had said. "I mean, I'll try, but Billy-Ray's only what? Eight? Nine?"

"He'll be eleven in October," Gleason had said."He's got his mother's frame as well as her personality. 'Bi-polar' the doctors say. Up and down like a bloody toilet seat the both of them!'

"Well, I know he doesn't like Indians very much and he sure doesn't like me at all. He calls me your 'pet redskin'."

Gleason had frowned at that. "He doesn't have to like you Martin, he has to obey you!"

"And just how am I supposed to do that, sir?" Martin had asked.

Gleason's hard face a creased into something like a smile. "Beat the shit out of him every time he doesn't."

At first Martin had though the older man was kidding, but not for long.

"Don't break any bones or knock out any teeth," Gleason had continued; "Other than that feel free to smack him around whenever he gives you any lip. I'll want a weekly report and either punish or reward him accordingly. Are you good with that?"

Martin had not wanted the job, but knew that he couldn't refuse. "You've been good to me, sir, so I'll get it done --- one way or the other."

"Good man, Martin," Gleason had beamed. "I knew that I could count on you!"

Gleason had been 'counting on Strongheart ever since.

***

Ya! That's it, babe!" St. Nick growled up at the naked blonde sitting astride him. "Just like that!"

Bridget Termin a.k.a. The Terminator, was both lusted after and feared by most of Bad Santa's crew --- and with good reason. Several years in the Canadian Army as a combat soldier and small-arms instructor had honed her lethal skills to a fine edge. Daily runs, workouts and self-discipline had sculpted her already curvaceous body into most men's idea of a walking wet dream.

St. Nick heartily agreed with both points, and found that just having the striking looking woman around helped to take the edge off all the hassles he had to deal with. The fact that she wasn't above giving him a quickie every now and then was icing on the cake! He wasn't quite sure what pleased him the most; seeing her ride him into a luscious lather or seeing the envy in other men's eyes when she did.

After St.Nick had arched his back and liberally 'sowed his seed', the gorgeous blonde casually dismounted and pulled on her cameo pants and black tank top. She then moved on to her combat boots, sidearm and a heavily loaded tactical vest. Her AR-15 was leaning against the wall.

"What's your rush, babe?" St. Nick asked while still sprawled on the bed. "It's still the middle of the night."

"Time to go, Santa," she said with a mischievous smile "You've a lot of 'presents' to deliver before sunrise and Donner and Blitson are straining at the bit."

The 'Christmas' theme was something she had started earlier in the evening and continued through their little 'roll in the hay': Santa visiting the good people of Mohawk and giving them 'exactly what they deserved'. At first he found it amusing, but he soon tired of her reciting lines from that stupid bloody poem!

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,

Gave a luster of mid-day to objects below.

He'd actually enjoyed that one, especially as she said it as she was riding him like a jockey and her own ample breasts where bouncing deliciously in front of his face. Other lines however were not so enjoyable.

When what to my wondering eyes did appear?

A bunch of armed elves made me tremble with fear!

Led by a bald man with a very small little dick,

I knew in a moment that it must be St. Nick!

He finally told her to 'shut the fuck up and move your ass!' --- a task she did with such gusto that Bad Santa explode after only a few hard thrusts.

Now, standing before him full dressed for battle, she looked at him with that mischievous smile. "The boats are all loaded and wait for your call. Time to 'dash away, dash away, dash away all!'

With that she turned and headed for the door. St. Nick enjoyed the view for a moment, then groaned as he heaved himself out of bed.

***

Just like Brigit had said, they were all on the dock waiting for his arrival. Over half a half dozen low, wide, fast looking boats with large, powerful motors, each one with four or five well armed shooters busy checking their weapons. St. Nick's 'personal staff' stood off to one side: his second-in-command, Rings Cozlowski, Darrel Hicks, Todd Swanson, Tommy-Two Tone and the golden haired 'Terminator'.

"Told you he was coming" she said, smiling wickedly at Rings. "He was brushing his teeth when I left."

"Ya," the skinny, beringed man shot back. "Getting those blonde pubic hairs out must be a bitch."

Swanson burst out laughing at that, till the razor edge of Brigit's punch-knife pressed against his throat. "What's wrong, Toddy-Waddy?" she purred. "Cat got your tongue? Or maybe you got a mouthful of Ring's pubies?!"

"Brigit!" St. Nick growled as he stepped on the dock. "Save it for the good people of Mohawk! In a half hour you can kill every motherfucker you see!"

She flashed out her biggest smile at him, yet still held the blade to Swanson's throat. "Even Toddy-Waddy here?"

St. Nick took a deep breath and spoke slowly. "Stop fucking around and let's go!"

"Aye-aye, Santa!" she said, snapping off a brisk salute, then added as everyone headed to their assigned boat:

But I heard him say, ere he drove out of sight;

Happy hunting to all, and to all a good night!'

Despite himself, Bad Santa smiled "Just get in the fucking boat!"

***