Chapter 9

We reached the nearest diner in town, which was deserted for the moment, but before we could go in, I heard another shot fired and then a gasp of pain. Wilbur Jr. had been hit. I scanned as best I could, and sure enough, there were seven more of those Klucker bastards out there, though if they were survivors of the first engagement or a separate bunch was hard to say. I took aim with the Mauser, while Gabby and Becca worked on stitching up Wilbur, Jr. once inside the diner (after breaking a window to get in there). He’d been shot in the buttocks, in true Forrest Gump style, and it didn’t look pretty. He was in excruciating pain right then.

Several of us continued engaging the damn Kluckers for several more minutes before we nailed four of the seven and the rest came out with their hands up. Was that all of the hooded mofos, or was this some kind of trick? Or, like many other terrorists and bullies, were they simply cowards who couldn’t take even minor resistance without backing off or backing down? Well, I supposed that we were about to find out.

“Don’t shoot ... we surrender!” one of the last three put up his hands as Tara ripped off his hood.

“What’s your name, freak?” I deliberately insulted the asshole, mostly because I was fucking pissed.

Wilbur, Jr. would likely survive, but not without severe pain and discomfort for the rest of his life. He was unlikely to ever find a position, sitting, standing, or lying down, other than prone, that would be without pure agony. He might well need painkillers, but those didn’t exactly have a steady supply chain nowadays, did they? Junior was in for a very rough life for the rest of his days in that respect.

“Eric ... Lollard. This is my brother, Stephen. And this is Hal McCoy, my cousin,” the aging Klucker admitted, now quite out of breath.

“How old are you?” I asked the man.

“Sixty,” Eric admitted.

“I see,” I answered, “and can you tell us anything about the other Kluckers in town?”

“There’s a dozen more, but all scattered around town. We didn’t prepare for Molotov cocktails. That one scared the piss out of even Floyd, and he’s our Grand Dragon. Once he ran, it was over. Please ... don’t shoot me ... you already got the guy who hit your friend here,” Eric assured me.

“Help me find your friends, and we won’t shoot you. Though there still might be a consequence for y’all. You terrorized a whole damn town, after all. Why is Murphy’s Diner closed, by the way? Did you shut it down?” I demanded.

“Not me personally, but it was n... , “ Eric started to say, but I shut him up with the back of my hand.

“Don’t ever let me catch you saying that damn word, you racist prick! Who owned it and are they still alive?” I insisted.

“The owner ... Ray Murphy ... he married a n ... Negress ... He was white himself. A race traitor, if you ask me, good Boston Irish guy marrying a colored woman. I mean ... he wasn’t that bad a guy, that aside. I even patronized his shop. My grandkids and his ... they were even friends.

“But then Floyd ... took over town and told us that it was wrong, that mixin’ races is bad. He convinced us that it caused the judgment of the Lord, that God-fearing, Christian, white men don’t mix with the darker races. He didn’t hate Catholics like the old Klan used to ... but blacks and Jews, that was another thing. The Jews killed Christ, after all,” Eric explained.

“You three, come with me and show me where we can find and kill this Floyd guy. He’s gonna die, most of the others with him, but you’ll be spared unless you double-cross us. You do that, you’re dead. He hits one of us, you’re dead. Wounded or killed, it doesn’t matter. If a bullet so much as grazes the ears of some of my men, you’re a walking corpse ... is that clear? You’re our hostage now,” I warned Eric as Lewis grabbed Stephen and Till slapped Hal around a bit.

“Betcha ya don’t like that my woman’s Cuban, do you? Well, deal with it!” Till chuckled.