The Camp

MARCH 29TH, 2008
10:10 PM
SOMEWHERE IN ARIZONA...

It was well after sundown. Another lifeless, dreary day in the Arizona desert.

The man named Beck rode through the flat underbrush, weary and exhausted. He might have cut a dashing, picturesque figure under different circumstances, but after two weeks of pursuit he was haggard, tired, dirty and exhausted - a decrepit cadger on horseback, a former mercenary king reduced through stupidity, misplaced loyalty and horrible judgment to a haggard fugitive scarecrow.

* * *

He ran away from home and, after lying about his age, joined the military at 17. Quickly picking up on his marksmanship skills and thorough understanding of advanced firearms tactics, Beck was put into an elite anti-terrorism spec ops unit known as Array of Many Different Colors Six. They saved the world on a handful of occasions, but you'll never hear about that.

Eventually AOMDC6 was disbanded, and he decided to transition into the private sector instead of continuing with the military; much more lucrative opportunities awaited. Beck joined up with a mercenary outfit, and together they roamed the war zones of the world. Contract war isn't glamorous, but then neither is war in general.

They participated in any number of conflicts as well as smaller one-time jobs throughout the world; Africa, Southeast Asia, Eastern Europe, the Middle East... you name it, they were there.

By 2004, he decided to take my career one step further. He set up shop and went into business for myself; there's a fine line between a mercenary and a hitman, and he was right on it.

He'd assisted freedom fighters, assassinated terrorist leaders, sabotaged hostile operations... he'd done jobs undercover, and done them without ever having been seen. He'd worked for governments, corporations, and private individuals. He wasn't cheap, but he was the best - or at least one of the best.

It had been over a year since his last proper job. Five North Korean nuclear physicists had been found with bullet holes in their spines, in a case that baffled local police. While the authorities puzzled over the situation, Beck received a handsome check for $10 million from a Japanese media tycoon. The story didn't make the news, but it yet again saved the world. And he was content to rest on his laurels, at least for the time being - his $50 million was more than enough to fall back on, and there was always someone out there who wanted someone else dead, if he ran short of cash.

But now Beck was on the run from the law. He'd been involved in an incredibly stupid deal with his old Army buddies, Dub and Taylor, in trying to rob a Montreal casino. The heist went without a hitch, until Taylor made a mistake, falling through the roof onto the crowded casino floor.

Casino security and local police responded immediately, and a violent gun-battle ensued. Dub was shot to pieces before he could even reach the front door; Taylor, armed only with a 9MM pistol, held his own until he ran out of ammunition, taking at least a half dozen men with him. He was shot in both legs and the shoulder as he staggered outside, while Beck covered their retreat with a spray of machine gun fire. He didn't notice the 9MM bullet that entered his own leg during the fracas. They hijacked an old Plymouth car and fled with the cops hot on their tail.

Taylor didn't last too long; Beck left him behind at a St. Lawrence River crossing, bleeding from his wounds, leaving his machine gun. He read in a paper two days later that Taylor had been killed in a shoot-out with a posse of Mounties. At least he went out on his own terms.

Beck managed to cross the River under an assumed name, dumping all his gear except his SigSauer 9MM pistol, and wandered aimlessly through the Western desert. He had planned to return to his flat in LA, but he knew that the FBI, US Marshals and other cops were swarming all over the place, and he remained a nomad, hiding from bush to bush, evading the law and anyone who might recognize him. Only rarely did he venture into a town or city, and then only for a few hours, lest someone find him suspicious.

At one town, Beck had stopped at an ATM machine to withdraw some cash. He then found, however, that his account had been deleted, his assets frozen. This could mean only one thing: the government knew who he was. And he had gone from fugitive to super-outlaw. Because of his stupid loyalty to his friends, he was now wanted by almost everyone. And all he could do was keep running, driving and riding into the horizon.

* * *

And here Beck was, with a two-week old bullet wound in his ankle, thirteen rounds of ammo, a canteen full of piss and a dead tired horse.

He saw a slight flicker of light in the distance. Drawing his pistol wearily, he began approaching it at a slow-pace. Maybe it was just a friendly. If nothing else.

He saw a grim-looking gathering of individuals, about a half dozen men gathered around a campfire, some in sleeping bags or on blankets. He carefully holstered his sidearm as he approached the camp.

"Evening," he said to one of the men, a grim, gaunt smoking figure in a long trenchcoat. Another man eyed him warily, fingers on a hunting rifle.

This didn't look like the friendliest bunch of fellows he'd ever run into. There was a distinct air of tension emanating from this hard-scrabble gathering of gutter-trash and ne'er-do-wells.

"Am I intruding?" Beck asked quietly.

"You sure are," one of the men, an elderly hippie-looking fellow answered, holding a Desert

"Put the cannon away, Pops!" Beck cried, raising his hands. "I'm a friend."

"Uh-huh," came the reply. "What are you doin' out on a horse this late at night?"

"The desert ain't so crowded," Beck replied. This drew a dry laugh from one of the men, but the Hippie-Man kept his gun out.

"I just need a place to sleep for tonight," Beck continued. "That's it. And maybe some grub. Then I'll be on my way."

The gathering of men looked at each other wearily, unsettled by the newcomer. Beck was too tired to , but he had his hand inching towards his own pistol.

"Well, will you be joining us?" one of the men

Beck was confused. "Joining you with what?"

"We're enlisting in the 1st Volunteer Infantry Regiment," Golf said. "We're going into Prescott tomorrow to sign up."

"We're at war with Russia, ya know?" "About damned time."

Beck hadn't known this. He'd heard about the tensions, vaguely, but he didn't know it had come to war.

"Figures the politicians have it ass-backwards," one of the other men opined. "We don't fight the Russians till AFTER the Cold War's over."

"Don't blame me, I voted for McCain!" laughed one of the old coots.

"That damned Obama! He got elected on a peace platform and now he's pickin' fights with superpowers."

"Lay off, man," the Hippie said. "He ain't any worse than Dubya!"

Beck listened to their inane hillbilly chatter and cornpoke political arguments as he settled down on the hard ground, rolling out his ratty blanket. He lay awake, listening to the men chortling, the sounds of cicadas chirping and coyotes howling, the wind whistling through the flat desert plane. And then he smelled the noxious gas of a particularly large chili fart wafting towards him.

Beck scrunched his nose and looked over at the gaunt, bearded man staring at him. He was smoking a cigarette, and in fact wreaked of tobacco. It whetted Beck's appetite; he, too, was a heavy smoker, but hadn't had a cigarette or cigar or even a butt in over a week.

"Boy, you plannin' to join up?" the bearded man asked finally.

Beck paused. He hadn't thought of it before, but this might well be his way out of the mess. How many times he had escaped responsibility for his actions before? He'd always put off his reckonings by finding a new battle half-way around the world from the last one.

"I'll sleep on it," Beck said groggily.

"What's your name?"

"Delta," Beck said after a moment's pause. "John J. Delta." He closed his eyes, hoping his old alias would suffice.

"Well, Delta, we're headin' into Prescott in the morning," the man continued. "If you're gonna take advantage of our hospitality, you'd better..."

But Beck didn't hear him. He drifted off quickly to sleep, only to be awoken moments later by a noxious smell. The smell of chili passed through the cranky digestive system of a forty year old man.

"Ulysess Bunsher, you could kill a whole division uh Russkies with your gas!"

The men cackled, but Beck wasn't up for their games or chatter. He slowly, his mind a blur, completely exhausted by his travails. Even as he felt asleep, he could feel the bearded man's snake-like eyes staring through the darkness, and smell the nicotine - and Bunsher gas - wafting on the night air.