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Brady had been no more than half-a day’s drive from home in the three weeks he’d been in San Bernardino, but he had lost his desire to return to his more familiar stomping ground.
He had sketched every new creature he came across from weird insects and lizards to bobcats and Mountain lions to the Black bears. Even as he was running low on supplies, he had a senseless superstitious rule - to increase the stakes - that he wouldn’t allow himself to return home until he found his Kangaroo rat. In a twisted logic, Brady felt that fate had brought him his lousy luck - ignoring the scientific fact that it was the International Space Station - and therefore the discovery of the Kangaroo rat would be the fate that would signal his next move.
He considered his dislike of rats in an urban setting as he recalled them crawling over the dying girl in Los Banos. There were few creatures which made Brady’s skin crawl. It’s probably because the lowest of the low in the criminal world are rats. Maybe, that’s why they make my skin crawl. Kangaroo rats weren’t in the same ballpark as the urban rats in Brady’s world. They were a rare and exotic breed, and a treasure to be discovered.
He hadn’t showered in his time in the desert, and his clothes were dusty, and Brady had grown an unkempt and bushy black beard. The dust in his clothes added to his camouflage, but he guessed his stink of three weeks of not washing probably countered this. It’s like being in solitary without the walls.
He went to his Hearse and checked on his dwindling water supply. This is gonna make a good contest between me and the rat. He ate some stale bread and cheese, partly out of a desire to stave off the hunger pains, and partly act as penance for his stupidity in getting himself into this mess. He picked up his Distor™ on his regular check to ensure his Greenbacks were still registered. He had an increasing paranoia that the Greens would empty his account. He had never considered before that his wealth wasn’t backed up by any laws that he knew. His money was still there.
He went back to the day of the Revolution when his fifty-thousand dollars of life savings had been wiped out by the GreenRevs. They stole from me back then - and they could do it again. He laughed at the rhyme and thought it would make a great slogan against those Green bastards.
He flicked through his latest sketches. He had enjoyed exploring in the dark, under the glittering stars. At least, I didn’t have Tyrone trying to tell me all their names. He found snakes he liked to draw, the Sidewinder, Western Diamondback, and Tiger Rattlesnakes. They reminded him of the time he spent down here all those many years ago with his Foster Daddy. Archie Mahone had been telling the young Brady about the scaredy-cat city-slickers and their tall tales about Rattlesnakes chasing them through the desert and all the way back to their cars. Archie took him on night-walks to find the Rattlesnakes, and he recalled being told to always treat them with respect, and they could kill a man if you didn’t take care, but let’s go and see if they really dare chase a man.
They found a dozen Rattlesnakes over the next couple of nights, but not one chased them. They went out of their way to back off from these encroaching humans.
He walked alone this time and relived those times. The humans may have changed their behaviours, but the snakes acted the same as they ever did.
He thought he caught a glimpse of a Kangaroo rat last night, but not clearly enough to complete his quest. It was about a half-mile east of the Hearse. He thought he would check the area out again, tonight. He felt confident he would track down his quarry.
––––––––
ANOTHER WEEK HAD GONE by, and he was out of water, but he packed up his car in readiness for his journey home. He had his drawing. He had won his wager. Brady’s anger at his treatment hadn’t subsided. His mind rang out with the screams from the crowds. Out, Brady out! He hadn’t made the mental leap into the patterns of his life, where anger always led him into trouble.
He wanted action.
It had been sixteen years since he had last been through Castaic. He knew that the Cesare crime gang would take control with an iron grip. He could have taken the same route back as he came - on Route 58, but he wanted to go via Highway 5. He always knew Castaic would end up being run like a prison, with Vincent Cesare as the Warden with his family as the Prison Guards. Brady had had enough of prison back then, and he wanted out of the survival of the fittest deal he had known in Ridgecrest Supermax.
He set off in a dark mood. Somebody was going to pay, someone was going to satisfy his need for vengeance, his need for violence. As he made rapid progress along the virtually deserted Highway, all he thought about was his preparedness to fight.
Before he reached the outskirts of Castaic, he pulled into a layby. He grabbed his Poacher’s coat and double-checked that his blades were still in the right pockets, for convenience and speed. He took out his sharpening tool and ground them until their razor-sharp edges shone in the sparkling fall sunshine.
He quietened his mind to sharpen his wits. When he was at action readiness, he pulled onto the Highway, and a few minutes later, he turned off into Castaic. He cruised toward the town centre, but unlike in a previous life when he would have cruised for girls, this time he was cruising for victims. The first thing he noticed was that the main road into Castaic was protected by a NanoShell™. Hungry looking youths were throwing bricks at him as he went by them, but they bounced off the Shell™, harmlessly. It reminded him of when the Hodgson boys were throwing rocks at the NanoShell™ around the New Road around West McFarland. He also remembered brutally dispatching the same Hodgson boys. That Cain fella couldn’t handle watching a good old boy dishing out a little instant justice. He considered jumping out the Hearse and confronting these scrawny looking youths but changed his mind. They ain’t too much of a challenge and would probably just run off down an alley. Brady Mahone needs a worthy opponent. He gave them the finger but cruised on.
The sight of the town’s neglect soon began to dampen his enthusiasm. There was garbage piled up everywhere. He stopped his car and looked out, and the place seemed deserted. He’d explored places in this state, hundreds of times before, as he went scavenging for entertainments for his business. He wasn’t even sure if he had a business anymore, so he wasn’t planning to search too thoroughly for new finds, today.
He turned down a side road, and even Brady was shocked at what he saw. Hanged bodies were dangling from old shop signs, and a couple of dead bodies hung from meat-hooks. There were men, women and children. He examined one a little closer, and he saw a cardboard sign, which was hung around the neck of a young boy with coarse string, it stated. Death for those that disobey. Vincent Cesare. Although the street was silent, except for the sounds of birdcall, and rats scurrying. He felt as if he was being watched. He instinctively turned back. He wanted a fight, but this felt like a lair. He strode back purposefully, but then an old man, being pushed by a younger man who looked skeletal, as if he was on the brink of starvation, pulled out in front of him. There was something in the movement’s arrogance, which suggested that the old man was still the boss around here. Brady knew that others would be coming up from behind.
It looks like I’ve found my fight.
The old man said, ‘I know you. You look familiar. I don’t recall the name.’
‘Brady. Brady Mahone. I used to have a Green bike and a trailer.’
The old man thought for a while. ‘I remember. You gave me advice on how to run this place without guns.’ He added, ‘You’ve aged remarkably well, my friend.’
He looked at the old man, whose sharp glances suggested an agile mind at odds with his fragile body. ‘You’re Vincent Cesare. I was in Ridgecrest with one or two of your extended family.’ He added, ‘You seem to have everything under your control. Please accept my congratulations.’ The odd formality even surprised Brady, as that was always how he felt he should address the more dangerous members of the Mob.
Vincent nodded, but Brady also spotted a glance away which suggested a signal. Brady put both hands through his black hair, as an unconcerned demonstration that he was unarmed, but then casually put his hands in his Poacher’s coat pocket. The old man said, ‘Unfortunately for you. Strangers aren’t allowed in my town, especially those with their eyes on a potential takeover. I know what you’re doing. You’ve let me do the heavy lifting, while I whipped this place into shape, and then you think you can just stroll in and take it from me. Do you think I’m helpless?’
‘I don’t want this poxy town, but I know you won’t believe me, and I don’t care. Do what ya gotta do.’
He heard footsteps behind him, and he saw two men approaching. In another life, they looked like they might have been hard men. He tried to imagine their large and emaciated frames padded out with muscle like they would have been in their prime. They had knives in both hands. They swung at him, but Brady evaded them expertly. They were not agile, and they were frailer than they looked. He knew they wouldn’t be much of a contest for Brady Mahone in his prime. He was just beginning to lose interest, when he spotted people at the windows, watching the spectacle. They looked weak from malnutrition and fearful. He looked at the dead bodies hanging only a few feet above the pavement.
The two old gangsters prodded and probed with their knives but missed hitting Brady by long inches. Brady looked in their faces, and it reminded him of the look that one or two of the death row prisoners had in their eyes on the days leading up to their executions. It was a look that said, let’s just get this over with.
He sensed they wanted him to attack, and to allow them to die in combat, rather than the shame of fading away in starvation.
Brady toyed with them, he circled them around to keep his eyes on Vincent and his tall, skinny companion. I also know the look of a sneak and a runner. Brady almost felt he was too kind to his attackers by giving them the chance to die with respect, as they were most likely responsible for the dead bodies lined up along the pavements. He let them have one final lunge to see if they could even land a scratch on him - they couldn’t. And that’s when Brady moved in for the kill, the first he plunged his blade into his heart and then hooked the knife viciously upward to fatally wound him. He knew the second would attack while the blade was momentarily stuck in the chest, so he swung his other arm around with the blade held out to catch the second attacker in the stomach, then with his released hand he slit his throat. In an instant, he threw a knife at tremendous speed, and it plunged into the head of the tall, skinny accomplice before he could even contemplate running away. Vincent tried feebly to back up his wheelchair, but his helper’s body was in the way.
Brady shouted to the watchers, ‘Are there any more, Cesares?’
Feeble voices from the surrounding buildings replied, ‘No.’ One voice attempted to shout, ‘Only Vincent Cesare.’
Brady marched on Vincent Cesare menacingly. He stood over him and whispered, ‘Not anymore.’ He stabbed him in the heart, twice, and then watched him die. He smiled before retrieving his other blade from the skinny sneak.
He took one last look at the ruins of Castaic and assessed that the population would soon be at a point where the Greens would move in and relocate the remaining Trads, and then people like Samuel Beardon the Third, Alicia and Tyrone would come along and dispose of the dead bodies. He walked back to his Hearse. He ignored the cries of one or two of the survivors to stay and help them. They recognised the hope of having somebody as healthy as Brady to save them. But Brady had bigger fish to fry, and his thoughts were turning to the biggest fish of all - Bodhi Sattva.