Ship of Fools - Chapter 22
Outnumbered and Outgunned
[Start at the beginning of the novel: Prologue.]
[Go to the Table of Contents.]
Welcome back to Ship of Fools, my satire about a science journalist trying to make sense of conspiracy theorists, flat-earthers, moon-landing deniers, New Agers, and more.
Slim and Shorty have poked the Nazis, and now they pay the price.
SLIM AND SHORTY had returned from Sombrero Flats to share a fine dinner of flatiron steak, beans, and nopales, prepared by Cookie the cook, with their colleagues in hobby ranchlife, Pedro, Hector, and Guadalupe. It had just grown full dark outside, a crackling juniper fire was blazing in the great fireplace at the center of the ranch house, and the six amigo/as (seven when you count Jimmy the scullion, expected after he’d finished his kitchen duties) were just sitting down in overstuffed leather easy chairs, snifters of brandy in hand, congratulating themselves once again for the good fortune of being left largely free to run the ranch as they wanted, with little meddling from their billionaire boss, when the sound of roaring engines coming up the front drive broke in on the peace of the evening.
Slim went to the window and peered out. “Yep, it’s them Nazis. More of ’em than I ever imagined. And that must be their leader, in that silly-ass lifted pickup.”
The monster truck pulled up in front of the house, belching black exhaust from the smokestack behind the cab, six or eight more SUVs and trucks jamming the circular drive on either side. In an instant, Nazis were leaping out, using doors as shields, and aiming all manner of automatic rifle, machine gun, and even an RPG launcher or two, at the ranch house.
“Compadres,” said Slim, “I do believe we are outnumbered and outgunned. How’s it look out back?”
Shorty checked a window. “All clear.”
“Good, means they haven’t found the rear drive.” Fortunately for their prospects of survival, the ranch house owed its existence to a gang of rustlers who had wisely built it in a narrow defile between two outcrops of the native sandstone. Bootleggers, seeing its potential, had enlarged and improved it during Prohibition. A wide drive approached from the front, but an unremarkable track branched off a quarter mile before the house and circled round to the back, where a truck was parked in the barn, in which the pardners’ horses were also stabled. They could head back out to the main drive, or they could take a narrow jeep track leading south.
“Pedro, you take Lupe and the rest and skedaddle out the back. We’ll hold ’em off while you head for the res. Should be safe there.”
“But what about you and Shorty, boss?” Pedro asked.
“We started this rodeo, we oughta finish it. We’re just goin’ out on the porch to talk some sense into these desperadoes. Now you all vamoose, before the Nazis get any ideas about coming in.”
Pedro and the others did as they were told, and Slim and Shorty stepped out onto the porch, six-shooters at the ready, and Shorty carrying his trusty Winchester casually in the crook of his elbow. The roar of the engines on the circular drive was so loud, no one heard the ranch truck starting up at the rear of the house.
The leader of the Nazis actually looked like a Nazi of the not too distant past — shaved head, swastika tattoos, studded dog collar, steel-toed boots. “You’re the two race traitors who’ve been harassing my men, am I right?” he yelled over the rumbling engines.
“Showin’ ’em up for the lily-livered mama’s boys they are,” Slim replied.
The lead Nazi drew a German Luger — respect for tradition running deep in the ultra-conservative mindset — and aimed it at Slim’s head. “Now, are you going to come along with no trouble, or should we settle this right here?”
It looked like the pardners had finally landed themselves in a spot so tight they might never get out of it.
“Depends,” said Slim, one hand resting casually on his six-shooter. “What do you have in mind if we come along peaceful-like?”
“You know, the usual, start with your fingers, then move on to your toes, followed by a round of electrical stimulation. Probably finish off with some skull-fucking.”
“Well that’s something to consider, ain’t it, Shorty?”
“Sure is, Slim,” Shorty replied, leaning one hand against the porch post next to him.
“On the other hand, seems like it might be preferable just to go out in a blaze o’ glory.”
Hearing his cue, Shorty hit a switch on the post and a bank of 1,000-watt lights running along the front of the house blazed into life, blinding the intruders, while sonic cannons blasted them, not quite knocking them off their feet, but interfering with their aim.
Slim and Shorty dashed for opposite ends of the porch, laying down poorly targeted but nevertheless effective suppressive fire, then hopping the porch rail and heading toward the rear of the house. Slim vaulted the gate blocking the walkway between the house and the adjacent boulders, a feat not as easy as it once was, taking care to land beyond the bear traps set on the other side.
He met Shorty at the back of the house, and the pardners sprinted across the yard to the barn where their horses waited, saddled and ready to ride in expectation of just such a turn of events. As they mounted up, cries of anguish and outraged swearing came from either side of the house. They spurred their horses (in the most humane way possible) into a gallop, turning a corner in the rear access drive just as the rat-tat-tat of ineffective automatic weapons fire sounded from behind.
They turned off the drive, which their assailants were sure to find once they figured out the lay of the ranch, taking a faint path up into slickrock.
Some time later, they crossed into the safety of the reservation, the last holdout of federal power in these parts, the Tribal Police having been beefed up to defend against any intrusions from the Autonomous Zone’s numerous secessionists, a strange mix of Mormon fundamentalists, their Christian counterparts (identical in most respects save number of wives and the use of stimulants and intoxicants), sovereign citizens, anarchists, general tax evaders, and techbros from the once powerful Silicon Valley.
By midnight, they arrived at the house of their friend, Danny, glad to see the ranch pickup parked outside. At the sound of their horses, Pedro, Danny and the rest came out to greet them.
Lupe, who had a special eye for Shorty, spoke first. “We thought we’d never see you again.”
“It was a mite close,” said Slim, “but we squeaked out.”
After caring for the weary horses and installing them in the paddock behind Danny’s house, the pardners turned their attention to their next moves.
“It’s getting a tad hot for us in these parts,” Slim said.
Lupe mentioned that she had family in South Texas. “They’ll be glad to take you in, at least until things cool down around here. Maybe I’ll even come down for a visit while you’re there,” she finished shyly.
“And that’s not too far from Mr. Ester’s space operation in Salsa Verde,” Slim said.
Shorty nodded. “Seems I remember him buyin’ up some land around there, meant to buffer the noise of all those rocket launches, not to mention the occasional rapid unscheduled disassembly. Put it to ranchin’ if I recollect.”
“We do need to give him a call anyway, tell him what happened and recommend he beef up the security.”
“If they haven’t burned the place down already.”
“I can take you into Farmington,” said Danny. “You can catch a bus from there.”
Shorty shook his head. “I sure hate to leave, though.”
“It do feel like surrender, abandoning our posts like that,” Slim said.
“And leavin’ Pilar and Bessie behind, it don’t seem right.” The cowpokes had named their horses after two of their favorite fictional characters, though one of those authors would have rolled over in her grave if she’d heard her Elizabeth’s name shortened in that way.
The cowboys sighed and sipped from their mugs of coffee, Danny making an especially fine pot, even better than their own eponymous brew, with egg shells added to remove the bitterness. They stared into the fire, trying to divine the changing pattern of their futures.
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What do you think the future holds for our brave compadres?
Next up: Chapter 23, “Orbital Motion,” in which things heat up between Clive and Penny.