They never got around to it.

Mortimer found the stream, splashed water on his face. It was freezing, but even that was pleasant, the wet sting waking him up. And the coffee. That woke him up too, warmed his belly.

Mortimer sat on a rock and watched the stream go by and sipped coffee, and was quietly happy that not everything in the world was broken. There were still clear early mornings and hot cups of coffee.

Sheila’s scream echoed through the forest. Mortimer dropped the tin cup and was already running before it hit the ground.

Halfway back to camp, Mortimer made himself slow down. He wouldn’t be able to help anyone if he ran straight into a trap. He moved as quickly as he could while remaining quiet.

At the edge of the camp, he crouched low. He saw bodies moving through the low-hanging pine boughs. He scooted around, trying to get a better look. Two men, no, three, standing near Sheila. One had her by the shirt lapel. She was trying to pull away. The men laughed.

“Doing some camping, sweetheart?” asked the one holding her.

“Fuck off.”

That made him laugh more.

“Who’s here with you?” asked one of the other ones.

“Just me, asshole.”

“She’s got a mouth on her,” the third one said.

“She’s got a sweet little caboose on her.” The one who held her pulled her closer, dropped his rifle so he could grope.

Sheila aimed a kick at his groin. He turned and took it on the thigh, grunted.

The other two men laughed at him. Mortimer saw the armbands. Red Stripes. He tensed to spring out at them, but what could he do? All three carried rifles. Mortimer could see his shotgun leaning against his Nike bag on the other side of the campfire.

“Stupid cunt.” He yanked at her shirt and it ripped, the buttons popping halfway down. Sheila gasped, fear blooming in her eyes, no trace of defiance anymore. He yanked again and the shirt ripped open. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her breasts sprang out, immediately goose-pimpled in the cold air. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her head back, her mouth gaping open, a scream caught in her throat.

Three of them. Mortimer couldn’t take three. Not barehanded.

The bushes rustled on the other side of the camp, and Bill bumbled through, buckling his belt. “I thought I heard-oh, hell.”

The third Red Stripe swung his rifle, aimed it at Bill. The tip of the barrel was a foot from Bill’s nose. “Hey, man! Hold it right there.”

Bill froze, eyes big.

Sheila dropped to one knee, grabbed the coffeepot off the campfire.

The guy holding her looked down to see what she was doing, and she splashed it all. The scalding coffee hit his eyes and he dropped her, screaming. Falling to the ground, pawing at the bright red flesh of his scorched face.

Mortimer was already out of his hiding place and running toward them. He threw himself on one Red Stripe, pinned his arms so the guy couldn’t bring his rifle up. The one near Bill turned, aimed at Mortimer. Mortimer saw what was happening and turned his captive toward the Red Stripe firing at him. The rifle barked, and Mortimer felt the man in his arms twitch and die, a bloody hole in his chest. He dropped him, turned toward the man with the coffee eyes, who was already on his feet again.

Bill jumped the Red Stripe near him. They wrestled, went down.

Mortimer advanced on coffee eyes, but the Red Stripe pulled a revolver from his belt, brought it up toward Mortimer, who flinched back.

An explosion, the echoing crack of pistol fire.

The Red Stripe’s head exploded above the temple, hair and bone and blood flying up and away. His whole body vibrated like some obscene tuning fork before it collapsed.

Sheila stood a dozen feet away, holding an enormous automatic pistol in both hands, her open shirt flapping in the breeze, a look of wild animal rage on her face.

Bill had wrested the rifle away from the last Red Stripe. He stood over him, about to bring the rifle butt down on his head.

“Wait!” Mortimer shouted.

Bill took a step back, but still held the rifle ready to strike.

Mortimer bent and pried the pistol from the dead Red Stripe’s hand. He took it to the Red Stripe near Bill, aimed at a spot between the Red Stripe’s eyes. There was fear there, and he held his hands up feebly like he might ward off the bullet.

“Now,” Mortimer said. “I’m going to need you to answer a few questions.”

They used Sheila’s ruined shirt to tie the captive’s hands behind the trunk of a thin pine. He sat up against the bark, looking afraid.

Sheila put on her only spare shirt, a navy blue turtleneck, and joined Bill and Mortimer in staring down at the prisoner. They made a menacing trio. Mortimer held the.38 revolver he’d liberated from the head-shot Red Stripe, and Bill cradled one of the deer rifles in his arms. Sheila’s automatic turned out to be a.50 Desert Eagle, and Mortimer marveled that the little girl had not been knocked back on her ass when she’d fired the thing.

The Red Stripe said his name was Paul.

Sheila said they couldn’t give a shit and pointed the giant gun at his face.

“Just hold on.” Mortimer took her by the elbow and pulled her back, felt her muscles tense. “I want some information.”

“Look, I really don’t know much,” Paul said.

“We’ll decide that.”

“I didn’t even want to be a Red Stripe.”

Bill smirked. “You just in it for their generous medical benefits?”

“I got drafted,” Paul said. “They found me down in Georgia. I was just minding my own business and scrounging for food, and they picked me up and said I could join up or they would put my head on a pike as a warning to everyone else.”

“Like hell,” Sheila said.

“I’m telling you true, man,” Paul said. “Let me go, and I’ll run in the opposite direction.”

“If you didn’t want to be a Red Stripe, then why didn’t you three just run off now while you had the chance?” Bill asked.

“They always make sure there’s at least three of us together. The guy with the pistol was our unit leader, and we can never know if the other two will gang up on us if we try to run away. They always rotate us around, so we can’t ever trust anybody.”

Mortimer recalled the three Red Stripes he’d killed up on the mountain. “Check the rifles, Bill. How many rounds?”

Bill looked in each rifle. “Only one bullet each.”

Mortimer thought about it and nodded. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

Sheila snorted. “I think he’s a lying sack of shit.”

“I ran into three Red Stripes before,” Mortimer told them. “They only had one bullet each.”

“That’s right,” Paul said. “You see? They don’t want us to mutiny.”

“Why did you attack the Joey Armageddon’s in Cleveland?”

“I don’t know,” Paul said. “They said attack, so we attacked.”

“Who gives the orders?”

Paul said, “The company captains give the orders to the unit leaders. I just do what I’m told.”

“I mean the head guy. Who’s in charge of the whole deal?”

“Nobody knows.”

“He’s lying.” Sheila thrust the gun back at him.

“I’m just a grunt.” Paul cast a pleading look at Mortimer. “You got to keep her off me, man.”

“Like you were staying off me a little while ago?” She spat at him, and it landed on his ear.

“That wasn’t me, man. That was Brandon. He’s, like, a fucking animal.”

“You didn’t try to stop him.” Cold hatred in her eyes.

“I told you. I’m just a grunt.”

“You must’ve heard rumors,” Mortimer said. “Something about your leader.”

“There’s always talk around camp. Nobody knows what’s true and what’s bullshit.”

“Talk.”

“They say he’s eight feet tall and has pointed teeth like a shark’s.”

“Do you want me to shoot your goddamn face off?” Sheila yelled.