Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT    4
DEDICATION    4
BOOK 1    6
CHAPTER 1: THE DAY THE WORLD CHANGED FOREVER    7
CHAPTER 2    52
CHAPTER 3    79
CHAPTER 4    86
CHAPTER 5    115
CHAPTER 6    125
CHAPTER 7    134
CHAPTER 8    180
CHAPTER 9    209
CHAPTER 10    215
CHAPTER 11    228
CHAPTER 12    235
CHAPTER 13    260
CHAPTER 14    274
CHAPTER 15    286
BOOK 2    292
CHAPTER 1    293
CHAPTER 2    306
CHAPTER 3    322
CHAPTER 4    331
CHAPTER 5    336
CHAPTER 6    352
CHAPTER 7    366
CHAPTER 8    378
CHAPTER 9    394
CHAPTER 10    406
CHAPTER 11    449
CHAPTER 12    454
CHAPTER 13    473
CHAPTER 14    501
CHAPTER 15    517
CHAPTER 16    534
CHAPTER 17    543
CHAPTER 18    546
CHAPTER 19    561
CHAPTER 20    569
CHAPTER 21    628
CHAPTER 22    653
CHAPTER 23    657
CHAPTER 24    659
The Devil's Hand    659

COPYRIGHT

Copyright  DCBourone, 2018
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION
"A nation can survive its fools, and even the ambitious. But it cannot survive treason from within. An enemy at the gates is less formidable, for he is known and carries his banner openly. But the traitor moves amongst those within the gate freely, his sly whispers rustling through all the alleys, heard in the very halls of government itself. For the traitor appears not a traitor; he speaks in accents familiar to his victims, and he wears their face and their arguments, he appeals to the baseness that lies deep in the hearts of all men. He rots the soul of a nation, he works secretly and unknown in the night to undermine the pillars of the city, he infects the body politic so that it can no longer resist. A murderer is less to fear."

Marcus Tullius Cicero

"The very concept of objective truth is fading out of the world. Lies will pass into history."

George Orwell

"Is not liberty the destruction of all despotism - including, of course, legal despotism?"

Bastiat

"Chaos liberates not only the evil, but the good."

Billy Spears

THE SOLDIER'S SON

BOOK 1

By DCBourone

CHAPTER 1: THE DAY THE WORLD CHANGED FOREVER
~Zero Hour:  The Massacre At The Cantina Tejas
~Words Of His Father
~The Apocalypse Has Already Happened
~A Murderer Recalls a Very Peculiar Killing
~And As They Murdered, So They Are Murdered

~~Somewhere In West Texas

Billy Gehr was a boy on a mission.
A boy?
Or a man.
He wasn't sure.
He had just turned fourteen years old.
And today he was going to kill the men who had killed his father.
Kill as many as he could.
Or be killed himself.
So.
Boy?
Or man.
He would find out soon.
In his right hand Billy carried a Norinco .45 caliber pistol.  The Norincos were Chinese copies of a captured 1943 Remington Rand, or so the rumors went, near perfect duplicates of the original John Moses Browning 1911.  Made out of 5100 series carbon steel, his grandfather had said.  Or maybe scrapped Chinese railroad tracks, his father had mused.  Same steel, Billy's grandfather would murmur.  Billy's father and grandfather had spoken with reverence and sorrow that some Chinese factory had made such a superb copy of John Browning's classic fighting pistol.
It was gunsmith talk.
Soft voices in the dark.
On a Texas porch
Under a Texas sky full of stars  
The Norinco's original sights were copies from that first Remington, so small as to be virtually decorative, but Billy and his father and his grandfather had replaced the original rear sight with a hooked wedge you could use to rack the slide, one-handed, on a boot heel or a belt or a pocket seam or the steering wheel of a car.  They had replaced the front sights with copies of the long ramp found on the Smith and Wesson M28 Highway Patrolman.  His grandfather had machined the new sights one by one on an ancient Pratt and Whitney bench top mill the size of a sewing machine, or a Victorian dollhouse.  They had replaced the guts of the Norincos with all stainless internals from Cylinder and Slide.  Some of the guns had been salt-bath nitrided, making them virtually rustproof and indestructible.
His grandfather had called them Forever Guns.
Because you could build them.
And maintain them.
And use them.
Forever.
Billy had loved being the son, and grandson, of gunsmiths.
His family had been gunsmiths, soldiers, and lawmen, for generations.
So Billy had learned about these essential tools.

And how they were made.

And he had also learned a lot about how these killing tools were used.

Billy had learned a considerable amount about killing, in general.

Killing men is both art, and science, his father had said.

So you will study the science.

And the art will come.

Words of his father

So in his right hand, Billy carried the Norinco .45 caliber pistol.
And in his left hand he carried a yellow Big Gulp cup of gasoline.  
Almost thirty ounces of Chevron 93 octane, mixed with three heaping tablespoons of bacon grease.  The mix had slicked up nicely.  He had practiced.  Flinging the mix onto a department store mannequin propped on a folding chair.  With just a gentle twist of the wrist.  Because Billy wanted his mix to sticknot splash.  And practice makes perfect, his father had said.  Now there were twenty Diamond strike-anywhere matches epoxied together in a bundle sticking out at the base of the Big Gulp cup full of gasoline and bacon grease.  And a foot-long strip of sandpaper carpenter glued down the front of his tattered Vietnam era army jacket.

So.

Toss the contents.

Strike the matches down the vest

Throw the cup

So Billy came around the corner of The Cantina Tejas, a dusty barn turned into a dusty dance hall in a dusty part of west Texas, tossed the contents, struck the matches, and turned Hector Mejor Calinas into a human torch from Hector's knees to his tattooed face.  Billy saw a good dose of his incendiary mix of Chevron 93 and bacon grease go straight into Hector's open mouth.

Hector Calinas, torturer.

Hector Calinas, rapist.

Hector Calinas, soldier for the Cartel.

Hector Calinas was a fairly recent resident of Texas, his rubbery face and thick neck covered with blue tracings of Gothic script and winged angels and crosses and clenched fists with daggers.  Only tracings now because while Hector's tattoos had been very useful for impressing psychopaths in Sinaloa and Jalisco, Mexico, those tattoos seemed to be a disadvantage in Hector's new home of Texas.  Too many contemptuous cashiers, difficult traffic stops, sullen cops meticulously photographing his trademark symbology.  So for several months now Hector had been driving to San Antonio and having his facial tattoos lasered away.

I'll take care of those tattoos for you, Billy thought.

Fire will clean up those tattoos just fine.

Burn, Hector.

No hurry.

Go ahead.

Take your time.

Now Hector rose in a giant swirl of flame.

A man on fire will go for help, Billy had thought.

But Hector lunged forward.  Right hand outstretched.  Cartel torturer and murderer, but Hector was nothing if not courageous.  And then Hector inhaled, mouth open wide, sucked in a big curl of orange flame, and dropped to his knees.

And lunged for the door of The Cantina.

Good enough.

Go for help, Hector.

Because I promise you

Help is not coming.

It's just me:

Billy Gehr.

And clearly?

I'm no help at all.

Billy waited a second or two.

Billy could remember all his father's words.  His father's words were the kettle drums of war, propelling him into the future.  I'm in the soldiering business, his father had said.  Which means I'm in the killing business.  And being a soldier, well, that means I'm also in the dying business.  So if I die someday you will carry on, and you will know that wherever I am, I will always know that you are my son, and now I live through you and only through you, and knowing you were my son was the great triumph of my life.

Honor thy father

So far it was going pretty well.

Now Billy Gehr needed to stand.

Watch.

Listen.

For just a moment.

There were things he needed to see.

Things he needed to hear.

Before the real killing began.

That would be pretty soon now.

He raised the Norinco pistol.

Over-penetration is a problem for civilians, his father had said.  Because when you fight, and you will surely fight someday, because our world is collapsing in upon itself, do you understand, son, you will see the fall of your country the way Romans witnessed the Fall of Rome?  Because our Apocalypse has already happened. Our Apocalypse happened, when we lost our common language. Our Apocalypse happened when we lost our common values, embedded within that language.  Our Apocalypse happened when we lost our honor.  Our Apocalypse happened, when we lost our courage. Do you understand me, son?

So when you fight?

You will be not be fighting as a civilian.

You will be fighting as a soldier.

You will be fighting for whatever is left of your country.

You will be fighting for whatever is left of Texas.

You will be fighting for whatever is left of your family.

And you will be fighting for whatever is left?

Of yourself.

So you will want to see your enemies destroyed.

So when you fire your weapon you will want penetration.  You will want holes in, and bigger holes out.  You will want splatter.  And spray. You will want to see your enemies dismembered.  Deconstructed.  Deleted.  Perhaps a leg here, and a torso there, you will find very reassuring.  You will understand the value of concussive decapitation, because a man without a head is probably no longer a threat.  You will want to see your enemies ground to a rubble of ash and bones.  So you know that your enemies will never rise up, and kill you.

Or even worse: kill your friends.

Now Billy saw what he needed to see.

Heard what he needed to hear.

And Billy fired.

The rounds from his Norinco pistol penetrated just fine.

They were his first shots in what Billy knew would be a very long war.

And he fully intended to carry on his family traditions.

He was, after all?

A Soldier's Son.

~A MURDERER RECALLS A VERY PECULIAR KILLING~

Gabriel Louis Martinez leaned forward on the long board porch of The Cantina Tejas and studied the flaming apparition that had been his friend and fellow Cartel Soldier, a man named Hector Calinas.  Gabriel Louis Martinez was propped against the boards of The Cantina in a chair made out of metal tubing and plastic.  Gabriel figured he might have about three seconds to live.  This odd creature with the big square pistol and that cup full of gasoline and that hideous mask was going to kill him.

Kill him soon, just like he had killed Hector.

Gabriel's thoughts flickered like heat lightning.

Just flashes of light on images, very fast.

So you did not review your life in the seconds before death

You just had random thoughts.

Images, flashing

Pocket litter

Sifting through fingers.

Gabriel was drunk on mescal.

He was so drunk his body could only move very slowly.

But oddly, in these last seconds, his thoughts could move very fast

In the seconds before his friend Hector burst into a tower of flame, Gabriel's random thoughts had concerned a momentous and very puzzling question: a Texas Deputy Sheriff had been killed just a few days ago.  But nothing had changed after the Texas Deputy Sheriff was killed.  Street lights still turned on.  Cash registers beeped and hummed and chimed, most of the time.  The Cantina Tejas was not raided.  The trailers full of young Mexican girls who entertained at The Cantina Tejas were not raided.  No police showed up at The Cantina Tejas.  No other deputy Sheriffs.  No state troopers.  No Justice Department investigators.  There must have been an investigation, surely, but that investigation had never reached The Cantina Tejas, which should have been the target of any intelligent inquiry into the Deputy's murder.

It was all very strange.

In Gabriel's mind this strangeness was only somewhat associated with another kind of recent strangeness over the last year or so: a slow decline in business, in how often they got paid, the number of days when his ATM card didn't work at Bank of America over sixty miles away in Waco, or Western Union offices were closed, and he could not send any money home.

The lines were shorter at Walmart.

The lines were longer at the health clinics.

There had been three bank holidays, when no money could be moved.

The economy was fine, the news would say.

The economy was fantastic, the news would say.

Employment was up, the news would say.

And then there would be a bank holiday.

And riots.

Lots of riots.

It was very confusing.

Gabriel had recently become accustomed to hearing the words 'severe depression' and 'currency crisis' and 'banking crisis' and even 'worldwide economic collapse' from normally sunny faces on television when he strayed away from his sports and Spanish language Univision broadcasts.

Even though the economy was just so very fantastic.

It made no sense at all.

And even stranger things were happening.

Gabriel knew nothing about American politics.

But two attempts on the American President's life was very strange.

Somebody desperately wanted to kill the American President.

And had almost succeeded.

Twice.

Which meant they would surely try to kill him again.

Assassination was a common tool of politics in many countries.

But not here, not in the United States of America.

Not for decades.

It was all very strange.

The whole world was becoming very strange.

Strange small wars in distant countries were becoming larger wars, in big countries that even Gabriel could name.  When he watched television this last year, the screen was filled with foreign cities on fire, and skies full of smoke.  Gabriel was a creature of instincts, and his instincts told him that a great dark wave was coming.  He had a dim sense that the world was changing, and would never be the same, that the world had become like bright and shiny and glittering bubbles of light, drifting on an ocean of filth. And the very strange economy, up and then down, up and then down, that could help explain why the Deputy's murder was not properly investigated.  Just not enough money.  Good law enforcement was very expensive.

But if the old world was dying, and if the U.S. economy had problems, very severe problems, the Cartels mostly saw opportunity.  The Cartels could provide many essential services: organized violence and intimidation, women, drugs, cash, anything stolen because anything stolen could be sold at a discount.  A dying economy and a dying nation and a dying world by definition becomes a kind of black market.

And the Cartels were the ultimate black market.

The Cartels would swim freely, in this ocean of filth.

Gabriel was the farthest thing from an intellectual.

But Gabriel had an animal's instinct for the future.

And he was sure the future was very dark.

And in a dark future?

He knew the world would be ruled by gangs.

And he was a member of one of the world's most ruthless gangs.

The Sheriff's Deputy had been killed several days ago because in just the last year he had shot, run over, or beaten to death at least seven Cartel soldiers, seven of Gabriel's associates and friends.  And maybe two more men who had disappeared, two stone cold professionals, Los Zetas contract killers from Nuevo Laredo who had never shown up, never called in, but had simply

Disappeared.

Vanished.

The job of the Los Zetas men had been to kill The Deputy.

They had been sent to kill him because The Deputy had been the last functional law enforcement in Cochise County, Texas.  All the other deputies had quit, or been persuaded to leave, or been persuaded to park themselves in the shade and look the other way.

This Deputy had been the last one really working.

He had been working for free, it was said.

The Deputy had once been some kind of soldier, it was said.

Some kind of very special soldier.

Back from all these wars the gringos fought.
The Deputy had been a very unusual man.

Gabriel had seen The Deputy kill before, just once.

Gabriel had been at The Cantina when The Deputy had killed Luis.

The Deputy had killed Luis in a very dramatic and peculiar way.

Luis, mostly called just Luis, but sometimes very quietly and respectfully, Luis The Foot, and even Luis The Foot-Cutter, had been responsible for disciplining the girls at The Cantina Tejas.  Keeping those girls in line.  And on their backs.  When they arrived across the border, soft plump girls with hope in their eyes because they had been promised jobs as waitresses or motel cleaners or nannies, Luis tattooed their left feet with a small star.  Or sometimes, a flower. About the size of a dime.  Just inside their little toe.

That way when the girls ran away and Luis The Foot tracked them down, and he almost always tracked them down, the truth was the girls rarely got as far as San Antonio or the border, Luis did not have to bring back their bodies to show the other girls.  Moving whole bodies was difficult, and messy.  The closest mesquite thicket was good enough for girl bodies cut into pieces and folded into Hefty garbage bags, and west Texas was one big mesquite thicket.  So Luis just chopped off that left foot with the little tattooed star, or flower.  And then he would show that foot to the other girls in the trailers behind The Cantina Tejas.  You could fit a young girl's foot in a jacket pocket, rolled up in a Ziploc bag, Luis The Foot used to say

The Deputy had killed Luis on a Friday night.

At one o'clock in the morning.

Almost a year ago.

On Friday nights The Cantina Tejas was very busy, very loud, very bright.  As many as two hundred patrons might be dancing on the barn floor, boards creaking and dust in the air, another ten or twelve patrons down in the trailers with the girls.

The Deputy had come in by himself.

With a big bright picture on his phone.

A picture of a girl's foot.

With a small flower tattooed by the little toe.

The Deputy had shown his picture of a girl's foot to many people in the bar, and on the dance floor.

The Deputy had been very polite.

Just one week before, two girls had got away

Luis and Gabriel had caught one of the girls.

That girl had been punished.

She had not survived her punishment.

The Deputy's picture must have been of the other girl, the only one who ever truly got away, because the foot in the picture was still attached to an ankle.   The deputy had finally walked to the bar and shown the picture to Luis, who was tapping a keg of beer.  Then the Deputy had walked Luis outside to a truck.  An old Dodge Adventurer, four-wheel drive, lifted, painted the dull grey of primer paint.  The Deputy was using his own vehicle, because the county had so little money.

The Deputy had been slow and casual.

Luis The Foot had been slow and casual.

Gabriel had been sitting in this very same chair of steel tubes and plastic on that night almost one year ago.  Drunk on mescal.  Gabriel had been thinking about Luis and the soft brown girls, and how much fun he and Luis had with those girls when they tracked them down.  Luis always rented a motel room first.  The girls were so terrified that they would do anything.

Anything at all.

It had been a lot of fun for Luis and Gabriel, not so long ago

About forty patrons had gathered on the porch of The Cantina Tejas.

Another ten or so on the gravel lot in front of The Cantina.

They were all waiting for Luis to kill the new Deputy.

They all knew in the deep dark Texas scrubland?

Such a crime would never be solved.

Of course there might be an investigation.

Flashing lights, police cars, road blocks.

But then the investigation would disappear.

Because no one who saw anything would speak.

Nobody would ever speak against the Cartels.

So, one more Texas deputy, down in the dark.

Gabriel knew of three dead deputies in just the last year

The Deputy had propped Luis up against his Chevy truck.

The Deputy was going to read Luis his rights.

Then The Deputy stepped back about three feet.

And The Deputy did not read Luis his rights.

Instead he reached into the right-hand pocket of his vest.

Found some gloves and pulled them on.

The Deputy was fairly tall, but mostly he was wide.  Wide shoulders, long arms, sinew and bone.  When he had passed Gabriel and stepped into The Cantina Gabriel had noticed mostly his neck.  The Deputy's neck was very thick, deep, and wide.  Gabriel had always liked small details like that.  He had always thought men with thick muscular necks deserved special attention.

And leaning back in this very same chair almost one year ago, Gabriel had recognized The Deputy's gloves.  Black.  A logo on the wrist strap: Mechanix.  Gabriel knew lots of people who used those gloves.  You could buy them at Home Depot.  But The Deputy's gloves had been changed.  Painted across wrist and knuckles were the bones of a hand, bright and white, like a skeleton.

The Deputy was wearing the hands of Dia De Muertos.

Bones of the Dead, to celebrate the Day of the Dead.

And The Deputy waited.

Still, but poised, maybe swaying just a tiny bit.

Like a soccer goalie, waiting to receive a penalty kick.

Gabriel had known that Luis would kill The Deputy.

Now he was not so sure.

Luis was a blade man, as well as a gunman.

Luis The Foot always carried two knives, filed down from French chef's knives.  Never stainless, always carbon steel.  Luis was very particular about his knives.  He carried one blade tilted right in the small of his back like an Argentine gaucho's facon, the other knife in a shoulder harness under his bright yellow bartender's vest.  At his right hip Luis carried a Colt Presidential .38 Super, a very shiny gun with a gold-plated trigger and hammer.

The Deputy had not handcuffed Luis.

The Deputy had not searched or disarmed Luis.

It was all very strange and interesting.
.    Gabriel had been waiting for Luis to show one of his knife tricks.

Luis The Foot was always playing with his knives.

Once Gabriel had insulted Luis "Chinga tu madre" he had said, which meant "fuck your mother," Gabriel had been trying to be tough and friendly in the manner of men, and Luis had turned with a smile on his face and kept turning, so fast it was like a strobe light and shown Gabriel a gold earring on the tip of his knife.

It was Gabriel's own gold earring, torn out of his right ear.

Gabriel had never again insulted Luis The Foot

So The Deputy had talked, head down low, relaxed.

Then Luis talked, his hands moving, lots of movement, like he was telling a joke.  Then Luis turned to his left.  Looked over his left shoulder with that big 'I'm your friend and you're my friend' smile on his face.

And like a bird twisting in flight

Luis turned the other way.

Just a glance of light on the knife in his hand.

And then

The Deputy was holding Luis' knife.

The Deputy's right hand up, like he was saying, "Halt."

And there was the knife in The Deputy's skeleton glove.

Gabriel was not quite sure how it was done.

And now very quickly they were both on their knees, The Deputy still behind Luis and holding Luis' right wrist in both gloved hands and now The Deputy was somehow up over Luis' back in a blur of quick-kicking dust and motion, The Deputy riding very high on Luis' back, and The Deputy spun twice, two complete turns, as fast as hands clapping, still holding Luis' wrist and arm.  The Deputy spun around Luis' wrist and arm like the girls in The Cantina spun around their poles.

Even over The Cantina music Gabriel was sure he heard a liquid pop.

Like a drumstick twisted out of a chicken.

The Deputy had pretty much torn Luis' arm out of his shoulder.

Maybe there was still some skin holding everything together.

Gabriel saw The Deputy was wearing cowboy boots with low heels.

Ropers, they were called.

But The Deputy's ropers had black rubber soles with those small crosses like Gabriel had seen on rich peoples' hiking boots, when he went up to Plano in Dallas to see how the rich people lived, and thought about robbing them and raping their vain blonde whores with the plastic faces and plastic smiles.

Gabriel had never seen cowboy boots with those black crosses.

As The Deputy spun Luis had screamed like a very young girl.

And now The Deputy and Luis were both back on their knees, Luis still screaming, and now finally The Deputy searched and disarmed Luis, the knife like the Argentinean facon removed and laid in the gravel next to the first knife from under Luis' vest, and then the Presidential .38 Super, all carefully laid on the gravel.  Luis was still screaming and The Deputy put his right hand on Luis' neck and slammed Luis' face and head into the door pillar of his truck, directly behind the cab.

Once.

And then again.

Maybe ten seconds had passed.

By now Gabriel was very intrigued.

Gabriel realized he was being mesmerized.

Like a snake, being charmed by the deliberate movements of a flute.

Gabriel knew he should have moved, somebody should have moved.

But everybody was watching.

Stunned.

And disbelieving.

And most of all: curious.

What would The Deputy do next?

Luis had fallen over, as limp as a wet cloth.

The Deputy carefully laid Luis down on the gravel, face up.

Then he reached into the bed of his truck, and removed a horse blanket.  The horse blanket was folded very thick, about the size of a phone book.

The Deputy carefully laid the blanket on the center of Luis' chest.

Then The Deputy swiveled lightly up into the bed of his truck.

The Deputy was very graceful for such a big man.

The whole thing had reminded Gabriel of a rodeo.

Like when the calf-ropers were tossing the calves.

And then twirling their hands around the calves' ankles with rope.

Gabriel wondered if maybe The Deputy was once a rodeo cowboy.

The Deputy was somewhat bow-legged

And then The Deputy jumped off the edge of his truck.

Lifted his knees high to his chest as he jumped.

And stomped both feet into the folded horse blanket as he landed.

Stomped both feet practically into the ground through Luis' chest.

It was a very unusual way to kill a man, Gabriel had thought.

It suggested disgust.

And contempt.

And a very deep and calculating mind.

The way The Deputy had laid Luis out so carefully.

The horse blanket, already folded to the perfect size.

And The Deputy's timing:

His timing was brilliant.

Just fast enough to startle

Just slow enough to enchant

Like a dream.

Or a flawless seduction.

It had seemed like The Deputy was dancing with a willing partner.

Or it was a kind of ceremony, like the Aztecs on their stone pyramids.

Killing with their obsidian knives.

Holding hearts to the sky.

I am killing with great deliberation here, The Deputy was saying.

Because I can kill you, I can kill all of you, all of you who are like this man, this man Luis The Foot-Cutter?  I can kill you whenever I want.  Wherever I want.  However, I want.  Do you see me?  Because I see you.

Gabriel knew that is what that elaborate killing meant.

Then The Deputy reached down for the folded horse blanket.

And tossed it back into the bed of his truck.

And a spark lit to fire in Gabriel's mind:

Maybe The Deputy did not care about witnesses.

But maybe The Deputy cared about evidence: those boots.

Those boots would have engraved Luis forever with those hiking soles.

Engraved Luis with those little crosses, stamped into his chest.

Then the same hand that tossed the horse blanket came back.

With a very large rifle.

Scarred and silvered with use.

A big fat square magazine.

Gabriel had spent two years in the Mexican Army.

Gabriel had been instructed by the Cartel to join the army.

So he could learn about weapons, and learn how to fight.

They had been issued a German gun, the G3, and the Deputy's gun had a magazine exactly the same size.  So, 7.62 NATO, they had been taught.  Very powerful.  A car killer, a truck killer, a penetrator of buildings and people in a row, big holes that went all the way into the future.

But the magazine was not the only thing that interested Gabriel.

There was a small handle, a stub, really, attached to the forend of the Deputy's rifle.  And above the handle and to the left was a light, a dull bronze color, about the size of a 7-ounce Coca-Cola bottle.  And as soon as he brought the rifle out of the truck bed The Deputy switched the light on and swept the crowd of watchers and witnesses.  Gabriel immediately closed his eyes but it was too late.  He had seen such lights before, you could buy small ones at Walmart, about the size of a roll of quarters, but this was the brightest ever, it was like staring into the sun, and Gabriel was blinded even through his closed eyes.

Through his closed eyes Gabriel could feel this shattering light bouncing around him, high, and low, and for a two-second period of darkness in which Gabriel assumed The Deputy had turned all the way around.  Or aimed up. To blind anyone who might have been watching from darkness.  Or from the three windows on the second floor of The Cantina Tejas.

For the first time Gabriel was afraid.

This Deputy was no longer interesting.

This Deputy was terrifying.

Gabriel kept his eyes closed.

He didn't want to see anymore.

He wanted The Deputy to go away.

To disappear like the spirits of the dead.

But closing his eyes did not work at all.

Gabriel could hear a few shouts, a few women screaming.

And footsteps on gravel.

And the sound of something being dragged.

The light got brighter and brighter through his closed eyelids.

And he felt something sharp at his throat, his right eye, his left cheek.

The light dimmed but he could still feel it pulsing to his left.

"Hello Gabriel.  Open your eyes," The Deputy had said.

And Gabriel had opened his eyes.

He considered himself a brave man.

But his guts were boiling, he was clenching himself.

And still he knew he was leaking a thin stream of shit.

When he opened his eyes he saw the tip of The Deputy's rifle.

It had been sharpened somehow.

Tiny sharp triangles.

Like a fish scaling knife.

The Deputy's rifle tapped him over his left eye.

Gabriel's left eye was immediately filled with blood.

Tap, tap, tap, more blood in his eye.

Gabriel could just barely see Luis The Foot below him.

Luis had one eye looking this way, one eye looking that way.

Luis The Foot exhaled a last clotted breath, full of snot and blood.

A jet of blood out of Luis' nose had coated his chest bright crimson.

"Look at me, Gabriel.  Look at me now."

Gabriel had looked.

Seen calm grey eyes.

A wide, weathered face.

A broad, ragged mustache.

A short-brimmed grey Stetson.

The eyes very clear behind glasses with yellow lenses.

Then the Deputy laid his rifle on Luis' bloody chest.

Shifted his gun belt with the big square pistol.

Slid an old tape-wrapped framing hammer from the gun belt.

And a six-inch nail from inside his vest.

And nailed Gabriel's left foot to the porch.

The nail going in just inside Gabriel's little toe.

Exactly where Luis had tattooed The Cantina girls' left feet.

Then the Deputy held up his right hand, showed the palm of his glove.

Gabriel was going numb with terror, but he saw a pattern of fabric.

Glued or stitched somehow into the palm and fingers of the glove.

"Kevlar.  Go home, Gabriel.  Keep the nail," The Deputy said.

And then The Deputy spun away behind the light on his rifle.

The Deputy's truck engine roared to life.

And as he left, his truck would stop, and idle.

Stop, and idle.

Stop, and idle.

Because The Deputy was doing one last thing.

When the patrons of The Cantina Tejas finally made it to their cars and trucks and drove down the access road to the farm road and to their homes, they stared straight ahead.  They did not want to look or talk or think about anything.  They had already seen enough.

And because every fifty feet down the service road.

They had to pass a lit candle.

In the shape of a skull.

Candles of Dia de Muertos.

Lighting a day, and a night, of the dead.

Business at The Cantina was not so good for a while...

~
Leaning back on his porch chair Gabriel could tell his time was over.

He had remembered what he could about The Deputy.

It had only taken a second, or two

The pocket litter had sifted through his fingers.

And now his hands, and his mind, were empty.

Gabriel's last seconds were almost up.

And he knew it.

He knew he should try and move, very soon.

But he was numb with alcohol, and fear, and sorrow.

And he knew it would not make any difference, if he moved.

He could hear Hector thumping and burning to his right.

Gabriel could smell chicharron, the smell of fried pork rinds.

Gabriel had burned people before, and knew this smell.

He could also see the face and hands of Dia de Muertos.

This figure before him, who had just lit Hector on fire, this figure which now swayed gently behind a heavy square pistol, swayed and twitched just like a praying mantis, this figure was wearing the skeleton gloves of Dia de Muertos.  And a mask painted with a perfect skull, the face of Dia de Muertos.

The face of the Day of the Dead.

So this would be Gabriel's day of the dead.

Gabriel studied the skeleton gloves.

And the big square pistol.

Of course, he had seen them before.

When speaking of The Deputy amongst themselves, Gabriel and his friends had just called him "The Deputy."  But everyone had known The Deputy must have been some kind of soldier.  A very good soldier.  In private, many people thought of the Deputy just as, "The Soldier."

And this was exactly the same figure now.

Standing before him.

Maybe a bit shorter, and thinner.

But otherwise almost exactly the same.

The delicate precision of the painted skull mask.

It reminded Hector of the perfectly folded blanket.

That perfect leap into the air.

The Deputy with his knees up high on his chest.

Before he dropped down and stomped Luis The Foot to death.

The skeleton gloves, the poise, even the same heavy square pistol

Gabriel was deeply superstitious and felt he was having a premonition.

Gabriel was quite sure he could only be looking at one person.

That person could only be The Soldier's Son.

deleted

DCB  -  have you published yet?  

Edited by me for typing before I thought it through.

Edited out by me.  Sorry, my bad...

DCB - got any more Tony and Sylvia you can feed to us?  

Yup, it's fine from the desktop computer but odd and seemingly disconnected hieroglyphs from the iPad.  Hopefully they get that sorted soon...

my sincere apologies, linked when shouldn't have

VERY IMPORTANT GENERAL NOTE:  I was hoping I would not have to do this.

VERY IMPORTANT: It is not my intention that anyone not ENJOY AND SUPPORT ANY OTHER STORY---
-------------------------ON THIS FORUM-------------------.
-------------------PLEASE ENJOY AND SUPPORT ALL STORIES------------------

-------BUT PLEASE DO NOT POST ANYMORE LINKS, LIVE LINKS, COMMENTS OR LANGUAGE-------
------------------REFERENCING OR DIRECTING TO ANY OTHER STORY-------------

They severely distort the use of this three year old thread to measure interest, timing of interest, follow
through to Injured ( how many people are interested in going from extremely complex to even more
complex ) and MANY MANY MANY other things.  One example of dozens: SINCE THE NEW STORY WAS
POSTED, THE FOLLOW-THROUGH TO INJURED IS DOWN BY 60 PERCENT.  This is not an accident,
obviously.  IT IS NOT THE MONEY--INJURED MAKES FIVE/5 DOLLARS A MONTH.  It is the measuring
device.  This thread is an effort of thousands of hours.  I am trying to create "a brand."  Does
that make sense?

MUCH WORSE: It sets a terrible example on a thread designed to last for years:
Anybody can post their story, and put links to it, on this three year old thread??????
The intent is not the issue.  THE EFFECT IS IDENTICAL TO HIJACKING.

----------IT IS CONSIDERED---NOT GOOD---ON ANY FORUM I AM AWARE OF-----

For those who understand what I am saying here:

-------------PLEASE EDIT ALL POSTS/COMMENTS/REFERENCES-------
TO THE OTHER STORY.  Say "moved" or "edited"--not 'MOVED TO THE OTHER STORY'

That would just compound the problem. Which is severe.

I am very sorry to do this.  Not what we are here for.

If needed, I will expand on this post/message.

I very much hope that is not necessary.

Kermit, good luck.  I hope you are reading your messages.

DCB - my apologies if I inadvertently created a shit storm. I have edited my comment as well as my intent was NOT to redirect traffic.

On a separate note regarding your response about the I-20 corridor from TX to GA. You make it to my house, you sleep in one of my bedrooms. I have a Dillon as well that I need to get set up and have several nearby places to put holes in paper.

--TEXT REMOVED 01082019 .RE EPUB TOS----

Great update, and yeah, OH SHIT about sums it up if I'm thinking about this correctly...

Thanks DC!

--Beautiful, Stj.  Perfect.

GENERAL NOTE: IMPORTANT-- can anyone see "the reversal" here, and tell what
is coming?  Just a yes or no if possible.  I need to know if I need to "explain more"
in this very complicated story.

Oh so very...'yes'.

Can I say 'sammich' again now?

<---and with great difficulty shuts mouth.

Yes

I believe so, yes.

With full confidence, I believe I can appropriately quote Gollum here:















"Yeesssssss, my Precious!"

This, I'm not as well versed in literature as some of you guys here but I'm pretty sure that I'm tracking you on this one D.C...

Tell what's coming?  Absolutely?  No - I'm not a mind reader and you're good with twists.

That said, yeah, I think so.  And I wouldn't want it any clearer than you've made it.  Keeps the suspense level up till the final reveal.

GENERAL NOTE: tortoise/hare, splitting millimeters to the finish line, yes.  But closer
by the day.  Brute force cover person returns--ok now Mon.=midweek.

GENERAL NOTE: for those interested, forensic, elements of 'design'--this is not a spoiler,
but plays to the example of 'spoilers'=

1. I will use the example of the Gehr Waffen gate.  My point is that you should use this
example, and apply it to the entire story: every significant event, person, object, theme, etc.
When you first saw The Black Gate, with Brian Distrop and Sylvia, it was clearly
"A formidable gate" large, intimidating, robust, odd.  BUT YOU DID NOT SEE HOW
THICK IT WAS. Or the edge.  You certainly did not know that it was hooked up
to a worm screw and 6000 horsepower.  But NOW YOU KNOW that the gate was an
integral part of a massively complex "killing ground."  It makes sense now.  And hopefully
you looked back, and went "Oh yeah, cool, that's what that gate was for!!!" But note
that I DID SHOW you how thick the gate was, at the white gate.  Gate north.  IF YOU
HAD SEEN TOO MANY ATTRIBUTES OF THE BLACK GATE, ALL AT THE SAME TIME,
you might have seen too much of the purpose of this story, too early.  Make sense?
One tiny example.  But it serves across the entire story.

--StimpsonJ much thanks and close close close.  Messing with the above issue right
now, what to show, when, and how much to explain, in the text.  Tricky.

--Pfunkk, excellent, hope you enjoy method now that you know goals.

--oldcranck much thanks and by the end all will be made clear, wait to you hear Pop
Gehr's summation.  Pop Gehr designed the whole show.

--Former11b much thanks and got many more dials to turn.  Then I break them off.

--greyguy, if you've been here this long you definitely know that "something strange
is going on"--and it is.  Way past good enough.

--cpapspr, very good to see you, have I missed you before?  Have some sense of regular
posters--not a mind reader--actually, if you've followed this thread--some mind reading
has probably been available--your point of 'reveals/how and when' is huge, a big
issue to manage well.  We shall see.  Thank you.

Ok back to work.  Good to see everyone.  Update soon.

DCB

For those of you who have found Injured Reserves, much thanks.
At the end of this story, Billy Spears, The Six Sisters, and Injured
will make a lot more sense.

I have a hazy idea about "big plans" and "the Gehrs have done everything they can in their world", but I won't be surprised if I'm wrong.

It's getting exciting either way though.

--DFarm that's plenty good, now add that "a book" is supposed to be read in a few days,
maybe a week, not over three years because the writer is juggling anvils and commas,
so tons of relevant stuff is now 'really old/gone/forgotten' in the collective mind.

--so just consider this, for now, Tony has just told you THAT HE WAS RECRUITED

--TEXT REMOVED .RE EPUB TOS ETC.------------

I'm picking up what you are laying down, D.C.  In this world, there are NO coincidences.

--mnmiv--no coincidences--EXACTLY--twist that dial and break it off.

Thanks for the work D.C.

DCB, I happened across this story yesterday and began reading.  (I think I started it some time back and wasn't overly impressed with the original chapter, because of cadence.)
Regardless, I pressed on and found that either the cadence changed further in or I had become accustomed to it.

So, long story short, I finished all 43 pages today.  

I have purchased IR and will be reading that this week.  

And I'm now waiting, as anxiously as everyone else it seems, for TSS to appear in Amazon.  

I am an avid reader, and buy most of my reading material (conservatively 99% of my materials) in e-book format.  I've paid good money for shit books and little money ($0.99) for some that were surprisingly pretty good.  TSS is good, and you will doing yourself a great disservice if you price it at the $0.99 level.  I recommend $5.99 / $6.99 or thereabouts.  After reading here, I personally would pay full paperback prices for an e-book version.

Just a quick question: is Barnes and Noble out of the picture for any reason?  Is Amazon the only way for new authors to get their names out there?  

--zoe17 much thanks and some context in future a conversation minds/attributes/clusters.  Affects/determines
many things: professions, lifestyle choice, etc.  Many parts this story written for 'your mind'--

--moondancer very pleased to see you, very cool to see new name/avatar on now very 'seasoned' thread--
understood on 'cadence'--imagine the cadence/timing/text layout as a kind of 'screen'--also very long
lead to 'fight'--also what is called 'head hopping' from Billy to a Cartel shithead who will be dead soon--
a way of telling readers this will be a very complex/not normal/multi-character/slow to develop 'story'--
and there are many excellent stories that are told in much more accessible styles, move much faster,
etc.  Many many 'warnings' in the first pages/scene.  I am very glad you stuck with it.  I hope that the
"Resolutions" will pay off for the time invested, they are designed to do so, we shall see.

GE

DCB - I understand your need for marketing.  And I also realize in this world of TLDR I am an anomaly as I generally will not even consider purchasing any book that is listed as <275 pages.  I apparently am one of a sadly dwindling group of people who really LIKE to read things of some size.  Heck, I wanted King's The Stand to have even more than it did and eagerly bought the unedited version when it came out!

--moondancer, long books, exactly, if I like it, why the FFF wouldn't I want 'moar'???  The Stand, perfect.
Yes also bought...no found, discarded, full length updated Stand.  Stepehen King excellent metric 'length'
recent versions Soldier's Son all about 152-157,000 words.  Salem's Lot, and The Shining also between
150-160 thousand words.  Oh---Barnes Noble--complicated--possible, but different formatting/downloading/
other issues, and B/N now getting about 1-3 percent ebook market, pretty much dead.  As a book-keeping
issue, time best spent, literally, here, writing, thinking, other stuff.  Good to see you MD.

The only thing good about a series of short books is that they are published/posted sooner. I don't mind long books in a series as long as I don't have to wait more than a year before the next book is published and they don't repeat a bunch of shit from the last book.

--trapshooter you've seen the EXACT BOOK--ok, lots of edits, but essentially the same book and definitely
the same story, YOU HAVE SEEN 96 PERCENT OF IT, ALREADY, RIGHT HERE.

And it will be PUBLISHED ALL AT THE SAME TIME--short of computer B.S., IN THE SAME HOUR.

No waiting of any kind, in other words, and the exact same story, with some cool edits, one new
'major theme/issue' and about oh 900 typos/other corrected, which means at least fifty are
still buried in there somewhere.  GENERAL NOTE: check this out--this story has been read here,
many many errors/typos found.  And by me, on review, about ten thousand times.  I STILL FIND
A MISSING WORD/TYPO/SPELLING ERROR, at least one, EVERY DAY.  Just FFF.

GENERAL NOTE: been ffing around with covers/fonts etc. for a few months now.  Can't find a "font"
that means lettering style, that I like.  So the cover letters/title etc. will be PAINTED/DRAWN, by me,
on a panel/something/working on that now, and then photographed, reduced, channeled, colorized,
blessed by virgins, etc., and then published.  Lots of fun, actually.

MoonDancer -- I feel you about e-books and liking them on a B&N device.  I too have a Nook reader and find it to be much more readable than any LCD based device.  I am assuming that is why you have stuck with B&N.  I have also found that some of the stuff I want to read is not available on B&N, however there is a cure for that!  Calibre is a piece of software that will take an Amazon e-book and flip it to the B&N format quite nicely.  It will also flip other formats but I haven't tried it with anything else. 

https://calibre-ebook.com/

I too enjoy the longer books myself as more real estate can be devoted to the characters and the book doesn't feel rushed or squeezed between "scenes".

DCB -- I understand the Anvil and Comma Juggling Act and Cover Polishing but I have one very serious and troubling question...Looking around Here, Where are YOU going to find any Virgins to Bless the Cover???

DCB,  any chance of a "special edition" or first edition that is all one "book" for those of us in the know?  Price it above the "drive by, casual readers" comfort zone, say $10-$12?

I'd pay an extra buck or two to not need to change books in the middle of a good read. (I suppose that we've all suffered far more here with the tempo that's been the norm than just starting another book. Lol)  

It just seems to me like it would be a more complete "feeling" for those of us who have been here since the beginning to finally have it all in one seamless piece.

--DFARM--good question, actually critical question--

GENERAL NOTE: SHORT ANSWER--off DFarm's question--"almost sure" that I can have version of Amazon e-book that is COMPLETE.  
In other words, a first 'book' 1 /Massacre-Cantina, cheap, separate, to introduce new readers who would never buy a 600 page unknown--

-

---TEXT REMOVED 01082019 .RE EPUB TOS ETC.---------

So, with all of your troubles with kindle, how do I get a paper copy, signed by the author?

It's taking every ounce of self control I have to not read this last update right now, just to get a "fix".

I want to "experience" the book as it was intended.

And I thought this day was great,MAGA. Now a update and the time is not between 0100-0600, thanks BC, made a great day even better.

Good update. Thanks DC.

I wonder who chose that name?

----------TEXT REMOVED .RE EPUB TOS ETC.------------

--StimpsonJ--please watch issue of 'congruence' here, many times referred to--the name
Pilar was the name of Hemingway's Cuba boat.  If you made that reference, and I
did not comment, you: very wise, me: if I tell people what I am doing, it will spoil
some of the surprise.  Very much prefer people find as much as they can, on their
own.  The name Pilar was chosen, this story and
all the key elements and several hundred pages of notes were blocked out/written
before I ever posted here.  This story has been "tuned/fiddled/shaped" while on this
forum.  But all design elements/names/strategies/intentions were set-up before
I was here.  Kermit picked up on the Poe thing a long time ago.  There are MANY
style/other references to other works in this story.  Injured Reserves for instance is a series
of 'lifts/references' to literary/mythological/linguistic precedents, from Norse/Icelandic
through Homer to Shakespeare/Yeats/others, and actually begins with an EXACT duplicate
of shape/language/tone/intent to "Gorky Park" as I have mentioned, which was a very
very serious book.
The last chapter in this story, "The Devil's Hand" is nothing but a very specific
reference to what I believe is the finest and most original writer in English, of
the last fifty years.  It will be very clear who I have in mind, and why.

This story was written 'by...a mind....like us....for....minds
.....like ours.

Would it surprise you that I have long wondered, for instance, what 'other
tools' could have used all that 3 cent Russian capture 8mm back when it
came in?  You saw some in this story, yes? 
Musso bowie?  Who the FF knows what the Musso bowie was/is.
We do.  There will be more of this. 

Yes.  I'm a witch.

But I'm a nice witch.  Sort of.

DCB

I wasn't going to say anything since I posted the same question a couple years ago.

Pilar asked Billy if Maria was his sister.
Then Michael is Billy Dad so how can Maria be a sister to both.

--trapshooter--very good eye--this issue was intended to be a 'reveal' at end of story,
considering 'ideal' reading time of an actual 'book'--that doesn't work over three
years--and is now handled on edit/final version--and plays directly to family
structure of Gehrs--Pop Gehr's marriage habits/history--briefly--Billy's mother
left long ago, could not handle pace/intention/Gehriverse, Maria is Michael's
(Billy's father/The Deputy)
sister by another mother, Pop Gehr is father of both obv.
--Billy was too mature/odd to be anybody's 'son', Maria and Billy are both evolving
at same time/same pace through Gehriverse, Maria genetic 'label' is 'aunt' but her actual
role in Billy's life is 'sister'--this is handled on edit in talk with Lou, because
Lou brings it up on the dock when Billy is on Massacre/Cantina trip.
Very good eye, trapshooter.
GENERAL NOTE: I've cut several hundred pages to get this down to....150,000 words.
Had to be done.  Should be able to keep some and use later in other books.  We shall
see.

Excellent!  I'm glad I read it, and I hope there is more like it.

Two things;

First,
"And as soon begun, soon it was over. "- The way this reads is strange, clunky, to me.  It's entirely possible that it's written in a style that I'm not familiar with (of which there are many), but I figured I'd bring it up in case it was supposed to be something like "as suddenly as it had begun, it was over" or something like that.

And second,
"hurt, not injured."- nothing wrong with this at all, it's just a phrase that jumped out at me.  I've heard it one other time that I can recall.  Does it come from anywhere specific?

Thank you for the update.

Awesome.
Well played.
Keep on.

--DFarm on language, pretty interesting, I'd say about ten times in the last three years somebody
here steps in an comments when I 'push to hard/to far/too strange' on a phrasing that suits--
'my version' but is simply 'dissonant' which means in this case too fucking weird.  I will
review your comment on edit, because I can also 'hear it the way you hear it' and--doesn't sound good.
One thing I've mentioned before--the 'elongated'/structured down the page/as opposed to across
is a very specific attempt to 'stretch' the reading eye/mind across an interval of extended time--
because so much of this story/language will be unfamiliar to most readers--and many details
are very important.  The 'stretched'/beat/beat/choppiness is going to bug the shit out of lots
of people.  On injured/hurt--pretty common phrase in sports/etc., a searchable phrase, many
common uses, my guess is that you have seen it in many places.  A question an orthopoedist
is very likely to ask a regular patient, for instance.
And--  There will be at least a few more updates while I FFF around with logistical BS.

--PFfunk good to see you and understood always another day/hour/minute but....real close.
And I want this done more than anyone here.  Need to step back for awhile.  Just not yet.

I meant in the story, not why the writer chose it.  A name like that comes with a story, I was obtusely pointing out I was looking forward to that story.

Sorry DC, trying to slip a atta boy to the writer in  my edited post.

an hour and a half later...

Sweet project!

Are you planning on forging the bevels completely, or just to get the tip shaped the way you want and then finishing them up on the grinder?

I've never forged a blade, I've only done a couple by stock removal. It interests me greatly, but I have too many other hobbies to be able to set up a forge.  "Someday" is what I always tell myself.

--StimpstonJ I get it  my mistake yes Pilar has a story--insight into Tim Bassinger--structurally
she would be part of Gehr/allies saying 'enough is enough'--

--zoe17 thank you more very very soon, 'reveal' from Sylvia's point of view, also Tim Bassinger--
another layer--

StimpsonJ THAT IS FREAKING AWESOME--rasp knife!!!!  Forged and how tempered etc. can you show
some steps in process? Rough forging?  Then tip/edge?  Any way to put a Musso tip to spine 'arc'?

--DFarm a regular duty now to nag StimpsonJ for progress...reveals.