The One Thousand: Book Two: Team of Seven: The One Thousand, #2

By John Walters

It is the late 1960s... 

In this sequel to "The One Thousand" a team composed of humans and benevolent aliens hunt for murderous, alien-possessed convicts with enhanced powers who have escaped from prison.  They discover that this fellowship of psychopaths is preparing an elaborate party for hippies and other street people in a remote mansion built to simulate a Medieval castle, and that they are planning to slaughter everyone who attends.  Now the seven are faced with the task of locating the mansion and stopping the killers...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Astaria Books
• Release date: Dec 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781536520767

John Walters

John Walters recently returned to the United States after thirty-five years abroad. He lives in Seattle, Washington. He attended the 1973 Clarion West science fiction writing workshop and is a member of Science Fiction Writers of America. He writes mainstream fiction, science fiction and fantasy, and memoirs of his wanderings around the world.

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Contents

I  In Which Will Has an Encounter on the Coast Road

II  In Which Will and Hailey Decide to Get It On

III  In Which Jesse Loses His Virginity

IV  In Which Hailey Goes Looking for Trouble

V  In Which Our Heroes Receive Some Unusual Visitors

VI  In Which a Torturer Recruits Hailey

VII  In Which the Seven Prepare for Battle

VIII  In Which the Seven Invade the Enemy Citadel

IX  In Which  Progress is Assessed

I

In Which Will Has an Encounter on the Coast Road

Theodore Stromberg didn't have much to do with the planning of the big party, so rather than sit around swilling beer while the others discussed logistics he decided to go out and do some partying himself.  After receiving permission, of course.  He wouldn't think of circumventing authority.  But he kept hearing a voice in his head and the voice reminded him of the sweet smell and taste of blood.  He enjoyed envisioning himself as a predator, and he had staked out some prime, low-risk territory:  Highway 1, the road that ran along the coast between San Francisco and Los Angeles.  Stromberg couldn't have cared less about the view, magnificent though it was; what he appreciated was that it was popular with hitchhikers, naive youngsters looking for drugs and sex and cheap thrills, following the counter-cultural post-Summer of Love exodus to the land of flower power.  He didn't give a damn about that either.  He thought the hippies were a bunch of pussies:  easy victims ripe for the slaughter.  He'd gone for groups of two or three before but what he preferred was a one-on-one encounter.  He'd chat for a while, gain their trust, make an excuse to pull over, and then shoot or stab or strangle them.  He used different tactics just for variety.  The last one, just a few nights ago, a small, slim, scantily-clad young woman with dark hair who was obviously stoned, he had dispatched easily with a jagged rock.  Once he had made the kill, he would bury the corpse in some isolated location.  Most of the kids were runaways; their parents had no idea where they were and they wouldn't have a chance of finding them.

Anyway, after the big party it wouldn't matter.

On this particular evening, the sun low over the deep blue Pacific to his right, Stromberg scanned the roadside as he wondered how he would accomplish the murder.  He had a pistol under the driver's seat, a long hunting knife in a sheath strapped to his left hip, another knife strapped to his right calf under his flared jeans, and some thin strong wire usually used for snares in his left pocket.  In addition, it had occurred to him that he could make creative use of the tire iron in the trunk, if he could find an excuse to get to it without unduly alarming his victim.

For some reason loners weren't as prevalent as they usually were along this stretch of road; in fact, he hadn't come across any.  There'd been groups of three or four freaks hitchhiking together, but no individuals.  Stromberg was getting itchy for action.  He lit a cigarette to calm himself down.

Ah, there, up ahead.  Finally.  A single man in ragged jeans, tee-shirt, and jeans jacket with an olive-green daypack on his back.  He looked a bit more fit than those Stromberg usually went for, possibly even ex-military, but he didn't appear to be armed.  Anyway, Stromberg could handle him.  He had the strength of three or four men; he could probably tear him apart with his bare hands if he had to.

Stromberg was driving a four-speed white Dodge Charger; he rapidly braked and downshifted. Gravel ground under the tires as he pulled over just ahead of the hitchhiker, who hustled over and opened the car door.  Hi, the man said.  Thanks.

No problem.  Stromberg rammed the car into gear and sped off, raising a cloud of dust.

Nice set of wheels.

Thanks.

Where are you going?

LA.  You?

Me too.

I guess this is your lucky ride.  Relax, it's going to take a while.  Cigarette?  Stromberg proffered the pack.

Thanks.  The hitchhiker used the car's lighter to light up.  Then, after he exhaled a cloud of smoke, he said, My name's Bryan.

Ted.

You live in LA?

Nah, just visiting some buddies.  You?

Looking for work.  Things have been pretty shitty since I got back from 'Nam six months ago.

You were in 'Nam?

Yeah, but I don't like to think about it too much.  You know, all the gore and killing and so on.  You?

Stromberg let out a mirthless chuckle.  Hell, I'm too old for 'Nam.  I saw action in Korea.

Korea, wow.

That was a long time ago.

Well, what are you doing now?

Stromberg glanced over at his passenger but didn't answer.

Hey, I don't mean to pry, Bryan said.  Your business is your business.

The sun had all but reached the horizon.  Tangerine light had begun to spread across the water and the sky, and shadows had got longer.

Stromberg said, I just never know who to tell the truth to.  The fact is, I just recently got out of the slammer.

Really?

That's right.  It bothers some people.  I don't want to frighten you.

No, that's cool.  I don't care.  As a matter of fact, so have I.

Stromberg hadn't expected that.  They were all always supposed to be on the lookout for potential recruits.  This changed the nature of the game, at least temporarily.  He asked, What were you in for?

Murder.  You?

The same.

Tell me about it.

Why the hell should I?

Because I'm interested.  Who gives a damn?  It's gonna take hours to get to LA.  Might as well tell some stories.

You want stories?  I got lots of stories.

Well, one at a time.  What about the one they put you away for?

Ancient history.  All right.  Well, how do most of 'em start?

A woman.

That's right.

The sun had all but disappeared.  They drove through brilliant, shadow-strewn, rainbow-splashed terrain, hills on the left, the ocean on the right.

She was my wife, Stromberg said.  It turned out she'd been cheating on me since shortly after I'd left for the war.  When I got back I knew almost right away that something was up but I bided my time.  First I wanted to find out who she'd taken up with.  I followed her around.  It was some fucking insurance salesman, can you imagine?  I set 'em up by telling 'em I was going out of town, then I caught 'em in my bed, my own bed, the bed I shared with my wife.  He was a real pussy.  He wept and begged me to let him off, told me it was all her fault, that she had seduced him.  Real sniveling asshole.  So I shot them right there.  Her I finished off with one to the heart.  Him I did slowly, let him suffer a while.  I was so enraged I didn't plan my escape properly.  A crime of passion, that's what it was.

The sunset's colors had faded.  Headlights stabbed into blackness.

After a period of silence Stromberg said, Your turn.  A woman?

Of course.

Stromberg chuckled.

But I don't want to talk about it.

Well that ain't fair, is it?  A story for a story.  The price of the ride.

Some people are good at telling stories and some aren't.

At least tell me what you killed her with.

Guess.

Gun?

No.

Knife?

No.

Razor blade?

No.

Baseball bat?

No.

Those are the usual methods.  You must be an innovative son-of-a-bitch.  Wait a minute.  Don't tell me you beat her to death with your fists.

Bryan didn't answer.

There was a guy like that in prison just before we...  But you don't look anything like him.

Bryan remained silent.

What sort of job are you looking for, buddy?  I have some friends.  We might be able to use a guy like you.

I don't know.  I don't want to get into any more trouble.

Why the hell not?  You're on the lam, aren't you?  Just like me.  Just like my friends.  Why not cause one hell of a lot more trouble?

"If I get caught again they'll put me in a deep dark hole