Scarborough heard the sound of snowmobile engines roaring down the street, cutting through the whistling wind and pounding snow and rain. They seemed louder than helicopters or tanks, vehicles Scarborough knew well from his time in the Secession Wars. He pulled out his autorevolvers and checked them.

“Going to be trouble, Ranger?” Chernobyl Chuck asked.

“Maybe,” Scarborough said simply. He came to his feet and stood next to the closed door. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Hey, Sherriff, sir!” a wild voice shouted above the gathering blizzard. “Why don’t you come out here and greet your people? Come on, out! If you ain’t scared, that is!”

Scarborough walked through the doors and stepped out in the snow. The winds flapped his coat around him and snow and rain pelted on his hat brim. He ignored the elements and stared at the snowmobiles and their snarling riders that filled the street. In front of them was a grotesque cigar-smoking man that must be Crazy Earl.

“You look familiar!” Crazy Earl shouted. “I know you, sir?”

Scarborough shrugged. “Maybe. You folks got a grievance?”

Crazy Earl puffed on his cigar for a while and then his face lit up. “New Orleans! You were there fighting for the Federals, weren’t you! Part of the Regulars, I recall. We were the irregulars, remember?”

“I remember.” Scarborough could hear the flames and shrieks of New Orleans echo in his ears. He remembered Crazy Earl, no sideburns or cigar then, and his psychotic mercenary ilk, riding into the city and enjoying the spoils of their victory. His lip quivered.

“Well, I got a lot of respect for a solider-man. Tell you what, Mr. Sherriff. You hand over that damn Greenie brat you got in there, my boys and I will move on like this never happened? How’s that sound?”

Scarborough pulled open his jacket, revealing his gun belt and the two stubby autorevolvers.

“Oh, I see how it is.” Crazy Earl wore a single gunbelt with a machine pistol in the holster. He grabbed the handle. “Well, let’s see how fast you are, Mr. Sherriff.”

They drew. Earl’s hand moved up, grasping the machine pistol. He was already squeezing on the trigger, a twisted smile on his face as the first shot kicked up snow at Scarborough’s feet. Then he noticed something else: Scarborough’s autorevolver was leveled, smoke and fire already around the barrel.

Scarborough was like spring-loaded lightning. He drew and fired before Crazy Earl could even get his pistol to his waist. A bullet punched through Earl’s chest, and Scarborough fired once more and knocked Earl to the ground.

“Ah hell,” Crazy Earl whispered. “I remember. You were the hero of New Orleans. That one.”

“Yeah. That one.” Scarborough walked over to Crazy Earl, brushing past his soldiers. “And I ain’t a sheriff. I’m an Alaskan Ranger.” He pointed his autorevolver at Crazy Earl’s head and pulled the trigger. Then he whirled around, his second pistol already in his hands. He knew what was coming next.

“He killed Earl!” one of the mercs cried. “Shoot him full of holes!” Assault rifles were brought up the shoulder, machetes were drawn, and snowmobile engines roared in anticipation of the slaughter. But then the bullets were flying, and Scarborough stood untouched as mercs went down before him. The autorevolvers spat out bullets at a tremendous rate, blasting soldiers off of their snowmobiles and sending them to their deaths on the icy ground.

Scarborough leapt backwards, falling on his back and gritting his teeth as automatic fire blared around him, kicking up snow and dirt, but not hitting him. He leveled his autorevolvers and fired again, killing those who would do the same to him. Parkas were torn apart by his bullets and the spilt blood pooled and froze.

The blizzard was doing its worst now, and Scarborough came to his feet as winds and snow whipped around him. His autorevolvers were still out and firing, killing Crazy Earl’s boys as they struggled to run away.

“Run him down!” the cry came from the center of the street, and a single snowmobile came zooming towards Scarborough. The vehicle had a large spike projecting from the front, and one of its riders wielded a machete while the other blazed away on a mounted heavy machine gun. Bullets tore around Scarborough, one of them knocking his hat off as the snowmobile approached.

Calmly, Scarborough flipped his revolvers to the side, expelling the spent rounds. He slammed in six fresh bullets into each pistol and then leveled them at the snowmobile. As it drew closer, the Alaskan Ranger began to fire. The first shot knocked the second rider off of the vehicle, a bloody hole in his forehead. The second shots tore into the front of the snowmobile and it wasn’t long before one hit the gas tank.

The snowmobile exploded, the driver burned alive as the flaming vehicle careened down the street. Scarborough did not move as the snowmobile approached and finally it came to rest right in front of him. Scarborough holstered his guns and walked back inside his office, careful to close the door after him.

Chernobyl Chuck stared at him, eyes wide. His hands clasped the bars tensely, and he had been watching the whole gunfight from outside of his window. “Jesus H. Christ!” Chuck shouted. “You insane!”

“Maybe.”

“That was…that was amazing! Those bastards came at you with everything, and you stood calm as could be and blew them all away like that!” Chernobyl Chuck snapped his fingers. “Where you learn to fight like that?”

Scarborough shrugged. “You heard about the Secession Wars?”

“Yes. I was little boy in St. Petersburg making Grand Theft Auto at time.”

“Yeah. Well, I fought in some of the bigger battles. You had to learn fast to survive. And I thrived.” Scarborough turned to the cot and noticed that Trotsky Greenleaf was awake. The boy was staring with wide eyes at Scarborough.

“You okay, son?” The Alaskan Ranger asked.

“I’m fine, thank you. Those were gunshots outside, right?”

“That they were.” Scarborough pulled his autorevolvers out and set them on the desk. He began to clean and reload them. “It was Crazy Earl and his boys came to claim you.”

“Crazy Earl?”

“The ones that killed your folks. Don’t worry though. He’s dead, and I killed most of the rest.”

Trotsky gulped. “Just killed them? Shot them all?”

“I did.”

Strangely, Trotsky didn’t look grateful. “There must be a better way.”

Scarborough looked back and noticed tears in the boy’s eyes. He sighed deeply. “I wish there was, son, I wish there was. But killing is the only thing gonna keep you alive and there’s liable to be more of it. And keeping you safe is the only thing I got to prove to myself I’m worth more than the cold air I breathe.”

Trotsky stared at Scarborough and noticed the haunted look in his eye. “Well, thank you then. I’m sorry to be a burden to you, Comrade, I mean officer. And I’m sorry I call you oppressor earlier.”

Scarborough smiled. “Quite all right. Now you lie back and rest. Things are only gonna get worse.”

Randall Cramer watched the battle unfold from his hotel room. He shook his head and turned away from the window as Scarborough walked back into his office and slammed the door. He should have known it would take more than a pack of drunks idiots to kill off the Alaskan Ranger.

Still, all was not lost. A knock on his door told him that Soapy had arrived. Cramer opened the door and stepped back into his room. He pulled a bottle of fine brandy off of the shelf and offered it to his guests. They both plopped down in opposite chairs and stared at each other.

Soapy was a tall, thin man with a thick black beard, and dressed in a fine Victorian waistcoat and dark suit. He wore a broad brimmed hat and sipped his brandy slowly, savoring the taste. Two men stood behind him, identically dressed except for their gun belts, members of his Soap Mob.

“So, Cramer.” Soapy crossed his fingers. “I guess this is all about the hullabaloo round the Alaskan Ranger’s station.”

“As ever, your observations are astute. There is a boy in there that Islington Corp needs dead, and the Ranger seems keen to keep him safe. He just killed fifteen men to that end. I counted.”

“Ah, Scarborough. He’s a strange one.” The Soap Mob was the biggest criminal organization in Skagway. A needle of heroin wasn’t injected nor a poker game played that the Soap Mob didn’t have some hand in. Soapy knew about the local law enforcement, having bought off the sheriff and all other necessary officials. “He doesn’t take bribes, no matter how large, nor listen to threats. But he never goes out of his way to go after us either, unless he needs to fill up his arrest quota.”

“Not a hero then.”

“Nope. He does what he needs to get by and not an ounce more, while his keeping his nose clean.” Soapy shrugged. “But maybe I don’t have him figured out so well after all.”

“I was looking at his war record. He was in the Federal Army during the Rape of New Orleans. Heavily decorated, even got the Medal of Honor and had his own squad. Then, just after New Orleans, he deserts. Popped up here years later and signed on with the Rangers.” Cramer shook his head. “Well, I guess you know what has to be done.”

Soapy grinned. “Cramer, the Soap Mob has got over five hundred loyal members, all of whom owe me big favors. Before this blizzard is through, you can bet that I’ll have that Ranger’s office burned to the ground and that boy pissing his pants in front of you.” Soapy paused. “Supposing you got the pay I need.”

Dutifully, Cramer pulled a paper envelope out his coat and handed it to Soapy. The mob boss flipped through the notes and then came to his feet, satisfied. “Cramer, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

“Same here,” Cramer agreed.

“So, Officer Scarborough, I have to ask.” Chernobyl Chuck stuck out between the bars of his cell and stared at Scarborough. The Alaskan Ranger had several rifles, automatic, bolt-action, and a few spreaders, resting on his desk. He loaded and checked them all. Chuck continued. “Why you so concerned with little People’s Republic there?”

He pointed to Trotsky Greenleaf. The boy was sound asleep, wrapped up in his warm cot and snoozing peacefully. Scarborough had gently removed the boy’s glasses and placed them on the table next to him.

“I mean, most folk would save little child, but you go way over top.” Chuck grinned. “And I don’t think he’s that grateful.”

“He’s as grateful as can be,” Scarborough said. “For a Greenie, a cop is the biggest enemy out there. And here he is, apologizing to one, thanking one, eating meat and sleeping in my bed. Every teaching he’s ever heard goes against that.” Scarborough smiled at Trotsky. “He’s a nice little guy, though.”

“But still, you go and kill fifteen men for child you just met. Don’t that sound a little odd?”

Scarborough thought for a few seconds. “You hear what Crazy Earl said, about seeing me during the Secession Wars?”

“Yes?”

“Well, he was right. I was there. I led a squad of men into the city, helped make the Bonnie Blue bastards pay for fighting back. It was street fighting, the worst kind. Car bombs going off on every corner, snipers in all the buildings, little kids shooting at us with squirrel guns.” Scarborough stared at his feet. “But we won. We went house by house, block by block, and finally the whole city was ours. I lost good men in that battle, but it all seemed worthwhile. We had to show the South the value of the country, let them know they couldn’t just leave.”

“You are Federal patriot? But now you serve Alaska, first state to secede after oil crises.”

“Yeah, well, what happened after we won told me that the Federals were just a pack of lying scumbags, just like anyone else on this damn world.”

“What was that?”

“Irregulars came by. There were locals on our side, racist, cousin-marrying, good ol’ boys.” Scarborough spat on the ground. “A couple of them wanted to go into the New Orleans after we had finished clearing out the insurgents. They were riding on pick-up trucks with guns in the back, beer cans in their hands, going to have a grand old time killing the gays and the blacks, and anyone else they could find.” The Alaskan Ranger turned back to his guns. “I thought it was just a routine patrol. I waved them in. I didn’t even notice the gunfire until radio reports started coming in.”

Chernobyl Chuck stepped away from the bars and looked at the floor. “I’m very sorry, Officer. So much bad happens in wartime.”

Scarborough’s memories did not fade. “We rode through afterwards. The massacre was still going on, but we had orders not to stop it. Every bad thing in the world was in that city. We passed one neighborhood, and the irregulars had taken all the children, and they put them in down in front of their parents and they-“ Scarborough stopped. “Well, after that, I left the force and wandered the country. What I saw then, in the Midwest, in California, it was all bad. I finally ended up here and I needed to eat and didn’t want a job looking for oil, so I signed on with the Rangers.”

There was a pause as the two men regarded each other. “You know, I handle a gun pretty well,” Chernobyl Chuck suggested. “I’d fight on your side, if you like.”

“No.” Scarborough picked up one of his rifles and slung it over his back, and then added a second gun. He picked up a space age-looking automatic with a snub nose and an underslung grenade launcher.

“OCIW. I forgot this was in here. It’ll do nicely.” It was just then that the windows of his office shattered and gunfire tore into the building.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Chuck ducked and threw himself on the floor and bullets whizzed by him and thudded into the wood. Scarborough calmly walked to the shattered window and stared outside. He spotted about a dozen figures moving through the blizzard, all dressed in brown Victorian suits under their jackets, and all armed.

“Soap Mob,” Scarborough muttered. “I should have known.” He brought the OCIW to his shoulder, gazed through the lime-green scope mounted on the top, and then squeezed the gun’s second trigger. A small rocket flew from the underslung launcher, crashed into the snow, and caught three men in its blast. Body parts were thrown backward and lost in the blizzard.

“Trotsky? Are you awake?” Scarborough asked.

The young communard was awake, his glasses on his nose and was sitting on the edge of his cot and clutching his wounded arm in fear. “What’s going on, Comrade?”

“Bad men outside. Soap Mob.” Chuck explained.

“Get under the cot and stay there,” Scarborough commanded, and Trotsky Greenleaf hastenedd to obey. He fell off the bed and crawled under it, cringing as more bullets thudded into the floorboards and wall around him. “Stay calm!” Scarborough assured him. “I’m taking the fight to them!”

He went to the shattered window and fired several more rockets, then peppered the Soap Mob with machine gun fire from the OCIW’s upper barrel. Lead poured into the front of the office, but the blizzard ruined their visibility, something the OCIW’s thermal scope easily avoided. Soon Scarborough had driven them back and he kicked open the door, dropped to his knees and let out another long burst of lead. Battle fury was consuming him, just like in New Orleans, Charleston, Dallas, Montpelier, Los Angeles, and a thousand other battles during the war of secession. He saw nothing but the white of snow, the gray of gunmetal and the red of blood.

Trotsky lay crouched under the cot, trying to calm himself. A hero was defending him and he had nothing to fear, but still he shivered. “No Gods, No Masters,” he whispered, repeating the mantra of the Eco Commune to calm himself. “No Gods, No Masters.”

An explosion sounded nearby, and it wasn’t one of Scarborough’s rockets. Trotsky opened his eyes and turned around to see a small puddle of toilet water spreading across the floor. He leaned out from under the cot to look at the bathroom and saw a great charred hole where the toilet had been. Men in brown suits were crawling out of it, the first a burly man wielding a sawed-off shotgun with one hand.

He spotted Trotsky and moved towards the boy. “I got the kid!” he shouted to his friends. “Soapy wants him alive.”

Trotsky tried to duck back under the cot, but the burly Soap mobsman had already grabbed his good arm and hauled him to his feet. “Come along, Greenie,” he ordered, punching Trotsky hard in the chest. “We’ve got a nice grave all picked out for you.”

“Capitalist scum!” Trotsky shouted, trying to free himself. He was smacked on the face, and his glasses fell to the floor.

“Don’t sass me, Greenie!” the Soap thug raised his again, but found it stopped. Chernobyl Chuck had reached out through the bars of his cell and grabbed onto the arm. Chuck pulled and forced the burly man to the bars, then rammed his head into the steel again and again. Soon the mobster slid to the floor and Chuck grabbed his fallen sawed-off and pointed it at the incoming Soap mobsters.

“Get back to toilet!” he shouted. They lowered their weapons at him, so Chuck fired the shotgun, both barrels at once. Bodies toppled backwards, one fell through the ruined toilet and splashed into the sewer below.

Scarborough walked back inside, firing as he went. He looked around as saw Trotsky, the dead Soap Mob thugs, and then Chernobyl Chuck with the sawed-off shotgun. He pointed his gun and Chuck.

“Drop it.”

“It’s unloaded, officer. You can keep it.” Chuck let it fall to the ground and leaned against the wall.

“Comrade Chuck saved me!” Trotsky exclaimed. “The toilet blew up, and then, these men came in, and one grabbed me and beat me, and then Chuck stopped him and then he shot and killed the others! He saved me!”

“You did?” Scarborough asked, disbelieving. “When you could have pointed to where I was and have them shoot me in the back in return for your freedom?”

Chuck grinned. “I didn’t have time to think it through.”

Scarborough slammed his fist down on the switch on his desk and the bars swung open. He tossed Chuck a shotgun, a silver jackhammer automatic, and the Russian outlaw caught it with one hand. “Keep them out of the street. I’ll fix the toilet problem. Trotsky, get an icepack from the first aid kit on the wall and then get back under the cot.”

“Okay, Comrade Scarborough,” Trotsky agreed. He grabbed the first aid kit, pulled out the icepack, and then crawled back under the cot and covered his eyes and ears.

“So, I am deputy now?” Chuck asked, stepping to the front of the office and letting out a barrage of shotgun rounds into the street. The Soap Mob was driven back into the blizzard, one unlucky fellow torn in half by the heavy shotgun blast.

“I’m an Alaskan Ranger, not a sheriff. I can’t deputize anybody.” Scarborough fired down into the ruins of the toilet and then pulled a thin grenade off of the shelf. He pulled the pin and tossed the small cylinder in the open hole. A few seconds later the ground shook, and a curtain of bright white flame burned on the sewer floor, frying a few Soap Mobsters that didn’t retreat fast enough.

“So then, what am I?’ Chuck slammed a new drum magazine into the jackhammer.

Scarborough stepped away from the toilet and stood next to Chernobyl Chuck. The two men stood side by side, pouring fire into the street. The Soap Mob thugs tried to charge, but they were cut down by the withering fire.

“You’re a Russian cowboy, Chernobyl.”

“Yee-haw!” Chuck said, shouting over the gunfire and the raging snowstorm.

Soapy and Randall Cramer watched the carnage from the safety and comfort of Cramer’s heated hotel room. It was difficult to make out what was going on in the swirling mass of snow, but one thing was clear-Scarborough was putting up more of a fight than Cramer had credited him with. The problem solver was becoming frustrated. He cracked his knuckles and gritted his teeth.

“He’s not dead, Soapy,” Cramer muttered darkly.

“He will be.” Soapy answered confidently. “I’m just thinking some tougher ordinance will be required.” He stroked his beard, and pulled out a slim cell phone from his pocket. “Is it absolutely required that the boy be here, in front of you, alive, Cramer?”

“Not particularly. Seeing his corpse would be enough for me.”

“We’re going to burn that office to the ground and blow up the ashes. There won’t be a goddamn corpse.” Soapy grinned. “That okay with you?”

“Do it.” Randall sat back down in his armchair. “And tell me, how long do you think this blizzard is going to last?”

“Couple more hours maybe before the worst of it is over. Should be able to get air travel going pretty fast.”

Cramer nodded. He pulled out his own cell phone and then engaged a speed dial. Islington Corp was top priority on his cell phone, as it was in his life. A secretary answered him.

“This is Cramer. Get me Commander Drake and his platoon on standby. We might need them before the day is out.”

Chernobyl Chuck and Officer Scarborough fired into the snow until they realized that there was nothing there to shoot at. They reloaded and then held their guns at their sides. Chuck grinned wildly.

“We won! Tell me, Scarborough, have you vodka for victory drink?”

“I got some whiskey.” Scarborough pulled a bottle out of his desk and opened it. He took a slug from it and then passed it to Chuck, who took an even deeper gulp.

“Hey, People’s Republic!” Chuck held the bottle in front of the bed. “I think it safe to come out now. You want a drink of this?”

“Thank you,” Trotsky Greenleaf agreed, taking the bottle. He took a sip and then coughed and spat it out. “It tastes awful! Do capitalist polluters like drinking really bad medicine?”

“You’d be surprised.” Scarborough was still staring at the blizzard. The snow seemed to be dying down now, and the worst of it was over. Back-up could come, if the bastards in Anchorage developed spines, but the lack of a blizzard gave the Soap Mob all the clear visibility they needed.

Scarborough’s thoughts were interrupted as a small green grenade crashed through what was left of the window and landed on the floor. Everyone in the office stared at the tiny sphere for a few seconds before it exploded in a blast of fire. Scarborough was hurled backwards, and the entire front of the ranger’s station was torn off.

Before the smoke even cleared, gunfire raked the office. Chuck stepped in front of Trotsky and pushed the boy to cover before he grunted and collapsed, blood oozing from a wound on his shoulder. Scarborough came to his feet with bleary eyes and stared across the open street. The Soap Mobsters were running forward.

“Cowardly bastard scum!” Scarborough shouted. He grabbed two short MP7 submachine guns off of the desk and fired at them, shredding the charging Soap Mob thugs with waves of lead. As soon as they clicked empty, Scarborough tossed the guns to the ground and ran to Chernobyl Chuck’s side. The Russian slowly stood up, grasping his wound. Trotsky grabbed the first aid off the wall, and quickly pulled a bandage out. The boy’s hands shook with nervousness and fear, but he still covered the wound and pulled the bandage taut.

“You might have saved my life, Pride of the Working Class,” Chuck said, ruffling Trotsky’s curly hair. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Comrade Chuck.” Trotsky turned to Scarborough, who was grabbing food supplies, ammunition and other provisions and throwing them all to his belt. “What do we do now, Comrade Scarborough?”

“Get out of here. The mammoth is in the back. We’ll take our chances in the snow.” He tossed a thick coat to Trotsky. “Put this on and stay warm. Chernobyl, grab as much guns and ammo as you can hold.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Chuck agreed. Trotsky slipped into the coat. It was much too large and the empty sleeves hung in front of him, but it was much warmer than Trotsky’s threadbare suit and the boy was grateful for it. He pulled his newsboy cap over his ears and got ready.

“I’ve never seen a mammoth before,” he told Scarborough as the Alaskan Ranger dug through his desk. “Um, what are you looking for?”

“This.” Scarborough opened a bottom drawer and withdrew a steel tomahawk with an American flag etched on a handle, and a small medal star within a wreath, each point ending in a spade. He handed the medal to Trotsky. “You can keep this if you want.”

“Wow. Some kind of medal, isn’t it?” Trotsky accepted it reverently. “My class earned one for cleaning up the instruction room after some of the younger kids made a mess. What did you do to earn this one?”

“Killing people,” Scarborough muttered. “Now come on, we better get moving.” Even as he spoke, another grenade crashed in and landed on the floor. This time, Scarborough was ready. He kicked it back with one foot, and it exploded somewhere in the snow covered street. “Chernobyl, you ready to go?”

“Officer, this much better than six-gun!” Chernobyl Chuck was holding a large rocket launcher on his back, a sophisticated missile-hurler with a small scope. “Can I keep it?”

“Yeah. It might come in handy. Now let’s get the hell out of here.” They walked through the ruins of the ranger’s office, slipping out through the back door. A small yard was outside, and sleeping in a corner, a couple of feet of snow covering it, slept the wooly mammoth.

“Wow!” Trotsky whispered as he stared at the sleeping mammoth. “My instructor said that it was wrong for the bourgeoisie to try and improve on nature, but this is amazing.” He walked over to the mammoth and touched its head. The great furry beast snorted and stirred. “Does he have a name?”

“Not really. I call him mammoth, mostly.” Scarborough clapped his hands and the mammoth came to his feet. Chuck and Scarborough loaded their supplies into the large saddlebags of the elephant, and then Scarborough picked up Trotsky and helped him clamber onto the back.

“Can I name him?” Trotsky asked as he grabbed onto the mammoth’s furry sides and held fast. He had never ridden any animal before, and the mammoth’s back, slick with snow and bristling with thick fur, was difficult to hold onto.

“I don’t see why not.” Scarborough climbed onto the mammoth’s back and sat beside his head. Chuck climbed up on the back, so that Trotsky was safely between them.

“How about Nestor Makhno,” Trotsky suggested. “Is that a good name?”

Chernobyl Chuck and Scarborough exchanged a glance. “That’s a fine name,” Scaborough agreed. “Now, Trotsky, there should be a shiny metal covering near your foot. That’s Kevlar. Wrap yourself in it and stay low.”

“But aren’t we running away?” Trotsky asked, pulling up the Kevlar and covering himself in it.

“Yeah.” Scarborough gave his feet a good twist, and the mammoth, newly christened Nestor Makhno, went charging through the ruins of the ranger’s station. Scarborough watched as the heavy padded feet of the mammoth smashed through the wood, overturning chairs and desks. The mammoth pounded onto the snowy street and then reared up, trumpeting loudly before slamming its feet down on the ground.

Soapy stood in front of one of his saloons, a dozen of his thugs around him. He stared at the mammoth and nodded. “That’s one big elephant. Put enough lead in it to make it fall down.”

The Soap Mob charged out to do battle, but Scarborough was ready for them. He drew one of his autorevolvers and fired while sending the mammoth straight into their midst. Nestor Makhno trampled several mobsmen under his feet, crushed them with his curved tusks, and hurled one far away with his furry trunk. Chuck and Scarborough fired from the moving elephant, killing Soap Mob thugs before they could get a shot off.

Soapy held out his hand and a golden automatic pistol was placed in it by one of his subordinates. He aimed the weapon at Scarborough and closed one eyes, breathed in calmly, and then fired. Scarborough gasped in pain as a bullet cut into him, and he turned the mammoth around and charged towards Soapy’s saloon.

Soapy stood his ground. He leveled his pistol at the elephant and plugged away until the pistol clicked on empty, and then he dropped it and held out his hands for another. When none was delivered Soapy, turned around to see all of his minions running down the street as fast as they could, their boss forgotten.

Slowly, the leader of the Soap Mob turned back to stare at the elephant. It had reared up, its two feet held in the air. Soapy gulped.

“My God!” he cried. “Don’t-“ But then Nestor Makhno came down, crushing Soapy under his feet. The mammoth charged off, each one of its footsteps mangling Soapy’s body a little more. Scarborough urged the mammoth down a side street and careened through a narrow alley. Than they were out in the snow, open and free. They rode on into the distance.

Randall Cramer stood in the corpse strewn streets. The blizzard was finished, the last of the speeding winds and falling snow had vanished, and now a clear steel gray sky hung above Skagway. Cramer straightened his tie just as another wind rustled his hair. He looked up and spotted a sleek helicopter, a dark chrome gunship, descending onto the snow ground. The door opened, and several gun-toting men in stealth black uniforms pounded out.

They were armed with sleek submachine guns and numerous other weapons, and moved with the trained and calibrated nature of killers. Their faces were all obscured by gas-masks that had been plugged into their faces, eyes replaced with dark glowing optics, mouth replaced with an oxygen mask and so on. The affect was that one was staring at a totally inhuman creature.

Perhaps the Black Bag wasn’t human, not anymore. They were the elite soldiers of the Islington Corps, deployed when all teams failed. A small strike team such as this one could do wonders against much larger forces. Every soldier was given the best equipment, weaponry, training, and biological modifications that money could buy, and Islington’s money bought a lot.

“Cramer,” an electronic-laced voice sounded from the depths of the helicopter. The leader of the Black Back, known only as Commander Drake, stepped forward. “You need wet work.” He was a tall man, towering head and shoulders over Cramer. Gears and steel implants were visible beneath his skin and he was the only member of the Black Bag whose face was not totally covered by a black helmet. Instead, his bald head and pale skin were allowed to feel the sun, but his eyes, mouth, nose and ears were all replaced with strange metal apparatuses. At his side he wore a long-bladed black combat saber, the kind given to most soldiers during urban combat.

“Nothing escapes you commander. No doubt you received the proper briefing on the way over. Well, things have changed. Our local support is gone and now the Alaskan Ranger, the boy, and one other subject have escaped on the back of a wooly mammoth. They shouldn’t be hard to track.”

“That is so. You want them all dead?” It wasn’t much of a question.

“The boy and the prisoner, yes. But the Ranger…” Cramer stroked his chin as he thought. “I want to speak with him. I’ve been looking at his war record, and I think I can make a good argument for him to join our forces.” He grinned a little at Commander Drake. “Who knows? Maybe after the proper conditioning and modification, he’ll be fighting with you.”

“Perhaps. You will ride with us.” Commander Drake indicated the helicopter. “It will be an uncomfortable ride, but you deserve worse for summoning my men to do this small chore.”

“You haven’t met the Ranger,” Cramer said, a little insulted. “He’s a force to be reckoned with.”

Drake pulled out his saber in one smooth motion and held the blade to Cramer’s throat. The problem-solver’s breathing slowed as he felt the cold steel micrometers away from his exposed neck. “We have just returned from battling Oil Pirates off the coast of Texas. They raided Islington Corp derricks, so we were deployed to make them pay. With this blade I personally slew forty pirates in that many seconds. I have over two-thousand confirmed kills, and I could easily add one more to my number by simply twisting my wrist.”

“Y-you wouldn’t dare!” Cramer stammered.

“Don’t test me, Cramer.” Drake stepped back and sheathed his sword. “Now let’s get this over with.”

Trotsky Greenleaf, Scarborough and Chernobyl Chuck were on a large expanse of snowy fields. Nestor Makhno the mammoth ran forward at a good clip, and Scarborough pulled the Kevlar sheet off of Trotsky and helped the boy sit up on the bucking mammoth’s back.

Trotsky stared at the rapidly passing scenery, amazed. “Look at how fast we’re going!” he cried. “Nestor Makhno is a great runner!” He looked at Scarborough and noticed dried blood in the Alaskan Ranger’s upper chest. “Comrade! You’re hurt!”

“I’ll be okay,” Scarborough assured the boy. “Just a scratch and I’ll get patched up fast.”

“Who will do the patching?” Chernobyl Chuck asked. “And come to think of it, where are we going?”

“Coastal village I know. Aleuts. They’re good friends of mine. They’re a bunch of pirates, raiding oil ships and such, and I ignored it and left them in peace.”

“Why’d you do that?” Chuck wondered.

“They’re dirt poor, Chernobyl. Didn’t seem right to cut off their only livelihood. Besides, the chief took me in and helped me when I was down on my luck. I reckon he’ll do it again.”

“Um, Comrade Scarborough?” Trotsky asked, his voice anxious. “What’s that behind us? That’s a helicopter, right?”

Scarborough and Chernobyl Chuck turned around. Just as Trotsky had said, a low flying helicopter was speedily approaching them. A minigun projected from the front of the aircraft, and a rocket-pod bulged out of each side. Scarborough whispered a curse and Chuck swore in Russian. Scarborough stopped the mammoth and slid off. He roughly bandaged the wound as he watched the helicopter.

“Shouldn’t we run?” Chuck asked.

“No use. We stay here and fight. Trotsky, get under the Kevlar and stay safe, okay?”

“Yes, comrade.” Trotsky buried himself in the Kevlar sheet and made himself as small as he could.

“Chernobyl? Get the rocket launcher ready.” The Russian hasted to obey.

They watched the helicopter touch down and then several figures, a whole military squad, came out of it. They approached on foot, a white flag before them, while the helicopter hovered in the air and waited. Scarborough let the window blow open his duster, revealing his twin autorevolvers, and the tomahawk stuck in his belt. Soon, the squad stood in front of them.

They were a bunch of stealth black commandos, the Black Bag of Islington Corp. Scarborough’s eyes narrowed as he saw the leader of the Black Bag, a tall imposing man with facial augmentations, and a middle-aged fellow with a paunch and shoulders hunched against the cold stepped forward.

“Officer Scarborough,” the man in the suit stepped forward and held out his hand. “Randall Cramer. Islington Corp.” Scarborough didn’t take it.

“What do you want?”

“There’s been a big misunderstanding, and no one is too blame. I think you know what we want. Hand over the boy and I’ll make sure you are richly rewarded.” Scarborough didn’t reply, and then Cramer tried a different tactic. “I know about New Orleans. You feel you have something to prove, so you go on this ridiculous, quixotic quest to save the life of a worthless Greenie.” Cramer clasped his hands. “Well, that’s not your nature and you know it. You’re a soldier, Scarborough, and you live by the bullet. Saving lives just isn’t your role in life. Cooperate, and I’ll make sure you can do what your good at and get paid well for it.”

Scarborough slugged him, hard. The blow knocked Cramer to the ground and we stood up he was yelping with anger. “Kill them!” he shouted, running back behind Commander Drake. “He’s wasted his chance! Kill them!”

The Black Bag soldiers stepped forward, their weapons ready, but they were not prepared for how fast Scarborough drew. His autorevolvers were up his hands and blazing away, the rapid firing bullets smashing through combat helmets and tearing through body armor. A few of the Black Bag managed to get shots off before they all collapsed in the snow. Drake and Cramer stood alone.

Drake whispered something into his earpiece, and then the helicopter gunship came in low over them all, the minigun already beginning to spin. It came zooming towards the mammoth like a diving bird of prey, and bullets big enough to shred a mammoth in seconds thumped into the snow.

“The rocket launcher!” Scarborough shouted. Chernobyl Chuck brought the weapon up to his shoulder. He looked through the scope, found his target in a second and squeezed the trigger. A missiles zoomed out of the tube and crashed right into the cockpit of the helicopter. The gunship careened wildly through the air, smoke and fire pouring out of the front and then it came crashing down into the snow, exploding in a great pillar of orange flame and jet black smoke. Scarborough shielded his face with his hands and then stared at the flaming wreck right in front of him.

“Good shooting, partner!” he yelled to Chuck, who smiled back.

But then something came walking out of the wreckage. It was Commander Drake, his saber drawn. He methodically walked towards Scarborough, his blade held high. Scarborough leveled both of his pistols and squeezed the triggers, but the autorevolvers clicked empty. Drake was close by now, the flames of the crashed helicopter reflected on his black optic implants. Scarborough finally holstered the autorevolvers and brought up his tomahawk just as the saber came hacking down.

Steel hit steel as the two weapons met, and Scarborough fell to his knees as Drake pushed downward, then the Alaskan Ranger jumped to the side, Drake’s sword nearly grazing his right side as he dived into the snow. He came up in a crouched position, holding his tomahawk loosely in one hand.

“A little axe,” Drake taunted. “Good for chopping wood and not much else. I was Special Ops during the War. Were you Federal Infantry? I hated the grunts. Always messing things up.”

“The feeling’s mutual.” Scarborough shifted the tomahawk to his left hand and then lashed out with his right. He slugged Drake in the chest and then raised the tomahawk for a killing blow. Drake moved impossibly fast, slashed out with his sword and driving Scarborough back. Blood trickled down a shallow wound on Scarborough’s cheek. Drake elbowed Scarborough in the chest and then raised his sword high. Scarborough’s arm ached, his face burned, and he knew he would never get his tomahawk up in time.

“Don’t hurt him! He’s a good comrade!” Trotsky, who had jumped off of the mammoth’s back and entered the snow, ran towards Drake. He threw himself into the Black Bag Commander, knocking him aside and giving Scarborough time to come to his feet. Drake brought his blade down to hack Trotsky apart, but then Scarborough swung his tomahawk and connected the black steel edge with Drake’s face. He pushed the tomahawk in deep, breaking through the optics and splitting skull.

Drake’s sword fell to the ground and he soon joined it. Scarborough stood up and looked Trotsky. “I’m much obliged,” he said.

“You’re welcome, Officer Scarborough.”

Randall Cramer walked out from behind the helicopter wreck. He stared at Drake’s corpse, and then looked at Scarborough and Trotsky. Scarborough slid another round into one of his autorevolvers and pointed the gun at Cramer.

“W-what are you going to do?” Cramer asked, raising his hands.

“We’re gonna ride off into the sunset to a place where you can’t touch us. And this boy’s gonna tell his story and the world’s gonna know the truth. You’re going to walk back to Skagway and tell your superiors to get ready for hell.”

With that, Scarborough and Trotsky walked back to the mammoth. The Alaskan Ranger helped the young communard up on the mammoth, Chernobyl Chuck steadied him, and then Scarborough gave his mammoth a kick and they rode off into the falling snow.

-The End-