The Klaus Diaries: Six Poison Geese

Naughty Boy 6 - Travis Johnson
December 30th

Some men build their empire on ambition, others on fear. Travis Johnson built his on poison, the kind that seeped into every hollow and holler, rotting the lives of the desperate and leaving a trail of shattered families and ruined dreams in its wake. Methamphetamine was his craft, and his six hidden labs scattered through the Appalachian hollers were his golden eggs. Around here, Travis was the boss. The one who started it all and the one who kept it running. He didn’t need a crown or a kingdom—just the addicts who crawled to him, desperate for the next fix. In Harlan even being a bad guy could get you resect if you were good enough at it and kept the money flowing into the hollers. Travis gave them what they needed, and they gave him everything in return.

Thirty-two years old, born and raised in these hills, Travis knew every ridge, every creek, every shadow the mountains could hide. He turned that knowledge into a fortress, a maze of trails and dead ends that even the law couldn’t navigate. He was a product of this place, shaped by its poverty and pride. But instead of rising above it, he dragged everyone deeper, twisting the soul of the land to suit his needs. Loyalty was his currency, and he bought it with meth, manipulation, and violence. Evil? No. In his mind, he was just the smartest guy in the room, playing the hand he was dealt. Sure he had been forced to take down a few guys: rivals, underlings who didn't deliver, people who got in the way... but that was business. 

The quiet out here has weight to it, pressing down like the mountains themselves, making the air feel tight. I sat in the corner booth of a small diner just inside the Harlan County line, the dossier open beside my coffee cup. The waitress, a woman with a kind smile and tired eyes, poured me a fresh cup and asked, "Here on business?"

"Just passing through," I said, keeping my voice steady, my face giving nothing away. Dressed in jeans and a red flannel shirt, I looked like any weary traveler, but the weight of what lay ahead was already settling on my shoulders.

The dossier told me everything I needed to know about Travis Johnson and his redneck army. Names jumped off the page—Billy Wilkes, Earl Pullman, Junior McCready. Men who would stand in my way. Men with blood on their hands. As I finished my coffee, I left a generous tip on the table. A small gesture for the good people in this poisoned town. People who deserved better than to live under the shadow of Travis’s empire.

Outside, the cold air bit at my face as I lit a cigar and climbed into the truck. A country song crackled on the radio as I pulled onto the winding mountain road, the distant peaks already hidden in shadows. Tonight, the reckoning would come for Travis and his men. My armor waited in the truck bed, ready for when the sun dipped below the horizon. These hills had seen men like Travis rise and fall before. Tonight, they’d see another one meet his end.

Gathering Intel

I picked up the radio as I idled in the shadow of the mountains, the sky above me turning a deep shade of twilight. The static hissed for a moment before I tuned into the elf channel, the familiar voice of Tracker Six breaking through.

"Red Leader, we’ve got eyes on the target. His operation is anchored by six labs, all active. They’re his golden geese, keeping the money flowing. Lab 1 and Lab 4 are particularly busy tonight, with supplies being hauled in and out. Wilkes and McCready are patrolling the mine office perimeter, and Pullman’s inside, likely cooking the next batch. We’ve sent you a map marking all six labs. Hitting them all simultaneously will cripple his empire, and Travis is holed up at Lab 4."

My jaw tightened as I studied the radio map sent to my display, each red dot representing another vein of poison flowing through the community. "I’ll rig explosives at each lab. Timer synced to go off at the same time. Lab 4 will be last—that’s where Travis is, and I’ll make sure the job’s finished."

"Understood, Red Leader. It’s going to be a big cleanup," Tracker Six said. "But the whole operation’s going down."

I nodded, gripping the radio tightly. "It’ll be worth it. Any signs of trouble?"

"None from law enforcement," Tracker Six replied. "Sheriff’s department is either blind or bought. The roads are clear, but the perimeter is tight. Expect resistance."

The corners of my mouth twitched, but my voice remained cold. "Understood. Keep the line open. Red Leader out."

I set the radio down, the hum of the truck’s engine filling the silence as I stared out at the fading light. The situation was clear: Travis and his crew were busy playing kingpins, confident in the safety of their fortress. I reached for the cigar resting on the dash, lighting it with a flick of my steel lighter. The warm glow reflected in my eyes as I exhaled, smoke curling into the cabin.

"Let’s see how safe they feel when the reckoning comes knocking," I muttered, shifting the truck into gear and heading deeper into the mountains.

Taking Down The Labs

I parked the truck at the edge of the first lab—an old cinder block building with boarded-up windows and graffiti scrawled across the walls. The moon cast just enough light to see, but not enough to give me away. The armor felt heavier than usual tonight. Not because of the weight—it’s never about the weight—but because of the reason I wore it. Six labs to hit, all before midnight. My fingers brushed the detonator clipped to my belt. Just in case. If I didn’t make it to the end, these bastards were still going to burn.

The first sentry barely deserved the title. He leaned against the wall of the cinder block building, his rifle a prop more than a weapon. I didn’t give him time to notice me. A quick slash, and he dropped silently into the dirt. The charge went into place just inside the building’s doorway, the timer set. One down.

The second lab—an old sawmill—was more active. Supplies were being moved in and out, with trucks idling in the gravel lot and men barking orders as they unloaded crates. I watched from the treeline, assessing their numbers. There were four men outside, rifles slung casually over their shoulders, confident no one would dare challenge them. They were wrong.

I moved quickly, stepping from the shadows with my rifle raised. The first shot cracked through the cold night air, dropping a man as he reached for his weapon. Chaos erupted as the others scrambled for cover, firing wildly into the darkness. I darted between the stacked crates, picking them off one by one. The second fell with a shot to the chest, crumpling against a truck’s wheel. The third tried to flank me but caught a bullet between the eyes for his trouble. The last man, panicked and desperate, fired blindly until his clip ran dry. I stepped into the open, my knife flashing as I closed the distance. He screamed as the blade found his throat, silencing him instantly.

The lot was still now, the bodies of Travis’s men lying scattered among the trucks and spilled supplies. Blood pooled on the gravel, steam rising in the chill of the night. I worked quickly, setting the charge against one of the sawmill’s decaying beams. Its blinking red light promised destruction, and as I slipped back into the shadows, I knew they wouldn’t be moving any more supplies tonight. Two down.

By the time I reached the third lab, the game had changed. They knew something was wrong. Junior McCready stood in the clearing, rifle aimed at the treeline, his breath fogging in the cold night air. "You think you can come into my holler and take what’s ours?" he snarled, his voice soaked in rage and stupidity.

I didn’t answer. Talking to men like Junior only wastes time. He fired a wild shot, the muzzle flash lighting his face for a split second. I darted low, weaving through the trees, my boots crunching against the frozen ground. He shouted curses into the darkness, his frustration growing with every second I stayed out of sight.

When I moved, it was fast and deliberate, emerging from the shadows to drive my shoulder into his ribs. He dropped the rifle with a grunt, and we hit the ground hard, the air exploding from his lungs. Junior recovered quickly, swinging a haymaker that caught me across the jaw. Pain flared, but I pushed through it, slamming my elbow into his temple.

The fight turned brutal, close, and messy. Junior was bigger and meaner, and he used it to his advantage, landing a blow to my ribs that made me stagger. He lunged for his rifle, but I grabbed his ankle and yanked him back, planting a boot into his spine. He screamed and thrashed, twisting with raw desperation. I barely dodged a knife he pulled from his belt, the blade flashing under the moonlight.

I didn’t give him another chance. My knife found its mark, sinking deep into his chest. He froze, his eyes wide and disbelieving as blood poured over my hands. He tried to speak, but the only sound that came out was a wet gurgle. I pushed him off, letting him collapse onto the frozen ground, his blood steaming in the cold air.

I stood there for a moment, catching my breath, the adrenaline still surging through me. Junior’s rifle lay in the dirt beside him, forgotten. The charge went into place against the wall of the lab, the timer blinking red. Three down. The night was far from over.

After parking the truck off the trail, I knew I’d have to approach the next labs on foot to stay undetected. As I grabbed my gear, the glint of a truck’s polished chrome gleamed under the moonlight about a thousand yards down the road. Great. Company.

I slipped into the woods, keeping low and moving fast. The traps started almost immediately—a spike pit covered with leaves nearly swallowed me whole. The ground gave way beneath my boot, and I had to grab the edge of a tree root to stop myself from falling. Pulling myself back up, I cursed under my breath. These weren’t amateur setups; Pullman knew his craft.

As I moved deeper into the woods, I could feel them—the hunters. Silent shadows stalking me, their movements almost imperceptible. The first arrow came out of nowhere, slicing past my shoulder and embedding itself in a tree with a dull thud. I ducked, twisting to find the source, but the darkness swallowed them. Another arrow streaked through the night, skimming the bark of a tree near my head. These weren’t idiots swinging around rusty blades; these men were trained to kill.

They were herding me, I realized, pushing me toward something. I slowed, scanning the terrain, and there it was: a tripwire stretched across the path, nearly invisible in the dim light. Another few steps and I would’ve triggered whatever nightmare Pullman had cooked up. Thinking fast, I circled wide, keeping my movements deliberate. Once I was at a safe angle, I picked up a rock and hurled it onto the wire. The explosion lit up the woods, shattering the stillness with a deafening roar.

I pressed myself against the ground, waiting. Voices carried through the smoke and debris. The hunters thought they’d gotten me. I could hear one of them signaling the other, their confidence thick in their tone. Perfect.

The first hunter came into the clearing cautiously, his crossbow raised. He scanned the area, stepping closer to where I lay hidden in the underbrush. When he was within reach, I leapt from the shadows, tackling him to the ground. He was fast, but I was faster. We grappled in the dirt, his fists swinging wildly as I drove my knife into his gut slicing up and spilling him onto the ground like a deer. He gurgled a curse before slumping lifeless beneath me.

I didn’t linger. Another arrow thudded into the ground near my foot as I sprinted toward the next lab. The second hunter was still on my tail, relentless and methodical. By the time I reached the broken-down trailer that served as lab four, my breathing was heavy, my muscles screaming. I crouched behind the rusted frame, waiting.

The hunter circled the trailer, his crossbow drawn, his steps slow and deliberate. He was massive, a towering brute of a man whose size could rival mine. Every step he took was measured, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. He was smart, keeping his distance, but not smart enough. As he moved past, I struck, looping a length of barbed wire around his throat and pulling tight.

He reacted instantly, thrashing like a wild animal, his powerful frame slamming backward into the trailer. The impact sent a shudder through the rusted metal, jarring my grip as I struggled to hold the wire taut. Pain lanced through my arms as he thrashed again, his hands clawing at the garrote, his boots digging into the dirt for leverage. He slammed me into the trailer again, the force nearly knocking the air from my lungs, but I held on, my boots braced against the ground.

The wire bit deeper, cutting into his thick neck, blood dripping down onto his chest. His gurgling breaths turned to desperate gasps, his strength starting to wane. With one final heave, he slammed back against the trailer, but this time his weight sagged. I pulled tighter, feeling the resistance give way as his struggles slowed to a twitch. Finally, his massive frame crumpled to the ground, the wire still wrapped around his neck. I let it drop with him, stepping back to catch my breath as his blood pooled beneath him, staining the dirt.

I knew there was at least one more out there, but I couldn’t wait. The charge went into place quickly, its timer blinking as I melted back into the woods. Lab five was waiting, and with it, another fight I couldn’t avoid.

I pressed deeper into the woods, the faint sound of my boots crunching against the underbrush lost under the weight of my own breath. Then, it happened—the trap. My foot snagged something, and before I could react, a net snapped upward, yanking me into the air like a caught animal. I swung wildly, tangled in thick ropes that bit into my skin.

The woods around me fell silent for a heartbeat, then I heard it—footsteps, deliberate and heavy, closing in. The last of the hunters. He was careful, circling the trap with his weapon raised, the glow of his flashlight slicing through the darkness. My hands worked quickly, fumbling with the knife strapped to my belt. The rope was thick, and every slice seemed to take an eternity, but the hunter was getting closer, muttering something under his breath.

The rope finally gave, and I dropped to the ground with a hard thud, my legs screaming in protest. I barely rolled out of the way as the hunter’s blade came down, burying itself into the dirt where I’d just been. He snarled, lunging toward me, but I was ready.

I swung upward, slamming the hilt of my knife into his temple. The impact was immediate and final. He froze, his eyes rolling back before his massive frame crumpled to the ground. The fight was over as quickly as it had begun, his lifeless body sprawled in the dirt. I stood over him, blood dripping from my blade, chest heaving from the effort. There was no time to dwell—I had to keep moving.

A worthy adversary

I reached the mouth of the abandoned mine, the silhouette of rusted machinery looming in the faint moonlight. The air was heavy with the smell of damp earth and decay, a sharp contrast to the faint chemical stench of meth that clung to the air from the nearby lab. Billy Wilkes was there, waiting. His bulk was impossible to miss, even in the dim light. He stood in front of the mine entrance like a gatekeeper, a hammer slung casually over his shoulder.

“About time you showed up,” Billy said, his voice a deep rumble laced with arrogance. “You’ve been making a hell of a mess.”

I didn’t respond. There was no point. I stepped forward, my eyes locked on his, ready to close the distance, but Billy moved first. The hammer came at me like a freight train, smashing into the dirt where I’d been standing a moment before. Dust and splinters flew, and I barely had time to roll to my feet before he swung again.

Each strike was relentless, the weight behind it enough to crack ribs or worse. He was demolishing me, pure strength and aggression driving him forward. A glancing blow caught my shoulder, and the pain shot through me like fire, staggering me for a moment. He didn’t let up. Blows that would have felled truly mortal men keeping me at bay and wearing me down. Another swing grazed my ribs, and I felt the air forced from my lungs. I needed to turn this tide.

“Why won’t you fucking die?” he growled, his voice filled with frustration and disbelief.

I stumbled backward, my boots catching on the uneven ground, and that’s when I saw it. Underneath an abandoned cart, half-buried in the dirt, the glint of a pickaxe caught the moonlight. Timing my next move, I ducked as his hammer came crashing down, darting sideways toward the cart. He chased me, cursing, the hammer whistling through the air just inches from my head.

I dove, my hand closing around the handle of the pickaxe as I rolled to my feet. It felt solid, heavy—a weapon that could even the odds. Now the fight was balanced, and Billy’s grin faltered when he saw it in my hands. "Oh, you think that’s gonna save you?" he spat, hefting the hammer again.

"Let’s find out," I muttered, bracing myself for the next assault.

I dodged, the heavy tool smashing into a nearby support beam, sending splinters flying. He was fast for his size, and strong—each swing of that hammer felt like it could crush steel. I countered with the pickaxe, the sharp edge grazing his shoulder, drawing first blood. He roared and came at me again, his movements relentless.

The fight churned through the mine’s mouth, both of us using the scattered remains of rusted equipment as weapons and shields. I ducked behind a twisted conveyor belt as Billy swung wide, the hammer smashing into the metal with a deafening clang. Sparks flew, and I used the moment to strike, driving the pickaxe toward his midsection. He twisted at the last second, the blade catching his ribs but not deep enough to end it.

Billy’s fist caught me in the jaw, and I stumbled back, tasting blood. He was grinning now, his teeth bared in savage delight. “You’re tough,” he said, spitting blood onto the dirt. “But you ain’t walking away from this.”

I rolled to avoid another swing of the hammer, grabbing a rusted pipe from the ground and swinging it upward, catching him across the side of the head. He staggered, dazed, but didn’t fall. Instead, he roared and came at me with everything he had. The hammer smashed into a pile of scrap metal, sending shards flying, one slicing across my forearm. Pain flared, but I gritted my teeth and pressed on.

We grappled near a rusted mining cart, his hammer swinging wildly as I dodged, each swing barely missing my head. He was strong—stronger than most—and I could feel my grip faltering under his weight. He raised the hammer high again, but I twisted at the last second, shoving my shoulder into his ribs. As he stumbled back, I drove the blunt end of the pickaxe into his gut. The air exploded from his lungs in a ragged gasp, and he doubled over, clutching his side.

I didn’t hesitate. With a savage roar, I brought the sharp end of the pickaxe down with everything I had. It sank deep into his skull, the sickening crunch of bone and flesh splitting filling the air. His body convulsed violently, the hammer slipping from his fingers as blood poured down his face. His knees buckled, and he collapsed into the dirt, the handle of the pickaxe jutting from his head like a grotesque trophy.

The pointed end sank into his skull with a sickening crunch, splitting bone and flesh. His body convulsed, the hammer slipping from his grip and clattering to the ground. Blood poured down his face as his eyes rolled back, and his massive frame collapsed to the dirt.

I stood over him, breathing hard, the pickaxe still embedded in his skull. The blood on my hands was warm and slick, a grim reminder of the cost of this fight. Wiping it on my armor, I wrenched the pickaxe free and stepped back, leaving his body crumpled at the mine entrance.

The charge went into place at the lab, its timer blinking red as I turned toward the woods. One more lab. One more fight. Travis was waiting.

The final confrontation

The coal mine office sat like a corpse in the moonlight, its skeletal frame barely holding together under years of neglect. Two four-wheelers were parked haphazardly near the entrance, their mud-caked tires a testament to the rugged terrain. The faint glow of a lantern flickered through the cracked windows, and the faint chemical stench of meth seeped into the frigid night air. The whole place was a tomb, holding the last remnants of Travis Johnson’s decaying empire.

I breached the door silently, the creak of the rusted hinges swallowed by the oppressive quiet. The stench inside hit me like a wall—chemicals and rot, an acrid mix that clung to the back of my throat. The interior was a rotting husk of its former life, a fitting reflection of Travis Johnson’s rule. Rusted filing cabinets leaned precariously against the walls, and old coal ledgers lay scattered on the ground, their ink faded with time. The hum of lab equipment told me I was in the right place.

Earl Pullman was the first to notice me. The chemist had his back turned, hunched over a table, his hands busy mixing the poison that had ruined countless lives. I moved quickly, silent as the grave. He didn’t even get a chance to scream. My blade sliced across his throat in one clean motion, the sound of his gurgling drowning in the chemical haze of the room. As he collapsed forward, his blood spilled across the table, soaking into the raw meth oil he’d been preparing. I grabbed a syringe from the cluttered workspace, filling it with the unrefined venom. The moment felt fitting, poetic even—Travis’s empire would meet its end with the very poison they used to destroy others.

The noise drew Travis from the back room. He burst into the office, revolver in hand, his eyes scanning the carnage with a mix of panic and fury. “So you’re the one taking out my boys,” he sneered, his voice tinged with a forced calm. He shrugged, a cold grin spreading across his face. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll just get more. Shit, I’m turning 'em away every day as it is. Everybody wants a piece of this action. Ain’t nothin’ else to do around here if you ain’t into layin’ down and just dyin’.”

I didn’t answer. Words wouldn’t matter. As he fired, I moved, closing the distance between us before he could react. The first shot went wide, shattering a rusted cabinet behind me. The second grazed my armor but didn’t slow me down. By the time he cocked the hammer for a third, I had already wrenched the revolver from his grip and slammed him against the table.

He fought back, thrashing and swinging wildly, but his desperation only made it easier to overpower him. I shoved him onto the table, pinning him down with one hand on the cluttered workspace.

“You think you can just come in here and end this?” Travis stammered, his voice trembling as he tried to muster bravado. “Look, man, you don’t have to do this. You want money? I’ve got plenty. You want product? Hell, I’ll double it. Just—just walk away, and we can make a deal.”

I leaned in close, my voice cold and deliberate. "Time to take your own medicine, Travis. Let’s see how you like it."

I grabbed the syringe filled with raw meth oil, the unrefined venom that had destroyed so many lives. He bucked against the table, screaming profanities, but it was no use. I plunged the needle into his neck and pressed the plunger down. His screams turned to gurgles, his body convulsing violently as the substance coursed through his veins. His eyes bulged, his mouth foaming as his heart gave out under the toxic overload.

When his body finally stilled, I pulled my blade from my belt. With a single, decisive stroke, I severed his head from his shoulders, the blood spraying in a warm arc across the ruined office. I dropped the head into the pack strapped to my belt, its weight a grim reminder of the task I’d just completed.

Epilogue

Outside, I climbed a short distance up the mountain, the detonator heavy in my hand. I set the pack down beside me and lit a cigar, the glow of the embers cutting through the cold night air. Below, the valley stretched out in silence, the six labs scattered like blights across the land. I pressed the button.

The explosions rippled through the valley, one after the other, each detonation lighting up the night like firework bursts of destruction. The ground beneath me trembled as the closest lab went up in flames, the heat of the blast washing over my face. Travis Johnson’s empire burned, reduced to ash in a matter of moments.

I shouldered the pack, took a long drag on the cigar, and began my descent down the mountain toward my truck. The job wasn’t done—there were always more names on the list.

Back at the truck, I placed Travis’s head into the cooler in the back and pulled up his dossier on the tablet, marking it complete. Then, I opened the next profile. Malik Thompson.

“Well,” I muttered to myself, taking another drag of the cigar. “Looks like we’re headed to LA.”

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