by G M Eppers
“Yes, sir. Cletus VI told me just a few minutes ago. He says there’s a hiccup. They’ll come back.” We could see that he already doubted his youngest son’s assessment.
“Sir, I’m sorry to inform you that the bids on your auction have been canceled due to the nature of your auction. You see, eBay has an excellent reputation for honest, forward, legitimate auctions. Because you failed to disclose the nature of your cheese, you are jeopardizing our good name.” Cletus’s eyes went dark and narrow, and he started to level the gun. My stomach leaped into my throat for a second. But Billings had expected it. “Now, sir, don’t be alarmed. We aren’t disallowing your auction. As your son can attest, the auction itself is still online.” Cletus turned toward his youngest, who had his rifle in one hand and a smart phone in the other. The irony was not lost on me. The boy nodded to his father, and Billings continued, still in character. “All we need to do is verify the exact cheese involved so we can edit the auction to its proper form. I’m here to help you with that. Editing an open auction requires an executive password.” He indicated Sir Haughty and myself. “These people from CURDS are here to help you as well,” he said. “It’s come to their attention that you may be unaware of what cheese you actually have. They’d like to identify it for you, free of charge. This is to your advantage, sir. Your silo contents could be worth far more than the reserve you set. Don’t you want to get the full price you deserve for your cheese?”
“Pa,” one of the older kids said, “don’t do it.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, boy,” said Cletus the first to who I think was either Cletus III or Cletus IV. Internally, I thanked the boy for the boost. Nothing helped convince someone like some opposition. “You gonna arrest me?” he asked us.
“Absolutely not,” Billings was able to say truthfully. “And neither are these people from CURDS.” That’s when Billings went a little off script. “In fact, we don’t have to see the entire silo, if you’re willing to swear that all of the contents are identical. Just give us a small sample. It can be tested right here --”
--Oops. I’d forgotten to corral Nitro. Surreptitiously, I called him on the walkie and asked him to come to the front of the silo with his kit right away.
“—We can edit your auction page, and you’ll be back in business in minutes,” Billings continued.
Cletus was still suspicious, but I could sense him giving in. He just needed a little bit of a push. That was kind of Roxy’s department, but she wasn’t available. Sometimes people needed urging to obey the warrant once she’d gotten it. It wasn’t CURDS policy to just barge in. We preferred to give people every opportunity to cooperate. With Roxy off site, I’d have to make do.
But before I could open my mouth, Sir Haughty took a hugely dramatic sniff of the air. “My dear sir, what could be the source of that lovely aroma?” He asked. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever smelled before!” There was an aroma in the air, but it had nothing to do with cheese. This was a farm, after all, which had sometime recently had a number of cows. The evidence was abundant and pungent.
Sir Haughty made a play of trying to get through and I obligingly held him back. “Not until we’re invited, Sir Haughty,” I calmly admonished him.
“Cletus V,” Cletus the first said, again using the letter instead of the number it represented, “get the nice people a sample.”
“But, Pa –“
“Don’t ‘But Pa’ me, boy! Do as I say!” Cletus V disappeared into the silo.
While we were waiting for Cletus V to reappear, I heard Nitro running up behind me. I turned to tell him quietly about the ruse and saw him fall over a tree root and go sprawling. His case flipped open and the contents went flying. I reached him just as he was shoving the last of the things back into his case. “Anything broken?” I asked, keeping my voice low. “Test tubes, syringes, your big toe?”
He brushed dry dirt off his clothes. He had somehow managed to avoid hitting a manure pile. “No, I don’t think so. I’ll have to check my toe later.” He stood, favoring one side only slightly, but not complaining. As we sauntered back to the silo, I let him know what was going on, and he nodded his understanding.
Cletus V came out with a small slab of yellow cheese, shaking his head. He seemed to know this was a bad idea on their part, but didn’t have the cojones to contradict his father. He was probably about 15, but with a smaller build than Cletus VI. His peach fuzz beard gave him away as the elder of the two. He handed the slab to his father, who handed it to Sir Haughty. “Thank you kindly, sir,” said Sir Haughty. This time my stomach jumped a little with glee. We’d reached the first hurdle. Sir Haughty broke the slab in half, and gave one piece to Nitro. He knew better than to taste it before Nitro gave the okay. He did, however, take in the aroma up close. He didn’t appear impressed. I read his expression as confused, which was somewhat disturbing. If a man who could identify nearly every variety of cheese was confused, what did we have here?
Nitro crouched with his open case in front of him, his knees nearly to his chin. He broke off a tiny piece and stuffed it into a test tube, then used a dropper to add some kind of liquid. He swirled it in the tube, then put the tube into a machine in his case. We could hear a soft whirring sound, which went on for a full minute. His shoulders slumped. “No Uber,” he pronounced. “It’s clean.” This was a surprise. A large quantity of cheese that was being guarded by military grade weapons, and it was clean? Anything treated like contraband usually was. Of course, it might not be a large quantity. The silo could hold one brick or a thousand and still be called, technically speaking, a silo of cheese.
Cletus the first shot one bullet into the air and let out a “yahoo.” The police all moved in a few steps and unholstered their weapons, keeping the muzzles low, but the celebratory shot was all there was. Cletus seemed oblivious to the disturbance he had created. We’d also gained his trust by not proving his previous conviction that we would call it Uber no matter what. I had hopes we could convince him to disarm as well.
Sir Haughty took a nibble, then spat it out on the ground in disgust. “My dear, this isn’t even cheese!”
“What do you mean it isn’t cheese?” I asked. “What the hell is it?”
The rest of the team, attracted by the gunshot, had arrived at the silo on the run, skidding to a stop and kicking up a cloud of dirt and dust. Badger, his smart phone still in hand, took the remaining bit from Sir Haughty, who gladly gave it up and went off to find someplace to wash his hands, which he held up in front of him like a doctor going into surgery, not wanting to accidentally touch his clothing. I’d seen a bottle of EW! What Did I Touch? brand hand sanitizer in the van, compliments of the rental company. I was pretty sure that’s where he was going. Badger took a bite only slightly larger than Sir Haughty’s nibble, but he didn’t spit it out. He swallowed, and ate the rest, licking his fingers afterwards. “Not bad.”
“But what is it?” I asked.
“Easy. It’s Chmelty.”
I slapped my forehead. All of this was about Chmelty? Chmelty is a brand name of a cheese product designed to melt smoothly for cooking purposes. It had no more relation to cheese than that yellow powder on theater popcorn did to butter. “The entire silo?” I asked Cletus, stunned. “The entire silo is filled with Chmelty????”
Cletus looked at me, and what remained of my group. “Am I gonna be rich?”
Billings broke the news. “Sir, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is, no, you are not going to be rich. This cheese is worthless. It might bring in a few hundred dollars because of the sheer quantity, but no more than that.”
Cletus looked crestfallen. “What’s the good news?”
“The shelf life is forever,” Billings said. “It will still be good even if it takes your entire lifetime to eat it. I’d recommend getting some cats, though, because there are probably already mice in there having a field day.” He turned his back and walked away.
Finally, the news was sinking into Cletus the first’s fo
ggy brain. “Worthless! Why I ought to –“
I heard a gunshot, but I couldn’t tell where it came from. Reflexively, I turned just as a second shot was fired. And I saw something small and compact coming right at me at an alarming rate of speed.
Chapter Four
It was the largest horsefly I’d ever seen, and it smashed into the visor of my riot helmet in a bloody mess. Though I quickly wiped it with my hand, it only smeared and my vision was blurred by horsefly guts. But I had neither the time nor the tools to clean it properly. It would involve removing the helmet, for one thing, and that really didn’t seem wise in a gunfight. I was also acutely aware that Billings was running around without a vest or helmet. I hoped he was making a beeline for the van to retrieve his equipment, but I couldn’t take the time to track him down. I had to have confidence in his training. Once shooting started, it usually escalated and I was prepared for more. Another shot, and another, but I saw no smoking guns to attest to the source. There was instant chaos as the various crowds began to run. It took approximately 15 seconds for the sign-carrying crowd to disperse, and even some of Grundy’s friends around the silo dropped their weapons and disappeared, leaving only Grundy and the five younger Cletuses. None of them had yet fired a weapon, or even taken aim. They carried their rifles like a sleepy child carries his teddy bear, dragging the butt on the ground, hanging on only by instinct. They all seemed as confused as the rest of us as to where the shots were coming from. The father quickly corralled the youngest three behind him and was giving stand-off instructions to the other two. They moved to equidistant points around the silo and slowly began pointing their AK47s, waiting for a target.
Police officers were also scrambling for cover behind trees. I saw one duck behind the Nordenfelt. They scanned the area for the source of the gunfire. It was then I remembered Sylvia’s list. There was one in a tree! But which tree? I looked at them all one by one, searching for telltale movement in the leaves, but couldn’t find him. And if someone was up there, what the devil were they shooting at? They were supposed to be on Grundy’s side. I pulled out my walkie, “Sylvia, which tree?” I yelled at the top of my voice, even though the pickup on the walkie was perfectly good, as I continued to search. There was another shot. This time I saw some smoke. “Never mind. I see him!” I hung the walkie on my belt and headed for the big oak near the news vans. The reporters had retreated to a wider perimeter, but continued to narrate into their microphones.
Headless acorns and their decapitated tops were scattered on the ground, threatening to make me stumble. I kicked an area clear with my right foot and planted myself there, my legs spaced apart for stability. Once underneath, I pointed my gun up at the leaves. I had a pretty clear shot from that angle, though he was several feet up in the branches. “Throw down your weapon!” I yelled, holding my gun with both hands. He was in jeans and a flannel shirt that had the sleeves ripped off, revealing flabby arms with a fisherman’s tan. He was holding a rifle that was trailing a long belt of bullets. Ignoring me, he pointed it up in the air and let out a short burst of gunfire. It was a semi-automatic. The single shots we’d already heard weren’t his. The smoke I’d seen was coming from a cigar that dangled in his mouth. A moment later, a duck fell out of the sky twenty feet away from the tree.
“Got him! What did you say?” He called down.
“Throw down your weapon, sir,” said a police officer who had come up next to me and also had his gun trained on the guy in the tree. “Don’t make us shoot you down. Throw down your weapon and climb down immediately.” I stood down as well, taking a moment to swipe a sleeve across my visor to get rid of more of the bug guts. I only succeeded in increasing the size of the smear.
The guy obeyed, mystified. The officer collected the weapon, and motioned more officers to come over and help. As he was being cuffed, the guy grumbled. “I ‘as just shooting ducks!” They walked him away and I moved on to the next threat. Single shots continued to ring out sporadically. Oddly, I heard wood splinter and saw holes appear in the sides of the silo, slowly creeping downwards towards the exposed Cletuses.
“Oh my God,” I said as I turned, following the reverse trajectory of the bullets. Sylvia was just climbing out of a treetop and onto the roof of the barn on her way to the hayloft. The single shots must have come from there and she’d taken the initiative to go after him. I saw the gun barrel come out of the loft again and aim toward the silo. Why was he trying to shoot the Cletuses? Sylvia, silent as a cat, crept to the loft and jumped in, her gun at the ready. It was too far away for me to hear what she was saying, but the rifle fell. The person stepped forward, and a sixty-ish woman stepped into view, her hands in the air in surrender. Wild gray hair sprouted from her head like singed iceberg lettuce. Her voice carried very well. “I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch!” She screamed. “Him and that damn cheese can go to Hell!” Sylvia used her gun barrel to direct the woman, who I was assuming was the missus, down from the loft inside the barn. Sylvia had that under control, at least. Even though it was a firefight, it was going pretty well. The shooters had proven to be such poor marksmen that the only casualties so far were inorganic objects and one duck.
More shots came, and I ran around the barn to get a better look at the house. Below the chimney, a third rifle barrel poked out of a window. That one was pointed toward the silo. It adjusted itself up and over after every shot, then back again slightly, as if the shooter were honing in on a specific knothole.
Other shots I tracked to the two on the roof of the house. One skinny guy was perched inside the chimney like Kilroy and the other was on his stomach on the dormer roof like he was in the infantry. Everything stopped when I saw where they were pointing. Unlike the wife and the shooter in the bedroom, these two were not aiming for the silo. A hundred yards away, and in the opposite direction, Billings and Sir Haughty were at the van. Thankfully, Billings was there to surrender the suit jacket to the reporter, who was in an incredible hurry to get out of there. Billings was rapidly putting on his vest and helmet. Sir Haughty, still wearing his gear, was wiping his hands together to rub in the hand sanitizer. Neither one appeared to be aware that they were in someone’s crosshairs. I started running toward them, yelling “Get down!” A shot rang out and I saw Billings and Sir Haughty both dive into the van. Billings sprawled on the front seat, still trying to fasten his helmet, but his booted feet hung out the driver side door. Sir Haughty sat in the second row of seats and shut the door. There was another shot and the van rocked. It looked like the rear bumper was hit.
On my way to the van, I looked over at the roof of the house. Agnes and Avis were climbing up via window frames, gutters, and a questionable looking trellis. They were quite the sight in their riot gear, resembling a large black spider. The shooters were evidently focused on their target and didn’t see them. I was torn between wanting to break the shooters’ focus and wanting the twins to keep the advantage. Making a snap decision, I left Agnes and Avis to their job and went to check Billings as another shot broke the driver side window. “Stay down!” I ordered. Haughty fell sideways, ducking into the seat, but fumbled for his gun with still slimy hands. He must have used enough sanitizer to sterilize an army, hip deep in a river in Vietnam, in the rain. He turned his torso to use the seat as cover and give himself a clear shot. “Stand down, Haughty!” I yelled. I was sure I’d hear about leaving off the ‘sir’ later. In a running crouch, I went to the passenger side and slid in next to Billings. He had to sit up, then, so he brought in his feet and closed the driver’s door, which now had a hole just a bit off center with spider web cracks emanating from it. I pulled out my walkie, pushed down the button, and yelled “Everyone back to the van. NOW!! We are NOT dying over Chmelty!” It was odd hearing the echo of my own voice coming through on Billings’ and Haughty’s walkies, but at least I was reasonably sure the whole team heard me.
There were two shots in rapid succession and the front of the van dipped to the left. The front driver side tire had gone insta
ntly flat. Before I could say anything, Billings had his door open and was getting out. I grabbed his arm, “No you don’t!”
He turned to me, surprisingly calm. “We’re not going anywhere on a flat tire, Mom. I can change it in two minutes. You want to come out and cover me, you can, but there’s no sense in all of us getting shot.”
I wanted like Hell to contradict him. I wanted to tell him not to give me orders. But I had to admit he was right. I let go of his arm and prayed silently. Fifteen seconds later, the van started rocking as Billings began pumping the jack. He had the tire off in less than a minute and tossed it aside. He went to the rear of the van, where he was pretty much a sitting duck, to get the spare. I held my breath as he folded down the bench seat and then opened it the other way to get to the storage compartment. There were a couple more shots as he rolled the tire toward the front of the car. I could just see the spare getting shot as well, but it didn’t. I could also see Billings getting shot, but that didn’t happen either. I really needed to do something about my mind’s eye. Like gouge it out. I ducked down and looked up, trying to see what was happening on the roof, but the top of the van obscured my view. No matter which way I leaned I couldn’t see the dormer, even creeping over to the driver seat. I wondered if conversion vans ever came with sunroofs.
When I looked back at Billings, Sylvia was helping him with the tire. She retrieved the flat one and tossed it into the compartment, ducking a bullet that bounced off the latch on the open door. Her hand had been there a split second earlier. She slammed the hatch down and jumped into the back seat behind the driver, next to Sir Haughty. “Hi, Boss.”
“Good work in the hayloft, Sylvia.”
“Thanks.” She had moved the eye patch again. Her green right eye stared at me from the back seat.
Badger suddenly appeared, tucking his smart phone into a pocket and himself into the third row of seats behind Sylvia. “I like the idea about not dying for Chmelty,” he said. “That yours?”
