by Doug Kelly
“Yes, twelve. I would agree with you. There are twelve. No misunderstanding. You don’t need glasses, correct?”
“Yes, sir, correct.”
Sam used a toothpick to skewer a large, black olive out of a glass jar, ate it, then held up the open jar of olives for the man to see. “How many?”
“I can’t tell, sir. They’re in the jar and the fluid is dark. I can’t see them.”
Sam chuckled. “That was a trick question. The answer is one. You would only count one jar of olives. Correct?”
“Oh. Yes, sir, I understand.”
“You don’t need glasses, do you, Clarence?” Sam asked again.
“Yes, sir, that is right.”
“And you can count?” asked Sam, with a condescending tone in his voice.
“Yes, sir.”
Sam stabbed another dark olive with a toothpick and put it in his mouth. He slowly chewed the olive, swallowed, and left the toothpick hanging at the corner of his mouth. After a moment of silently staring at the man, he said, “You know why you’re here.”
“No, sir.”
Sam violently slapped his hand on the desk and yelled, “The hell you don’t!” He then leaned back in his chair and began to speak in a calmer tone. “I gave you a chance to work for me. You didn’t have to go work at the bartering lot and hassle the traders for my cut. I didn’t ask you to be an enforcer and put bullets in people’s heads.” Sam opened the top drawer of his desk, removed a pistol, and put it on the desktop. Clarence’s eyes grew wide with fear. “All I wanted you to do was track my inventory. Just count what comes and goes, but you decided to steal from me. You betrayed my trust and took from me.”
The man whimpered, “I can recount, maybe if I count again the inventory numbers will bounce back.”
“I’ve already counted again. Do you think you’re the only person here who can count boxes?” Sam pushed a pile of papers forward. Penciled across them were the real and accurate inventory numbers. Clarence looked away.
“Do you have some sweet young thing at the apartment complex? Did she tell you she loves you? Maybe you thought you could impress her with some goodies from the warehouse?” Clarence looked farther away, out the window, wishing to be anywhere but here. “Your sweet little thing has a big mouth. She’s busted, too.” Sam put his hand on the pistol. “I gave her to my boys. She’s not so pretty anymore.”
Clarence collapsed to his knees in front of the desk and dropped the papers that he had been clutching so tightly in his hands. “Please, don’t kill me. Please, just give me another chance.” He looked up, eyes bloodshot and tear-filled, barely peering over the top of Sam’s desk. Snot poured out of his nostrils as he cried for mercy.
“I’m not going to kill you.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you,” Clarence said profusely.
“You owe me.”
“Of course, anything.”
Sam stood up, walked out his office door, and onto the metal deck. He ignored the couple standing there, looking through them as if they did not exist. Sam scanned the warehouse floor and whistled as loud as he could to get the attention of one of the men who had escorted the couple to the warehouse. He waved the man up to his office and then he returned to sit behind his desk. The man Sam had summoned entered the office, leaving the door wide open, and stood there.
“Clarence just let me know that he’s very sorry for stealing from me, and he won’t do it again.”
“That so? How’s he going to pay you back?”
“Well…I never thought about that.” Sam rubbed his chin. “We could use him as an example. Show people that we have a system of justice around here.”
“Seems fair,” said the man, now sitting back in his chair.
“Good!” said Sam. He picked up a large bolt cutter that he had hidden behind the desk.
Clarence’s eyes grew wide again. “No, no, no!”
“Yes, yes, yes. Hold your left hand out. If you flinch, I’ll throw you off the steps.”
Shaking, the man held up his hand, turned his head away, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Sam snipped away Clarence’s little finger. The old man’s hand began to bleed, and he screamed when he looked at the missing digit. It had fallen to the cold concrete floor, and Sam kicked it out of his office, where it fell to the first level through the gaps of the metal decking.
“Now leave, before I quit feeling so generous.”
Sam tilted his head at the married couple, and the soldier understood that the nod meant for him to stay. Clarence scurried away, clutching his injured hand close to his body. As the he passed the couple, Becky whispered to her husband, “Karma.” Michael swallowed hard.
“Next!” Sam skewered another black olive and savored the deep flavor as the couple entered the room. “What have we here?”
“Found them in the field, Boss. They look like they want some work.”
Sam stared at the couple until he had eaten the last of the olives from the glass jar. He held the jar over a trashcan beside his desk and started to pour out the juice. He noticed Michael’s face, his open mouth, and the saliva running down his chin. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”
Michael nodded.
Sam put the jar of olive juice near the edge of the table. Michael grabbed it, tilted his head back, and drank it all.
“What’s your name?”
“Michael, and this is my wife, Becky.”
“Becky, have a seat.” She sat in the chair, and her husband stood behind her.
“Michael. Do you want to work for me?”
Michael nodded.
“What did you do before all this happened?”
“Sold cars.”
“Used cars?”
“Yeah.”
“Good!” Sam lifted an eyebrow. “A con man. I bet you don’t mind taking things from people.” Sam made a grasping motion at the air, then spoke to the soldier. “What do you think? The bartering lot?”
“Sounds like a good fit. Maybe he could help the crew get a piece of the traders’ profits.”
“Yes, exactly what I was thinking.”
“What about my wife? Anything for her?”
“Maybe. She looks young enough.”
“I’ll do anything,” said Becky, as she felt her opportunity slipping away.
Sam inclined his head to the side and narrowed one eye. “Oh, I’m sure you will. But there’s not a lot of opportunity for women, and my vetting process is difficult for couples.”
“We’re ready,” said Michael.
“Alright, then,” said Sam as he enthusiastically slapped both palms on his desk. He put his hand on the pistol lying on his desktop and nodded at the escort. The escort removed his pistol.
“Cover them,” Sam ordered the soldier.
Michael held up his hands and said, “There must be a misunderstanding.”
“There’s no misunderstanding.” Sam handed Michael the pistol.
“What?”
“Can you shoot a pistol?”
“Yes.”
“Good! You passed the first test.” Michael smiled, and Sam circled behind him.
“Now for the final test. A test of loyalty. Put the pistol to her head and pull the trigger.”
“What?” Michael gasped.
Michael felt the muzzle of a pistol prod his back.
“What if I don’t?”
“You have to go. That would be a bleak future for you if you don’t. Maybe you could go sell some used cars?” Sam laughed sadistically, then leaned to Becky’s ear and whispered, “If you so much as squeak while you’re in that chair, the man that brought you out of that field is going to put you six feet under it.” Becky nodded. Tears had already begun to fall from her cheek.
“Here we are, Michael. It’s go time. I’m going to count down from five, and you better make a decision.”
“Five, four, three…”
Michael raised the pistol.
“Two.”
His hands shook and he closed hi
s eyes.
“One!”
Michael pulled the trigger. The sound of the firing pin plunging into an empty chamber was deafening in his mind.
Becky gasped for air and opened her eyes. I’m alive!
Michael, as stunned as his wife, tossed the empty pistol on the desk and stared at his shaking hands.
“Congratulations, you’re hired.”
Still stunned, Michael did not say anything.
“You might be surprised how many times it happens this way,” Sam professed, as he gestured for the escort to remove Becky.
The escort grasped her arm. She stood up, still shaking and in shock. He walked her out the door and down the stairs.
“What about her? Doesn’t she go with me?”
“She’s going to get cleaned up and work in the brothel.”
“That’s my wife. We’re married.”
“I guess you didn’t realize it, but you just got divorced. Trust me, it’s better this way. Couples never make it through one of my therapy sessions.” Sam laughed sadistically again.
Chapter Ten
After a quick look at the ragged map, Dylan and Kevin started their trek out of the neighborhood, following the creek upstream. Dylan had left the rifle at the house, tucked away on the top shelf of the walk-in closet, opting to bring his bow and arrows instead. Kevin donned the backpack, and after deciding to travel light, only brought a few items. He carried the pistol in his front pocket and Dylan’s arrows in the backpack. They did not plan for this to be a long trip. Just long enough to see what a day’s walk upstream would reveal.
The morning sun broke through the low gray clouds and tried to bring some warmth to the start of the day. Dew still hung on the blades of grass. The Community Center, surrounded by the vine-covered black metal fence, came into view in the distance. When they got close to the swimming pool, the creaking sound of the fence’s gate caught their attention. John Sisk was exiting the pool area and walking toward Dylan and Kevin. John was looking down, not noticing the two men, and trying to adjust his bandolier of shotgun shells with one hand while holding a shotgun with the other. Before John got any closer, Dylan cleared his throat. The noise startled John, bringing his senses back to attention. John reacted by grasping the shotgun with both hands and quickly raising it to his shoulder. Then he just as swiftly lowered it when he saw Dylan and Kevin. John stared in silence at them, irritated at their presence on this side of the subdivision.
Dylan broke the silence by asking, “Where’s your entourage?”
John did not answer the question. He hooked the shotgun with his right arm and let the barrel swing straight down. He spread his legs and stood with a wide stance on the sidewalk. “Somebody broke into the pool’s filter room. The door is clean off its hinges. Know anything about that?”
“Not a clue,” answered Dylan. He pointed a thumb at Kevin. “I’ve been looking out for squatters.”
Kevin laughed.
“You’re funny, asshole.” John looked around the neighborhood, quickly surveying the landscape. He wanted people in the neighborhood to witness him asserting his authority as their elected leader.
“Are you going to get that pool fixed?” Dylan asked sarcastically.
Ignoring the question, John asked, “Where the hell are you going?”
“Away.”
“That’s a good direction for you,” John retorted.
“Then, if you don’t mind…” Dylan bowed mockingly, and they continued toward the trees that lined the stream at the east edge of the neighborhood.
A clearing was visible in the trees just a short distance up the stream. They decided to cross the creek there and continue walking. Just before they crossed, Kevin looked back and saw John still standing by the Community Center, watching them. Kevin tapped Dylan’s shoulder and pointed back at John. Dylan saw him standing there with the bandolier of shotgun shells and the shotgun in his hand, looking for trouble.
“He’s got nothing better to do?” Dylan asked rhetorically.
They emerged from the trees on the other side of the stream. Undeveloped land appeared in front of them. It looked like acres of pastureland, just as Dylan’s neighborhood had been before the developer created the subdivision only a few years ago. About fifty yards away, there was an old two-story farmhouse with peeling white paint and crooked shutters. To their left, a small barn with a sliding door stood near the stream. Just like the house, it needed repair. Red paint had peeled away, exposing gray wood to the elements. Positioned between the men and the house, Kevin spotted a hand-pump well on the center of a slab concrete platform. The weathered metal had a tinge of surface rust. A metal drinking cup hung from a wire, swinging gently in the breeze. Behind the house was a small field of corn, almost tall enough to be mature. Tall grass surrounded most of the house. However, an area of grass had been cleared for a large garden. The weed-free garden gave them a clue that this was not abandoned property, so they understood the need to proceed with caution.
“I sure would like to get a taste of that well water. I bet it’s nice and cold.” Kevin removed the backpack and rummaged through it to find his bottle of filtered stream water.
“Let’s not go past the well. We’ll just get some of that cold well water and continue. I don’t want to stumble across somebody’s itchy trigger finger.” Dylan quickly looked around for any other hints of habitation. “Somebody’s been taking care of that garden. We aren’t alone here.”
The garden had neat rows of a variety of vegetables. A small goat stood tethered to a metal fence post. The post was far enough away that the long rope would not allow the goat to nibble on the garden plants. It seemed as if someone had moved the post periodically, allowing the goat to eat grass in alternating sections of the yard.
The men cautiously advanced to the hand pump. Kevin placed his backpack next to the pump’s concrete platform and grasped the cold metal handle. He could see that the metal grip had a different patina than the rest of the metal. It was an indication that someone was still using the pump for water. Both men cautiously looked around again, but saw no one. Kevin pulled the handle up and down quickly. It creaked, and water came gushing out of the spout. Dylan held the bottles under the stream of water and replaced what had been in the bottles with the cool well water. When he finished pumping, Kevin dropped the handle, causing a loud clank. A short moment later, they heard a screen door slam, and they looked up toward the house. On the porch, a man stood holding a rifle, not in a threatening way, but as a visible warning. Dylan and Kevin stood there, frozen in place, nervously holding their bottles of water.
“What do we do?” asked Kevin.
“Don’t run. He’ll think we’re up to no good. Besides, that’s a rifle. He could pick us off before we got back to the trees.” Dylan took the bow off his back and sat it on the backpack. “Wave and smile.”
“Okay, but he’s not smiling back,” said Kevin.
“Put the water down and walk over to him,” said Dylan. “Walk slowly and keep your hands up.”
“You really want to do this?” asked Kevin.
“Look at all that corn.” Dylan nodded to the field while he kept smiling, hands held high. “We’re going to have to grow our own food. He might have equipment we can use, and there sure is enough land.”
“I still don’t like this.”
“Okay, you stay here,” said Dylan. “I want to try and talk to this guy.”
“Go ahead,” Kevin responded. “I’ll wait here.” Kevin stood by the pump and felt the weight of the pistol in his front pocket. He knew that he did not stand a chance against a rifle at this distance. They were at the man’s mercy.
Dylan stopped in front of the wooden porch where the man stood. The landowner had not moved as he watched Dylan advance. He stood there like a statue, with legs spread wide, holding a rifle. From the height of the porch, he looked down at Dylan without any expression of emotion. The man had curly, dark hair and bushy eyebrows on top of prominent brow ridges. His
flannel shirt was unbuttoned, exposing his gray chest hair. Dylan could see that the man’s nose had one distinguishing characteristic; it had been broken. He had the crooked nose of a boxer. Dylan glanced down and saw the man’s strong hands with heavy knuckles, calloused and scraped. This man, built for action, reminded Dylan of a human pit bull.
“Morning,” said Dylan, uncomfortably trying to initiate a conversation.
“What do you want?” the man grumbled.
“Just some water. We don’t mean any harm.”
The man stood silently and looked at Dylan suspiciously. “You from around here?”
“Yeah, the neighborhood behind me.”
The man stood silently, his affect remained the same, indifference compounded with some suspicion. He looked Dylan over, and then looked around his land and deep into the trees that lined the stream and said, “The name’s Tom Rigby. Who are you?”
“Dylan Smith.”
“Does your friend have any weapons?”
“He’s got a pistol.”
“How about you?”
“Nothing. My bow is by your well.”
“Well, Dylan, wave your buddy over here.”
Dylan gestured for Kevin to walk over to them. Tom stared at Kevin, looking him up and down cautiously as he approached.
“I know you have a pistol,” announced Tom.
Kevin, hands still in the air, nodded and remained quiet.
“Put your hands down,” said Tom. “I’m locked and loaded here, so don’t do anything stupid. Got that?”
“This is Kevin Brown. He’s staying with me.”
Tom looked around again, surveying the land once more while groaning with displeasure. “Who’s your friend?”
Dylan repeated himself, louder this time, “Kevin Brown.”
“No, I mean your other friend.” He pointed behind them toward the clearing in the trees. Behind them, standing in the clearing by the stream, was John Sisk. He had followed them and was now staring at the trio. Tom held up the rifle and looked through the scope at John. “Yep, that’s a shotgun.” He lowered the scope from his eye. “What the hell do you want?”
