by Sam Kench
Probey eyed him in the rearview mirror. ‘That’s right, and I intend to honor that, but do you really want to be traveling god knows how long sardined in the back there? Won’t be long before this heap starts stinking like a goddamn locker room.’
‘Don’t call Buella a heap.’ Lance interjected.
‘Fair enough, Lance, apologies mi amigo. At any rate I think I speak for all of us when I say our posse has grown to a size befitting of two vehicles as opposed to just Buella here.’ Probey gave Eamon a chance to respond, but he chose not to. They made solid eye contact through the mirror; strong enough to tether a steel cable between their pupils and dangle lead weights.
Eamon’s beard was in need of maintenance. He hadn't tended to it since things got bad. If he let it go unchecked much longer, its length would surpass lumberjack and begin approaching desert island strandee. Even still, it was easy to tell that his mouth was clenched and angry under all that chestnut hair.
Probey cleared his throat, and continued, ‘We’ll grab a second vehicle in town, then we’ll head north like I agreed.’ Again, Probey left Eamon a chance to respond which went un-seized. The tightrope stare continued until Probey broke eye contact and turned back toward the windshield.
THE POSSE ADVANCED into what passed for downtown Danbury in search of a vehicle with four good tires and zero busted windows. The fire in the general store had run its course, leaving smoldering cinders, stubborn beams of debilitated wood, and red hot hunks of metal. Two blackened bodies slept under a blanket of ash. The stink of burned hair overpowered even the stench of charred flesh.
At the sight of a man trying to jimmy open a car door, Probey stood up through the jeep’s roof and pointed his rifle at the sky. ‘Hey, you there!’
No thread of communication was followed by the man. He spun around with a handgun and aimed it at Probey, before being calmly gunned down with a quick three-shot burst from the cop’s assault rifle. Probey hopped out through the roof and the others followed into the cold air behind him. Probey stepped on the fallen handgun and slid it backwards with his foot. Still in motion, Peter scooped it up and stuffed it into his waistband.
Checking for a pulse, Probey found none. He finished jimmying the door and let Lance inside to set about hot-wiring it.
‘You ought to cheer up, man.’ Peter said, nudging Eamon, ‘Your odds of survival shot way up the second you joined our gang.’
At length, Eamon turned to face him. Peter smelled of menthol and his skin looked as though it would be sticky. ‘I thought it was a posse?’ Eamon said dryly. Calling this gang of bastards a posse was a disgrace to the implication of law behind the word, though Probey did see himself as the new sheriff around these parts. It was Probey’s self-proclaimed duty to enforce what semblance of order remained, albeit his modified version of order.
Ignoring Eamon’s clear disinterest, Peter continued, misquoting the cop, ‘Probey said we get to make the law of the land now… and he’s a cop so you know he’s right.’
The hot-wired car roared to life, headlights turning on and windshield wipers arcing furiously back and forth, wiping away or otherwise smearing flakes of ash. Probey pointed to Peter and Georgie, ‘You two take the new wheels. Eamon, you stay with me and Lance.’
Peter jogged to the car and hopped in the driver seat. Probey overlapped shoulders with Georgie as they passed each other. Whispering in Georgie’s ear, he said, ‘Stop by that farm again. Kill Paul and anyone else who’s there.’
Georgie nodded without hesitation. This order didn't come as a surprise. Paul hadn't complied with his orders, and that meant there was someone out there on Probey’s turf who didn't respect his authority. Georgie rubbed his coarse black beard and his shoulders sagged with the troubles of 50 plus years of tough life. One of his eyes was always open a bit wider than the other and he had trouble closing it fully. Probably a medical issue, he figured, but it never bothered him enough to do anything about it. He learned to sleep with one eyelid slightly ajar. Back when he still spoke, he would tell people that it was his aiming eye. He had been a professional hunter back when it was recreational for the vast majority of people. He figured hunting would soon enough become necessity once more as it was for long-past generations.
He knew Probey through the police force, though he wasn’t an officer himself. ‘Sort of a deputy’ was how Probey liked to put it unofficially. It basically meant Georgie was his go-to guy for backup when it came to matters parallel but not quite in line with the law. Whenever Probey extorted a drug dealer instead of arresting him, or felt like shooting a minority, unprovoked, Georgie was right by his side.
Probey continued, ‘If you take him at his word that he gave us all of his guns then it should be easy, but don’t sacrifice caution. Peter knows where to go. We’ll meet at the Franklin gazebo.’ With a pat on the shoulder, Probey continued past him. Georgie climbed into the passenger seat of the new vehicle and rolled down the window to stick his rifle barrel out of it.
Back in the jeep, Eamon now had the back seat to himself.
‘Where to now, Probey?’ Lance asked, practically bouncing in his seat like a kid hoping his dad would say the candy store.
Probey turned fully around in his seat to face Eamon with a smile, ‘Why, we head north like I promised Eamon.’
‘There’s a retirement home near the border-’ Eamon started but Probey cut him off.
‘Of course we’ll make a few stops along the way.’ He forced his smile wider and turned back around.
IT DIDN'T TAKE LONG before the first stop arrived. On the way, Eamon had asked where the other car was going. Probey replied simply with ‘Recruitment.’ They pulled to a stop at a house on the outskirts of Franklin. Probey led the others up the snow dusted path and straight onto the covered porch.
He pounded on the door in the manner police are apt to do, and shouted, ‘Michael! You alive in there?!’ At the top of his lungs.
‘Who’s there?!’ A strong but cautious voice replied.
‘Officer Probey! Come on out!’
The door opened up and a fit Hispanic man in his early 20s stood to the side, his left arm hidden behind the edge of the doorframe. His shoulders were bare; he wore a wife-beater despite the cold. Full sleeve tattoos covered his arms and shoulders. With New Hampshire being the 3rd whitest state in the country, Michael had found himself questioned by certain members of the police a number of times for any crime which he lacked a rock-solid alibi for.
‘Who are you?’ Michael asked meekly, his eyes drifting from Probey’s badge to the assault rifle and the backup flanking him. The cop looked familiar, but in a distant sort of way, a blur of mean faces all perched on top of the same uniform.
‘You don’t remember me?’ Probey raised his sunglasses, ‘Your 21st? My partner hauled you and a couple of your buddies into the drunk tank. You fought your way through four officers before being subdued that night.’
Michael remembered. He was still dealing with courts and legal headaches when the notices suddenly stopped arriving by post, along with the rest of the mail. He closed the door halfway. Probey snuck his boot into the doorway in case Michael decided to close it the rest of the way. He didn't. Michael shook his head and continued, ‘Look I’m sorry about that. It’s- Ya know, I was drunk, celebrating. But that doesn’t matter now, does it? I mean with everything else going on?’
‘Look, Michael, I’m here to recruit you. Times as they are, a good strong fighter such as yourself would be useful in our posse. You box, right?’
‘Posse?’
‘The three of us plus two others. Better chances if we all stick together and watch each other’s backs.’
‘I don’t know about all this.’ He let out a nervous laugh, then composed himself. ‘I’m just waiting for this all to blow over. Won’t be much longer now ‘til things calm down… right?’
Probey shook his head; a confident no. ‘It’s only a matter of time before the crazies come banging on your door.’
‘
A few already have. I can handle myself just fine.’
‘Wouldn’t they have been easier to handle with us at your side? Come on now, Michael, make the smart decision.’ Michael was silent. Probey leaned forward and looked past the doorframe to see what was in Michael’s hand: brass knuckles. ‘We have guns to spare. One of them is yours if you come with us, otherwise we might just have to use them… on you.’ Lance took the cue and raised his gun. Probey looked to Eamon who then raised his gun also, but only halfway.
‘Hey, look there’s no need for any of that.’
‘So you’ll come with us?’
Michael shook his head and opened the door all the way. ‘I guess I don’t have any choice. Let me grab my stuff.’
‘Lance’ll go with you.’ Probey said. Lance slithered inside and followed Michael upstairs. Probey shouted after him, ‘If you have any family left, say goodbye to them now.’
‘None that care.’ Michael muttered. He had been born in New England - Vermont before New Hampshire. Regardless, he faced constant assertions and “jokes” that he was an illegal immigrant, or ‘Living near the wrong border. How'd you fuck that one up son?!’ The hicks would shout before doubling over with laughter and slapping their knees.
When they returned, Michael had on a black hoody and had a duffle bag over his shoulder. He shut the door behind him and locked it.
‘We won’t be coming back here.’ Probey said, Michael’s key still in the door.
ON THE DRIVE Eamon wondered if all of Probey’s men had been recruited by force. It didn’t seem like it to him. Peter and Lance seemed happy to be in his company and he couldn’t get a read on Georgie, he either hated his situation or loved it. A real coin flip.
‘So do you have a base somewhere?’ Michael asked.
‘No, we’re mobile.’
‘What, permanently? What happens when you run out of gas?’
‘We get more.’
‘And if you can’t?’
‘Are you questioning me?’ Probey whipped toward the backseat, an angry vein bulging in his neck.
‘No, I just mean… we can use my house if-’
‘Here’s another thing for you to remember since it seems like you forgot. You might’ve fought through four officers that night, but I was the one who took you down.’ Probey left a patch of silence for his words to sink in, then continued, ‘I call the shots around here and if you step out of line, I’ll take you down again. Harder. Got it?’
Michael scoffed and slumped into his seat. Probey’s glare lingered until he received verbal confirmation, ‘Yeah I got it.’
‘You know what I’m thinking?’ Probey seemed to ask everybody and nobody, ‘I’m thinking we better make Michael here prove himself before we give him a gun.’ Before Michael could object, Probey turned to lance and smacked him gently on the shoulder. ‘Stop at the next sign of life.’
‘Will do.’
A couple of blocks later Buella skidded to a stop. ‘There’s one.’ Lance said, pointing to a balding, old man digging through a row of trash cans.
Probey twisted in his seat to face Michael. ‘Get out there and prove yourself, Michael. Show me that you can be an asset to this gang.’
‘What exactly does that mean?’
‘It means get your spic ass out of this ride and show that fool what you’ve got. Try to recruit him, and if he refuses, beat a lesson into him.’
Eamon heard Beth’s voice in his head. He said her words aloud. ‘He’s not doing anything.’
‘What’s that Eamon?’ Probey asked.
‘That guy’s just minding his business,’ he spoke the sentence without choosing his words.
‘My business is his business. Just like my business is your business-’ Probey jammed a finger in Eamon’s direction, ‘and just like it’s fuckin’ yours!’ He stuck his gloved finger right in Michael’s face.
Michael swatted Probey’s finger away and immediately found Probey’s entire hand gripping his throat tightly. Probey was fully out of his seat, leaning all the way into the back.
His stretched out torso seemed to take the form of a punching bag to Eamon. For a moment, Eamon wanted to hammer Probey’s ribs and stab his heart with the shards of bone, but Eamon didn’t move.
Michael got a good grip on Probey’s wrist and pulled his hand away, but raised his own hands straight up to the roof of the vehicle when Probey’s pistol took aim at the bridge of his nose.
‘Do what I say.’ Probey said firmly. ‘That’s rule number one, two, and three.’
Michael slowly lowered his hands and stepped out of the vehicle. Probey popped up through the roof and took the safety off his rifle. He kept the gun barrel to the sky but kept his eyes glued to the back of Michael’s head. With the safety already off, Probey could acquire his target and deliver kill-shot in less than one second, if he so chose.
Eamon watched from the back seat as Michael approached the man in the alley. He didn’t seem bothered by the posse’s arrival or by Michael’s approach. In fact, he didn’t seem to fully know where he was. Eamon thought the man was doped up, or else otherwise impaired, perhaps in a dazed swirl of confusion and trauma as was common these days. He looked to be in his early 60s and had a tattered gray beard and frosty eyes. Eamon watched Michael confer with the man and register little reaction.
Michael looked back toward Probey and silently signaled his failure to recruit. Probey pointed at the man, then clenched his fist.
With a half-hearted shove, Michael set about badgering the dazed man into fighting him. He took some prodding but eventually threw a punch in Michael’s direction that was easily avoided. Michael took up his boxing stance, the brass knuckles over his right fist. It was nowhere near a fair fight. The man in the alley could barely command his basic motor functions. His punches were slow, weak, and way off target. He was jabbering incoherently and seemed like he was already in need of serious medical attention before Michael even threw his first fist.
Michael’s punches were fast, sharp, and destructive. A punch to the gut emptied the old man’s meager stomach contents onto the snowy alley floor. The man doubled over, easily bested. Michael turned back toward Buella and began to exit the alley, until he saw Probey shaking his head. The cop signaled for more and lowered his rifle into a two-handed grip.
Michael waited until the man from the alley was back on his feet. He left himself open so the man would attempt another punch, then Michael gave two sharp left jabs and powerful right hook. The brass knuckles made solid contact with the side of the man’s head, right above his ear, and split his skull open. A miniscule amount of blood sprayed over Michael’s arm as the man rag-dolled into the brick wall of the alley and collapsed like he was nothing but a bundle of hay and feathers.
Standing still, Michael watched the man’s limp body. He waited for the man to stand back up, but he didn’t. Michael inched his way over to the man and nudged his leg. He hoped the man was just unconscious and not dead, but was too afraid to check for a pulse. If the old man was dead, Michael didn’t want to know. He wanted to preserve the possibility in his mind that this old man would wake up later with an injury that he could recover from.
Michael heard clapping and turned to see Probey with a big smile on his face, laughter tumbling out of his mouth. The cop waved him over, grinning. Michael got back into the vehicle, a little shaken, and certainly feeling more obedient.
They drove the rest of the way to the Franklin gazebo in silence.
The structure was modern, a mass of colored concrete that overlooked a snowy playground and the bank of a river. The four men took a stroll around the gazebo while they waited for the other car to arrive, leaving a dirty trench of overlapping footsteps in their wake. They looked as if they were on patrol, but had run out of anything worth guarding.
‘Oh thank God!’ A woman’s voice called out from the bottom of the hill. Probey stood with one foot atop the stone ledge that ran the perimeter of the gazebo and looked down at her, his rifle pointed at the
sky. She couldn’t have been more than 25-years-old. She wore a colorful puffy jacket and had long, ombre hair that reached almost down to her waist, brown and slightly frizzy. She approached the gazebo with one hand waving through the air, and the other hand pulling along a young boy, no more than four or five years old.
Lance cast his eyes to the ground and began to pace hastily back and forth, shaking his head hard enough to rattle his tiny brain. He mumbled under his breath, ‘No, I don’t like this. This isn’t good.’
Eamon watched Lance, and studied him. He wondered if this reaction was predicated by Probey’s past actions in similar situations.
Lance had been on a heavy dose of Ritalin until his supply ran out a week and a half ago. Lance had only met Probey shortly before things got bad. The cop was preparing for the eventuality that many others tried to ignore, or tried to pretend wasn’t as big a deal as it was.
Lance was the youngest employee of Dirty Jay’s Auto and Bike Repair. One day Probey rolled in with a military style jeep; requesting major reinforcements and customization. The boss lady, Charli, had turned him away when he couldn’t provide registration or proof of ownership for the vehicle.
Lance caught up to the cop before he left and took the job under his own purview. What this guy was after was far more interesting (and so much cooler) than what every other customer was looking for. The idea of working with bullet-resistant glass and reinforced metal turned Lance on. He agreed to do the work cheaply and in his home garage, under the condition that he got to name his creation and take it for a spin when it was done. He didn’t then realize that he would end up driving it full-time under the cop’s command. Probey had made some odd allusions toward taking Lance under his wing, but the young mechanic wrote him off as a bit of a weirdo. He had no idea what was in store for him.
‘That’s far enough,’ Probey said commandingly with the woman halfway up the snowy hill to the gazebo.
She had put her bare hands down into the cold to help her and the child up the hill. ‘What?’ She asked, breathing heavily, her hair having fallen in front of her eyes. She swept her vision clear with an icy hand.
