Indian Country

by Kurt A Schlichter

  “That’s what we’re here to figure out.”

  “I went to the Sheriff’s Department to report what happened this morning and they laughed at me,” said an older woman with her grey hair in a bun. She seemed genuinely surprised, as if she had been asleep for the last decade.

  “Martha, we need to realize that the situation has changed. We can’t rely on the government to protect us,” Bellman said.

  “We should just leave, all of us,” said a middle aged man. “Go south. Get out of here.”

  “We can run,” Bellman said. “That’s one option. But this is our home.”

  “Maybe I can work with them, come to some reasonable arrangement,” said a middle aged man in a sport coat.

  “This is Larry Silvers, our mayor,” said Pastor Bellman. “His real job is real estate – or was, before it became almost impossible to sell property.”

  “You think that might work?” Kelly asked.

  “It might. Better to try and make a deal then go on like this. At least that’s how I see it.”

  “Be my guest,” Turnbull replied, his optimism meter far into the red.

  “We should dig up our guns and kill those sons of bitches,” Chalmers said, sputtering. Turnbull looked him over; he was no soldier, but he was certainly pissed.

  “I know you’re angry, Dale, but don’t talk like that,” Bellman said. “We’re not here to talk about killing.”

  “What else will they understand? Should we have a demonstration? March? Carry signs? Vagina hats maybe?” Chalmers was getting hot.

  “You fight when you are out of options,” Turnbull said. “Not while you have other ones. Because if you fight, then you don’t know where it will end up.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “You’ll probably get yourself dead. Lot of other people too.”

  “They came into my town and smashed my face in in front of my wife and kid,” Chalmers said. “You think I won’t fight?”

  “No, I think you’ll fight. I’m not sure how well. But we’re not there yet. We can do other things. We need to consider…nonviolent solutions,” Turnbull said, hardly believing those words were coming out of his mouth.

  “The Founders didn’t look for nonviolent solutions to the damn redcoats,” Chalmers said.

  Turnbull said nothing – the guy had a point. And he wondered if his advice might be different if his orders were not so specific.

  There was a disturbance at the front of the restaurant; people were getting up out of their seats staring out the window. Becky the waitress rushed back to Bellman, her eyes wide, frightened.

  “They’re back,” she cried.

  Turnbull was past her and at the front door, staring down the street, assessing. Bellman joined him.

  “What do we do, Kelly?” the minister asked. People were already rushing off the sidewalks, terrified.

  “We don’t do anything.”

  Turnbull stepped out of the diner into the street, his Wilson .45 nestled in the Uncle Mike holster in the small of his back. Bellman watched from the diner doorway, holding the puppy. It had wanted to come along.

  The People’s Volunteers numbered eight, four per sedan. They were in a couple of Chevys, late ‘00s, obviously “liberated,” with “PV” spray painted on the front doors. The thugs were smiling, happy, in fact, very happy. One fired five rounds into the air from an AK, and he giggled as the already scattering townspeople ran even faster. The sound echoed across the town, just as it was meant to.

  This was going to be fun. And easy.

  Except for the man walking down the middle of Main Street from the direction of the courthouse, his left hand held up in the air. A big man. A man with a wan little smile.

  A man who did not seem afraid.

  The PV leader, who wore his black coverall uniform unbuttoned down the front, displaying a concert t-shirt from some rapper with silvery lettering, saw him first.

  A man, walking down the middle of the street.

  Why was his left hand up in the air?

  The leader laughed.

  “What the hell?” he said, holding his AK up toward the sky with one hand. He was smiling. His friends went silent and their eyes went to the approaching gentleman with the odd left hand.

  The man stopped about ten feet away, a half dozen of the AKs trained on him.

  “Hi,” Turnbull said.

  “Hey bitch,” said, the leader, now walking forward, AK still pointed upwards, laughing a little. “Don’t you know how to give up?”

  His cohort found this highly amusing.

  The man just smiled.

  “Give up?” Turnbull asked.

  “Yeah, you put both your hands in the air.”

  “Oh, I see the problem,” Turnbull said. “We have a misunderstanding.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. We have a big misunderstanding.”

  “See, I’m not giving up.”

  The leader blinked, computing.

  “You’re not giving up?”

  “No,” Turnbull laughed. “Why would I do that?”

  “Cuz I’ll cap your country ass.”

  “Nah, you won’t shoot me.”

  “Oh yeah, I will.”

  “No. Curiosity. You really want to know why I have my left hand up in the air.”

  “I don’t give a shit …”

  “No, trust me on this. You really, really do give a shit why I walked out here with my left hand up in the air.”

  The leader said nothing. From behind him, one of the gang, his head wrapped in a do-rag, shouted.

  “Hey, just shoot that motherfucker!”

  Turnbull stared in the leader’s eyes, and the leader paused, uncertain.

  Why did he have his left hand up in the air?

  “You could do what the particle physicist in the do-rag says, but I think I’ve piqued your interest,” Turnbull said.

  “Why are you holding it up?” the leader asked.

  “Do you deer hunt?”

  “What?

  “Deer. Like Bambi, except all grown up.”

  “I know what a deer is.”

  “But have you ever hunted for deer? Perhaps this is outside of your experience since the new government recruits you People’s Volunteers out of cities and there’s not a lot of large game animals wandering around there, unless you count the women and children you guys always seem to hit when you’re shooting at each other. So, let me share with you,” Turnbull said evenly. “Okay, hunting is banned now, but just about everyone around here used to do it, so we have some experience with it. To hunt deer, you can walk around the woods looking for a deer, and that’s good. It’s a challenge.”

  “Shoot that bitch!” shouted Do-Rag, impatient to get back to pillaging, and maybe worse. The leader ignored him, his attention fixed, trying to figure out exactly what was happening here. And it began to occur to him that it could not be anything good.

  “But some guys hunt deer another way,” Turnbull continued. “They set up a blind and hide in it and then they wait. Let the deer come to them. Sometimes – and this is usually against the law, but people do it anyway – they even bait the deer to come on in right in front of their deer blind, all unsuspecting, thinking everything’s fine. Then the hunter – who’s using a hunting rifle with a scope and big old bullets – just…pow. Drops ‘em.”

  The gears in the leader’s mind were turning; Do-Rag’s not so much.

  “You know all these country boys around here? All of them were deer hunters,” said Turnbull. “And not a one of them turned in his deer rifles.”

  The leader looked around, his eyes darting to roofs, windows, cars, doorways.

  “So,” asked Turnbull. “Since I don’t have a radio or anything fancy to communicate with, what do you think happens if, for any reason, this hand drops?”

  The leader swallowed, then puffed out his chest.

  “And you know you’ll be the first to get shot,” the leader said.

  “No, I’d be second.
But I’m betting you’re smart, at least smarter than Do-Rag over there, which can’t be hard. Still, I’m rolling the dice, but I’m feeling good about my chances. And now you’re thinking about whether you ought to roll the dice, and all I can say by way of advice is ‘Fürstenfeldbruck.’”

  “What? Fürstenfuckfeld?”

  “Fürstenfeldbruck. Ah, don’t bother trying to pronounce it. It’s a German airfield – damn, my arm’s getting tired so I better hurry. Fürstenfeldbruck is the airfield the West Germans had the Palestinian terrorists who kidnapped the Israeli athletes at the 1972 Munich Olympics go to to meet their getaway plane.”

  The leader blinked, baffled. Turnbull continued, patiently.

  “See, except it was an ambush. The Germans were waiting there for them. But the operation went really wrong. They teach you all about it in sniper school. See, the Germans only had one sniper per bad guy – actually, less than one shooter per bad guy. So you can probably guess what happened. When they opened fire, they missed taking out all of the bad guys out on the first volley. Tragically, the dirtbag Palestinian terrorists survived long enough to murder the hostages.”

  All the PVs were watching now, but the only one who seemed to be seeing where this was headed was the leader.

  My point is, gentlemen, that you always have two. Two snipers per target. That gives you say, in a place like, well, this street, with this light, and high competence with quality high-powered rifles and, well, targets totally out in the open, about a 98% certainty of a first shot kill.”

  The PVs looked around, nervous – at least, most of them. Do-Rag still seemed puzzled.

  “Let me break it down for you,” Turnbull said, seeing Do-Rag’s bafflement. “If for some reason, any reason, this left hand comes down – because you shoot me, because I trip, because I feel like fucking with your dumb asses – these pissed off townspeople kill you all. My left hand is a lot more efficient than a radio. Hand up, check fire. Hand down, smoke you all.”

  “If you got sixteen snipers,” the leader says, pausing to multiply, “where are they?”

  Turnbull smiled, hand still up, but wavering a tad. “Well, since they undoubtedly had some time to prep because they saw you asswipes coming down Route 231 miles ago, they’re probably in really good, concealed positions since it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that you geniuses are going to stop in the center of town for your little party.”

  “I don’t believe you have sixteen guns on us,” the leader said, his AK starting to drop toward his opponent.

  Turnbull smiled, stepped right a foot to position the leader between him and the other thugs, and in a swift, fluid motion drew out his jet black Wilson .45 from the small of his back with his right hand and pointed it at the face of his opponent.

  Its hammer was cocked. Turnbull’s left hand remained upright.

  The leader froze; the rest of the thugs scrambled, their weapons now all pointed at Turnbull.

  “I only need fourteen shooters,” Turnbull said. “And you can’t swing a dead cat around here without hitting fourteen ex-deer hunters just aching for the chance to take some PV asshole as a trophy. There’s no limit either, and it’s the opening day of the season.”

  The leader said nothing, did nothing.

  “Okay, maybe I’ve taken the metaphor too far. I do that a lot. So let me get to the point. Get back in your tacky ass Chevy shitboxes and get out of my town before we kill you all.”

  The leader stood there for a moment, thinking.

  “The best case scenario is that I’m lying and only you die,” said Turnbull. “Maybe I get Do-Rag too before the rest of you get me, but that’s your best day – just you dying. Now, do you really want to die just so your pals can loot some shit from this town?”

  “I ain’t afraid to die. I’m a warrior.”

  “No, you’re a punk with an AK and a stupid D-Yazzy concert tee. I’m a warrior,” Turnbull said. “By the way, Yazzy’s rhymes are lazy and derivative.”

  The leader blinked.

  “Go,” said Turnbull. “Just go.”

  “Okay, you got me. This time. We’ll roll.”

  “Great, because my left arm is totally cramping. My trigger finger’s still good, though.”

  “We’re leaving,” the leader shouted over his shoulder.

  “Fuck that,” shouted Do-Rag.

  “You got him, or do I…,” Turnbull wiggled his left hand.

  “Get your dumb ass back in the car!” the leader shouted over his shoulder.

  “Oh, and leave your guns,” said Turnbull.

  “What?”

  “The guns. Leave the guns, and any spare mags, if these dipshits thought to bring any.”

  “Ain’t leaving our guns.”

  “Well, you ain’t leaving with them. I mean, we’re willing to pass on shooting you and burying your asses somewhere in those woods you passed coming into town, so I think you’re getting a really good deal, and you should take it. Now put the fucking guns on the deck right now because my arm is getting tired for real.”

  The leader considered, the black Wilson’s yawning barrel looming a foot or so in front of his face. He squatted, placing the AK on the asphalt. The rest went along, then wordlessly got into their cars.

  “We’re coming back,” said the leader. “And with a lot more of us.”

  “I know,” said Turnbull. “But you seem smart, so let me recommend you get yourself a desk job, because the next time you PVs show up in Jasper, we’re going to kill you all.”

  As they drove away, Turnbull waved good-bye with his still raised left hand.

  People shyly poked their heads out of the buildings and businesses, and stepped back outside. Bellman and Chalmers stepped over to Turnbull in the middle of Main Street. The puppy was along too, still clenching the flat frog in its mouth. It growled.

  “Collect these AKs and dig up your guns,” Turnbull said. “I think we just ruled out a nonviolent solution.”

  6.

  “Who is he?” she demanded.

  Deputy Cannon stood there in front of Lieutenant Kessler’s empty desk, his mind racing. He finally spoke.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? You know everybody in this shitkicker town. You freaking grew up here!” she yelled and slammed the desk with her dainty fist.

  “I don’t know who the guy who scared off the PVs is. I have no clue.”

  Of course, that wasn’t quite true. He had something like a clue; more like a gut feeling. He had seen that big guy the day before when they were helping Dale to the dentist, but he didn’t recognize the guy. He just knew the stranger looked like bad news. And this was all bad news.

  “They have weapons now, eight AKs plus ammo stolen from the PVs. Where are they? Somewhere in this town. We’re going to find them, and the people who did this.”

  “I can ask around. I’ll talk to the mayor.”

  “The mayor – what’s his name? Silver? He’s everything wrong with this town. Another smug, privileged cis-het male. When he finds out his kind is going to be disqualified from holding office, it’ll break his heart.” Lieutenant Kessler smiled.

  “Look,” said Cannon, ignoring her rant. “I can try to get whoever took them to turn them in. Maybe we give amnesty to whoever turns them in.”

  “Sure, amnesty. Just allow them to point weapons at the servants of the people because they don’t feel like being punished for their arrogance. No, we’re going to find and deal with everyone involved in this, Deputy. And these people are going to learn.”

  Lieutenant Kessler settled back at her desk, her voice returning to normal. “Your townies are on my last nerve, Deputy. You saw what we did to the Langers when they provoked us. This isn’t a game.”

  “Lieutenant, I know it isn’t a game. But you can’t have these People’s Volunteers punks coming into town and beating the shit out of our people.”

  “Our people? That’s your problem. You have dual loyalty, Deputy. Your people, your only
people, should be the people of the People’s Republic, not these renegade fascists who won’t accept their place in the new order. They never do. We always have to teach them.”

  “What did they ever do wrong, Lieutenant? These are normal people, good people. Just leave them alone. Let them live their lives.”

  “They think they can just keep sitting back, privileged and powerful. We’ve got news for you and your townsfolk, Deputy. Things have changed. They aren’t in control anymore. Time for them to shut up and listen. And they’re going to conform.”

  “Look, let’s stop this before it gets out of control.”

  “It’s already out of control, but I’m going to get it back under control. I’m going to Indianapolis for a security meeting this afternoon, and when I get back, these people are going to learn what control is. Now you get out there and you talk to your backwoods brothers and sisters and figure out who the hell is behind this. That’s the best thing you can do for them – it’ll go a lot easier if we find them fast and we don’t have to get rough.

  “Get rough?”

  “Yes Deputy, get rough. It means what it means,” the lieutenant said. “And you need to change into the PSF regulation uniform and get out of that Andy Griffin tan costume. It’s a new reality, and you need to accept it just like this town does.”

  He didn’t bother correcting her about Andy Griffith. “If you want me to talk to the people, you better let me dress like a friend instead of an enemy.”

  “Once again you’ve put your finger on the problem, Deputy Cannon. These people see the People’s Security Force as an enemy, not as a friend. Which tells me that they are enemies of the people. Now get out of my office.”

  Cannon stepped into the squad room and shut the door. There were only one or two tan uniforms left; the rest were in black PSF utilities, and all of those were strangers.

  Turnbull pulled back the bolt on the AK and locked it open. He checked for a round and seeing the chamber was clear, stuck his little finger inside the action, rubbed it around, and pulled it out again.

  His finger came back jet black.

  “Why am I not shocked that these asswipes never clean their weapons?” he asked aloud. The three other townspeople in the garage looked up. Davey Wohl owned the gas station, or he did before it was nationalized in the name of providing cheap petroleum to the people. Wohl’s “fair compensation” for his business barely covered his People’s property tax assessment for 2025. He now did odd jobs and auto repairs out of his home’s garage.