Free State Of Dodge

by Javan Bonds

  Jackson thought about that, seemed to immediately calm down, and grumbled, “It’s still not fucking fair.”

  Redstone jerked as he remembered he had more good news. “Oh, and good thing you used nines. It’ll take more looking into than they will bother with to figure out it wasn’t from me, even counting the lead and shit.” He finished stating this while patting his hand on the butt of his holstered pistol.

  Jackson’s gaze shot up from the pistol to his friend’s face as he asked, “Can’t the other dude just tell them I was there?”

  As if anticipating this, Redstone began speaking before his friend finished. “Yeah, but they ain’t gonna believe an attempted cop killer. Benefit of wearing the badge.” He thumped his badge before adding, “And they’ll probably find traces of drugs and shit in his system, so nothing he says will hold up in court.”

  Relieved he was getting off pretty much completely free, Jackson felt the tension fade from his body as he eased back into his chair and asked what he realized should have been bothering him more than the state of his truck. “What about the other two guys? Will they make it?”

  Redstone saw the pleading in his eyes and didn’t want the deaths of two men on his friend’s conscience. “Last I heard they were in critical but stable condition at the hospital. And don’t worry about them crying they were shot by an unknown shooter. They’ll be doped up for so long, their stories won’t be credible.” Redstone slung his arms over his head to imitate panic. “Chill out; they ain’t dead!”

  They sat on either side of the desk laughing, joking, and telling stories both would know by heart, especially stories of the day’s events, though they acted as if each story were completely new and the other was not a main character in any of them. Noticing that the shadows were growing longer and the sun was setting, both rose to begin a slow walk outside, talking as they moved.

  Upon reaching the edge of the sidewalk, Redstone jerked as if electrocuted and piped, “Oh!” Jackson turned to ask what his friend had forgotten as Redstone grinned evilly and shoved his hand into his pocket. “I gotcha something. Do it, man.” As he spoke he produced a business card that he placed in Jackson’s open hand, and he immediately saw that Redstone had deliberately given it to him facing down. On closer inspection Jackson could barely make out Redstone’s barely legible handwriting of “Lacey Rice,” a seven-digit phone number below it in the same chicken scratch, and “GET LAID” below that.

  Jackson looked up at his friend with a disbelieving smile and asked, “Really, man? The girl is probably a mess.”

  “Yeah, but my wife makes me watch TLC and shit, and—”

  Jackson interrupted with a laugh. “You watch it willingly. Don’t lie!”

  Ignoring the jab and snorting, Redstone continued as if his friend had not spoken. “She says it’s healthy for trauma victims to be around people who have gone through something similar.”

  Jackson knew Redstone had to have watched shows on that network intently; he was quoting it too well to have heard it from his wife.

  “We don’t have anything in common. I didn’t kill anybody.” Jackson swung his arm toward the Texaco—not really to emphasize anything, just for the sake of moving.

  “That don’t matter. You did shoot somebody, you were there when it happened, and you probably saved her life.” He turned to face the Texaco as he continued summarizing. “Besides, you might have other stuff in common. And even if you don’t, you can still get some.” Redstone ended with a broad smile.

  Jackson replied with suppressed laughter, “You’re a bastard.”

  The friends soon arrived at Jackson’s truck, and Jackson walked to the driver’s door and turned to extend his hand to Redstone. They shook. It was an unspoken tradition with all of Jackson’s friends and acquaintances—you shake hands upon greeting and upon leaving. When Redstone turned to walk away, Jackson stuck his head out the still-open window and shouted as he turned the key in the ignition, “If she shoots me down, I’m kicking your ass!”

  Redstone turned to look at him sideways, and, barely audible over the fresh sound of the engine, shouted, “She already shot one guy down. I’d be careful if I was you!”

  They both laughed at a joke that would’ve been considered distasteful at any other time, and Jackson pulled out of the parking lot.

  Jackson saw his buddy walking back into the front door of town hall, turned his head to face the gas station, and noticed the owner was obviously inside cleaning up the mess. Other than his car and a few strands of yellow caution tape, the Texaco appeared to be as much a ghost-town gas station as usual. A few yards down the road, he stopped at the undoubtedly red traffic light and decided to wait rather than test Redstone’s unpredictable jovial mood. Since it was quitting time, he was greeted by a couple of cars and even a few bicyclists. Even though his workweek had been cut to four days because his boss didn’t want to pay him an extra buck every week for sitting around and doing nothing, some people still worked five days a week and had to get home. He was glad to see these individuals were still making it, regardless of the state of the economy.

  By now the last bicyclist was fading into the late haze of an Alabama summer day, and for a moment Jackson could believe he was the last man on Earth. When the light finally turned green and Jackson began to cross the empty highway, his mother’s ringtone sounded in his front pocket. He pulled his phone out, flipped it open, and brought it to his ear. “Hey, Mama,” he said, planning to ask what she needed.

  Interpreting that as the end of his sentence, she began. “Hey, your dad is home. He’s glad to hear you’re okay, and he wants you to come up to the house, so he can talk to you when you get here.”

  He had expected as much, since he hadn’t spoken to his father after leaving the shop that morning. He said, “I’m fixin’ to be there. I’ll come up to y’all’s house shortly.” Hoping this would be the end of the conversation, Jackson opened his mouth to begin his good-byes but was interrupted—he always seemed to get cut off; that was one drawback to being a slow talker.

  “I talked to Janet a while ago, and she said Hollis would be seeing a trauma counselor for a few days and then coming home.”

  Jackson chuckled as he replied, “Well, at least one of us is getting some help after seeing people shot.” He winced because he had almost mentioned he had done some of the shooting.

  He heard his mother’s smile through the phone but was unable to tell if she was being sarcastic as she said, “If you need to talk about it, you know my number.”

  His cheeks reddened in embarrassment at her offer, and this gave him more reason to want to get off the phone besides the fact that he had spent more time on the phone than usual, and evasively he said, “I’m gonna go, Mama. I’ll see you in a minute.”

  Realizing he was rushing to end the call, as every man with the last name Pike was fond of doing, she reluctantly said, “OK, son. Be safe and I love you.”

  Jackson mumbled, “You too” as he pulled the phone from his ear. He snapped it shut and dropped it into his pocket.

  When he dropped his phone back into his pocket, the phone pulled at the corner of the business card Redstone had given him; the card made a slight popping noise as it bent to its extreme and straightened to its original position against the phone. It caught Jackson’s attention, and he figured he should go ahead and call Lacey before he thought about it too much and made up a reason to back out. Using the same hand that had held his phone, he brought the business card from his pocket and read aloud the number on the back. He had had a semi-photographic memory since birth and never had a problem with phone numbers but found himself repeating it several times just to be sure as he simultaneously replaced the card in his pocket and rolled the window up to provide more soundproofing. He then slowly produced his trusty flip phone from his pocket, opened it to dial the number he was still repeating, and realized his hands were starting to shake. I’m not in high school, and I’m not really asking her on a date. I’m just asking her
if she wants to hang out and talk about what happened, he thought, trying to calm himself down as he brought the phone to his ear.

  He promised himself to hang up after four rings, but the connection clicked on the third, and the voice of a middle-aged-sounding woman answered. “Hello?”

  It was too late to back out now, so Jackson dove in. “Mrs. Rice? This is Jackson Pike.”

  Understanding the pause as an opportunity to speak, she said, “Pike? Denise’s kid? Oh, how is your mom? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

  Before she could continue, Jackson interjected, “Yes, ma’am, you got me. I’m all right. How are y’all? Is Lacey there?” Jackson had to squelch the lump in his throat as he asked, and he wondered how much of the story Lacey had told her mother.

  She responded as if nothing traumatic had occurred. “We’re doing fine, and I think she’s in her room. Let me get her. Oh, and she said she saw you earlier today, before…” She let her sentence trail off, informing Jackson that she knew something came after the “before.”

  Jackson stiffened as he asked, “What all did she tell you? And is she OK? That’s kind of why I called.”

  “She said something about an attempted robbery at the gas station. I don’t know if you were there or not, but Cliff Stone brought her home in his truck and told me she might suffer some post-traumatic stress or something. She’s been really quiet, and she’s stayed in her room since she returned home, but when she’s ready to talk, she will. I’ll see if she’s willing to take a phone call.”

  Jackson heard her pause and shout, “Lacey,” muffled and distant, as if she had turned her head and placed her hand over the receiver. After another pause, obviously waiting for a response from her daughter, she shouted, “Pick up the phone…No. It’s Jackson Pike.” Jackson blushed at the mention of his name, wondering what Lacey’s thoughts would be. He heard the line click once more and then Lacey’s voice.

  “OK, I got it, Mama.”

  Without giving Jackson time to respond, Mrs. Rice hastily said, “OK. I’ll talk to you later, Jackson,” and hung up the phone.

  Jackson wasn’t sure what to do now that Lacey was on the phone. He steadied his breathing and meekly said, “Hey, Lacey, its Jackson.” He paused, wondering if he needed to elaborate or if she would remember him on a first-name basis.

  As he opened his mouth to further explain who he was, Lacey responded in a flat monotone that let Jackson know she was still in shock. “Hey.” He caught a hint of recognition in her voice and assumed she knew who he was.

  He wondered if she should have an appointment with a counselor and wanted to ask her in detail if she was OK, but he simply settled for “how are you doing?”

  Not knowing how she would answer that, he waited for what seemed an eternity, and she finally said with the same emotionless voice, “I’m OK. Mama is making chicken tonight.”

  Jackson froze again, noticing she was not in touch with reality, trying to think of something to say. He thought about what Redstone had said but could not possibly take advantage of someone in this condition. But he realized it might be good for her to talk to someone who had been there when the shit hit the fan.

  “Is she going to make chicken fingers? My mom does some pretty good breading.” What the hell is wrong with you? Just ask her if you can come over sometime, he thought as he kicked himself for acting like a damn kid.

  Before he could say anything else that was uncomfortably sophomoric, she mumbled out a simple “yeah,” as if she had not even heard Jackson’s comment about his mother’s chicken. This just reaffirmed in Jackson’s mind that the girl needed to talk to someone, professional or otherwise. Now he wasn’t worried about pursuing any type of relationship with the girl; he just knew she couldn’t survive long like this and wanted to help her out.

  When he decided he wasn’t going to be asking her out on a date, the teenager inside him seemed to calm down. The muscles in his neck loosening and his jaw unclenching, he breathed deep and asked, “Are you doing anything tomorrow?” He left the question hanging, not wanting to force her traumatized brain to over process.

  She said in a dry, uneasy voice, “No, I’m off work tomorrow,” even though she was skipping the details of why she would be off work, and he had already known what her answer would be.

  He asked, as if talking to a child, “Well, do you think I can come over tomorrow afternoon and see you?” He kept reminding himself he wasn’t picking her up for a date, and this wouldn’t be a social call in that sense. He just felt it would be easier for her to talk to him than to her parents.

  “I have to ask Mama first.”

  He almost shuddered at what a high-school girl would say when she didn’t want to go out with you, but then he remembered he wasn’t in high school or asking her out and that this could actually be true.

  As Jackson opened his mouth to form “OK,” the voice of Lacey’s mother sounded. “Tomorrow afternoon would be fine, and you can even eat supper with us.”

  Anger flashed across Jackson’s face. More than one girl’s parents had listened into their phone conversations and he had gotten in trouble a few times for saying things he would not have said had he known they were listening, but that anger quickly turned into embarrassment. He had not said anything inappropriate, so he wasn’t exactly sure what he should be feeling.

  He was expecting Lacey to be angry with her mother for spying on her, as every other girl he had ever talked to had immediately been, but she simply stated, “Mama says it’s OK.”

  No shit, he thought and then realized he should not be irritated at the girl who had just shot a man in the head.

  Jackson had to fumble for words. “OK, Mrs. Rice thanks. I plan to be there after four. Is that good?”

  “Yeah, that will work. And we are having macaroni to go with the chicken fingers,” Mrs. Rice added. Jackson understood that this would be the end of the conversation until tomorrow, so he figured he would make his farewells. “All right. Well, thanks, Mrs. Rice, and I will see you tomorrow, Lacey.”

  Jackson wasn’t really expecting anything more than “OK” from her and was surprised to get a warmer “OK, we’ll see you then, Jackson.”

  He waited for the Rices to hang up, and upon hearing both of the lines click, he pulled the phone away from his ear and closed it. “That went better than I expected,” he said, and then he began thinking of how he should explain the day’s events to her mother.

  By now he was slowing to turn in the driveway, and he stopped at the gate. Out of habit he jumped out, opened the gate, drove through, and closed it again. At a younger age, he had briefly wished for an automatic gate, but this task upon entering and leaving the property soon became so instinctual that doing it required no thought. He was back in his truck now and realized he had not planned the conversation with his father. There was no real need to. He wasn’t a teenager trying to lie about where he had been last night; this would be an adult conversation, and he knew the type of questions his father would ask. He cut his truck off in the middle of the gravel road in front of the big house, swung the door open to exit, and began walking to the front door, not bothering to bring his keys with him. If someone was stupid enough to storm the Pike property but smart enough to steal his vehicle and get away without a chunk of lead in him, he deserved the truck.

  CHAPTER 6

  July 5

  “WHAT IF THIS doesn’t work? You know what happened this morning, so what if they’re in lockdown or something?” Frank asked nervously. He was a young but wiry kid with blond hair that was trimmed so short his scalp regularly burned in the sun. He looked over to the driver, Martin, with wary eyes. Martin was in his mid-thirties and stayed in the best shape possible, knowing that white men would one day need to fight against their mixed oppressors for purity to rule. Tattoos peeked over his dark-blue coveralls on his neck and at his wrists; Frank knew that almost every visible inch of his body was covered in tattoos. Having never seen Martin naked, he could only guess at the rest.


  Martin spoke without taking his attention off the road. “We have gone over this so many times, I could do it in my sleep. We knew what was coming, and they won’t be expecting anything else.”

  Frank knew all this. Through all the scenarios that had been suggested, a land-based attack of the hydroelectric dam was the option militia leaders had agreed would work best. A large group of militias, including the Missouri Free Militia, had decided to coordinate and had marked today as the beginning of their revolution. All over the country, major strikes would be made against the false US government, and today would be remembered as the start of the second American Revolution.

  As their white van with “Barry’s Plumbing” plastered on the side came over a rounded hill of the empty four-lane highway, Frank jubilantly pointed at a sign marked “TVA” at the corner of a road that seemed to lead endlessly into the darkening woods. “There it is!” he excitedly shouted, the swastika tattoo showing on the bottom of his wrist as he pointed. Frank, Martin, and the four men in the back of the van were all uniformly wearing identical dark-blue jumpsuits; Frank’s just seemed a tad too short for his long, bony arms.

  “I see it.” Martin had a hint of irritation in his voice. “Just don’t piss your pants.”

  Martin eased the acceleration, looked over his shoulder into the windowless rear compartment, and said he was about to turn onto Dam Road. Frank had snickered at this and made jokes through the entire planning process about how they were going to “blow up the dam on Dam Road, dammit!”

  Frank tilted his head as the van straightened, trying to see their destination from this end of the road. It was impossible; the trees on the side made it appear as if they were driving into the black mouth of some giant monster. That seemed poetic to him, because they could well be going to their deaths.

  He heard actions sliding open and snapping closed behind him; the men were obviously doing some last-minute checks on their weapons, and he knew they had spent half the trip double-checking their unarmed explosives. They had fragmentation bombs in their gutted plumber equipment, C-4 sticky bombs in their backpacks, and thermite grenades in every pocket that wasn’t filled with guns and ammunition.