Free State Of Dodge

by Javan Bonds

  Redstone knew there was nothing he could say to stop her crying, so, after making sure she would be OK until the morning, he politely excused himself. He was so glad to be out of there. Dead people had always creeped him the hell out. He hated going to the funeral home.

  As he walked to his truck, he looked up to the sky and wondered what they were going to do with the mayor. He would start rotting eventually. How are we supposed to get his guts out? That was a disgusting thought, but the harder he tried to think of something else, the more vivid the mental image of disemboweling a naked fat guy became. His stomach was not the weakest, but for the first time he could remember, it was turning at his own thoughts.

  He hopped into his truck, pulled out a cigarillo from his console, lit it, and puffed away, hoping it would take his mind off of death. He decided that after a night of well-earned sleep, he should go up to town hall and report on what had happened tonight. The National Guard guys might want to know. He continued smoking the tobacco until he turned into his driveway and threw the cigarillo out. Whitney was probably asleep, but he didn’t feel like getting caught tonight.

  CHAPTER 17

  July 17

  IT HAD BEEN almost two weeks, and most folks had reverted to using wristwatches to keep the time. And even though he would have rather had a pocket watch, Jackson had given up his cell phone and started wearing the Rolex knockoff analog wristwatch he had had since middle school. He woke with enough sunlight streaming through the window to lift his watch from the nightstand and notice the time. Turning, he sat up on the side of the bed and remembered again how the big house used a pump system to retrieve running water from a well. Jackson had showered at his parents’ for the past few days, which made him regret even more that he had not invested in the pump system along with his father.

  He climbed out of bed wearing a pair of basketball shorts, as he normally did, and walked to the kitchen to grab one of the instant breakfast protein shakes from the case that lay on the floor in the dark corner beside the refrigerator. He would rather have had a coffee and a sausage biscuit, but this did not require cooking, and canned goods would keep much longer.

  He popped the top as he walked out of his front door to sit in the rocking chair on the porch. Jackson loved the silence, and besides the low hum of Jeff’s solar-powered batteries and generators, the only sounds were of nature.

  As he sat sipping on his shake, he heard a man speaking. Knowing it was his friend and neighbor, he looked across the road at Redstone’s trailer. The front door opened, and Redstone continued speaking in a conversation he was having with his wife. “Hell if I know. The water board probably has something against you because you mean mouthed them last time they called.”

  Redstone walked down the steps as the screen door bounced closed behind him, and Jackson could hear Whitney but only as a low mumble. Her husband replied tersely, “Whatever. I’ll ask when I get to town hall.”

  Redstone turned his head forward while making his way to the police truck. He raised his head to notice Jackson and waved a friendly wave. Jackson waved in return and placed his empty drink can on the railing as he stepped off the porch and began walking to the road. Speaking at an almost indoor volume, the men exchanged the customary greetings, and Redstone began walking as well.

  Their paths met with the fence standing between them, and they easily reached through for an obligatory handshake. “If we were in Georgia and this tree was a pine, this could be a song,” Redstone laughingly said while gesturing to the nearest tree.

  His friend picked up the reference and jokingly replied, “Shut the hell up.” Jackson dipped his head at the trailer behind his friend and asked, “What was she hollering about?”

  Redstone looked confused for an instant, as if he had forgotten the last “she” he had talked to was his wife. After following Jackson’s eyes, he answered, “Oh, she wasn’t. We were just having to talk loud over those damn kids.”

  Jackson almost laughed at this. His friend never seemed to be fond of any children but had three, with one on the way. Even though Whitney and Redstone had been married almost six years, Jackson swore she had been pregnant since he had met her.

  His thoughts were broken as his friend continued. “She said the water pressure is weak. I told her a water pipe is probably busted somewhere, or they are running out of gas in their generators.”

  Jackson glanced past him again at the trailer. “Could be either one. You can always tell her she can go over to Mama and Daddy’s.”

  Redstone, as he often did, abruptly changed subjects. “Webb is dead.”

  Jackson cocked an eyebrow. “Huh?”

  His friend explained once more and made sure to clearly enunciate the name. “Webb Cobb died last night.”

  Recognition of the name slowly crept up on Jackson, and, still a bit confused, he asked, “The mayor?”

  Redstone automatically said, “Of course not. I mean the other man named Webb Cobb that we know.”

  Jackson gazed up at the sky in exasperation. He didn’t see the mayor at work every day and wasn’t on a first-name basis with the guy. “Damn, man. What happened?”

  Redstone began his story at about the time they were leaving town hall. He didn’t want to say anything about shooting a machine gun, because he knew Jackson would want to come along. He mentioned his radio conversation with Jeff, explained how he’d had to help Mrs. Cobb carry her dead husband into their house, and ended the monologue with, “And I threw my smoke out before I got into the driveway.”

  Jackson hadn’t interrupted the story with any questions, and he broke his silence. “So what happens now?”

  Redstone looked down at his watch and said, “Well, I got to git and tell them marines about Webb, and then I guess I’ll just find a box—”

  Jackson interrupted him. “I mean, don’t we need a mayor?”

  He could tell Redstone obviously had not thought of this before, as his surprised friend said, “I really ain’t got no idea. Hell, Sherman might make himself the mayor.”

  Jackson knew that his friend meant that as a joke, but he had been thinking it himself. “I think there will be a lot of people who don’t like that,” Jackson said before he turned his head and spit over the fence.

  Redstone began to step back from the fence. “I’ll make sure to let him know y’all will lynch him if he tries to go fascist,” the police officer further joked, encouraging his friend. “And there might even be a lieutenant mayor nobody knows about, so you may not have to worry about it.” Redstone looked down at his watch again. “I really got to go. I don’t want to be late.” He paused, making sure not to mention any automatic weapons or grenade launchers and ending instead with, “To fulfill my civil duty.”

  Jackson chuckled. If sleeping in his truck was considered a civil duty, his friend had gone above and beyond the call. “All right, man. I’ll see you.”

  They both reached through the gate again and shook hands, and Redstone said, “See you.” Both men turned and walked back in the directions of their respective houses, Redstone not having as great a distance to travel. Jackson could hear his truck door open and slam and the motor growl as his friend turned the corner.

  When Jackson was about halfway to his front porch, a voice called from behind him. “Jackson?”

  This wasn’t Redstone, so he turned to see it was Mr. Chaffin, the closest neighbor to the Pikes, behind their property. Mr. Chaffin’s land bordered that of his father’s at the creek, and his house faced Huckleberry Road. The older man was speaking to Jackson from his truck, which was stopped in the middle of the road.

  Redstone topped the hill going in the same direction Mr. Chaffin’s truck was facing, and Jackson probably would not have heard a vehicle approaching because of the conversation he had been having with his friend and then because the engine sounds overlapped. He would have recognized the second engine if he had been paying attention, and he cursed himself for not being more alert.

  He turned and began walkin
g back to the fence as he asked in a friendly tone, “Yes sir?” He instantly recognized the man but could not remember ever having a conversation with him and wondered why Mr. Chaffin had decided this was the time to come visit.

  The old man reached his neck out of the window. “I was driving along my fence this morning and could see your little hunting shack through the trees.” He was referring to the small shed Jackson and his father had built near the back of their property a few years ago, which they used when deer hunting. They kept bottles of water and a box of beef jerky and several small tools useful for hunting in it. The building had no electricity and was basically just a place to stay if it was raining.

  The older man continued. “And it looked to me as if there was somebody in there. If it wasn’t you or your dad, you might want to have a look-see.”

  Jackson looked thoughtful and then said, “No sir, it wasn’t me. I’ll check with Daddy, and if it wasn’t him, I’ll go check it out.”

  The old man continued looking at Jackson but placed both hands on the steering wheel. “Well, I just figured I’d let you know. Don’t need no people living where they ain’t welcome.”

  Squatters. Jackson had not given much thought to it, and he doubted his father had been in the building recently. He just wasn’t ready to believe there would be homeless people in Dodge, Alabama.

  He would need to get dressed before he went to see if there was anyone, and he made a half turn to the house. ‘I’ll look into it and let you know what I find. Appreciate you letting me know.”

  The old man gave a grunt and nodded to Jackson, who gave small wave. He turned to face the house and began walking as the truck began moving. He would radio his father, and if it turned out to be an unknown, then he would go check it out.

  CHAPTER 18

  July 17

  JACKSON COULD HEAR his boots clunking as he walked down the stairs into the dimly lit garage. He dropped a pack of Big Red into his pocket after shoving a stick of gum into his mouth and walked to the driver’s door of his truck. He opened the unlocked door, pulled his keychain from his pocket, inserted the key into the ignition, and fired it up. Without even sitting completely in the seat or shutting the door, he reached for his only reason for not walking out right past the truck. “Daddy?” He asked into the handset of his CB radio.

  After a few moments, Jeff replied, “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Chaffin came by this morning and said he was out in his pasture.” Jackson paused, having an irrational fear that every message he sent through a radio would not be received.

  But after a few seconds, his father realized he had stopped speaking and urged him to continue. “And?”

  “He thought he saw someone in our hunting shack.” Jackson left the sentence hanging.

  His father quickly said, “Well, I ain’t been out there in weeks, so it wasn’t me.”

  Jackson figured as much and said, “I’m fixing to go take a look down there and see what it was.” Jackson realized that even though the building was pretty well sealed, an animal could have gotten inside.

  “It’s probably a coon. Just be sure to take your pistol with you.” Even Jeff doubted they would have uninvited guests, as it had not been long enough since the power outage for the inevitable migration of city dwellers into more rural areas. These migrants were sometimes called the golden horde. They would use up all the resources of a community and simply move until they found another populated area they could leech dry.

  “I plan on that, and I figure I’ll just walk because I don’t want to scare them if it was to be a person.”

  Jeff replied, “All right. I’ll listen for gunshots.”

  He smiled, knowing this was his father’s version of a joke, and spoke into the handset again. “Appreciate that. I’ll let you know what I find. See you.”

  Jeff ended the conversation. “OK, I’ll see you.” He dropped the handset back into its holder, took the keys out of the ignition, and shut the door as he stepped back from the vehicle. He knelt, felt his boot for the nine millimeter in the ankle holster, and, finding that it was where it should be, began walking to the door.

  He made his way down the gently sloping hill that ran from his driveway to the creek. Jackson wanted to keep out of the direct sunlight and stay in the coolness along the creek, which followed the fence line. The temperature was considerably lower with the water gurgling beside him, but he could still feel the heat from the sunshine through the leaves of the trees, and he knew this was perfect: the cool barely holding back the unbearable heat. He felt like a kid again, walking through the woods alone. The only sounds were those of nature. The smell of dirt, the sound of running water, and the plants made him feel as though he had fallen backward in history, to the time of the Cherokees or even before.

  His reverie was broken as he realized he had walked to the back of the property, and if he walked much farther forward, he would land in one of the deep parts of the creek, where it made its gradual turn.

  The hunting shack was to his right and almost behind him, so he began walking in that direction. As he grew closer, he attempted to move silently by taking shorter steps and avoiding stepping on leaves when possible. But it was the woods in Alabama. At no time of the year could anyone—not even a ninja—avoid crunching on leaves. Once he had reached the edge of the tree line, he stood still for a moment, hoping to hear or see some movement.

  The instant before he took a step to cross the small clearing around the building, he could have sworn he heard a male cough. He stopped in midstride, his foot hanging in the air inches above crunching leaves that would surely alert the intruder with an automatic weapon locked and loaded. Jackson instead swung his foot around to rest on the tree he was standing by and began to shuffle on his one planted foot to stand behind this tree to use it as cover. He did not move, watching through the two small windows of the shack and seeing a flash of fabric. Holy shit. I wonder how many of them there are and how many guns they have. Jackson was going through a list of questions, scenarios, and outcomes as he slowly lifted his pant leg to pull out his pistol and slowly slid the safety off.

  Gun in hand, he remained completely unmoving as he continued to watch and thought he should plan on a silent route from his current position to the door of the shack. He noticed that one of the nearby trees, with knots in the trunk, seemed low enough for him to climb and then perhaps walk out on a branch and jump to land less than a foot from the door. But then the memory of his seven-year-old broken ankle came to him. Jackson and trees had never been friends, so he quickly decided against that.

  He noticed that to the left of the door, there was a path from the tree line that was practically free of leaves and decided he could jump the few feet between the bases of each tree until he made it to the lone pine in this tree line. There were considerably less leaves at the base of each tree, and as he made the leap from the last tree to his destination, he noticed that the only obstacles on his path to the building were a few easily seen pinecones. He crept toward the door, pistol ready, in a stealthy crouch. He made sure to stay below the window and as close to the wall as he possibly could while trying to listen for any movement or voices.

  They either saw me and are in position with their guns at the door, ready to fill me with holes as I enter; they are asleep; or there’s no one in there anyway, and I’m just seeing shit. Man, I’m glad no one is here to see me, because it would be humiliating to go through all of this because of my imagination. Redstone would laugh his ass off.

  As he slowly stood up and pressed himself against the door, he heard the shuffle of shoes inside on the wood floor. He held his gun in front of him as he positioned his other hand just below the doorknob. He was suffering the same thoughts Redstone had suffered that day at the gas station: should he yell “freeze” or even “reach for the sky” as he burst through the door, gun outstretched?

  Once he finally did psych himself up enough to slam the door open, he said nothing, figuring the fast movement, the noise, and
the sunlight through the open doorway would be enough warning. Jackson’s eyes had not adjusted from the sudden entrance into a dark building, but he hoped pointing a gun in the direction of the intruder would be threat enough to deter the person from shooting. As his eyes adjusted and he looked down the barrel into this darkened room, he immediately recognized the human shape rapidly coming into focus before him.

  The interloper’s vision was obviously just now adjusting as well, as the shape asked, “Jacky?”

  CHAPTER 19

  July 17

  AS HIS TRUCK passed under the high crosswalk that went over the highway from the school campus to the football field, Redstone smacked the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. “Hot damn, I got it!” He exclaimed. He had been contemplating what should be done with Webb’s body and could not think of any morticians or coroners he personally knew. He was considering driving over to Maryton to see if they could lend a helping hand when it finally hit him: Mr. Taylor, one of the older men living in town, used to do taxidermy. If Redstone wasn’t driving or sitting down, he would have done a jig. He could fix shit, no matter what Whitney said.

  His smile faded instantly. Oh, God. Taxidermy on a person. That’s a horrible idea. He was thinking so intently, he almost drove straight through the red light but slammed on his brakes just in time to make the turn. As he pulled into his usual parking place at town hall, he was trying to think of another option. But as he pulled the key out of the ignition, all he could think of was the mayor’s head being stuffed and mounted on the wall in Bobbi Jo’s office.

  Opening the door and stepping onto the pavement, he decided this could actually work. It was closer, a little more personal, since, Redstone recalled, Mr. Taylor went to church with the Cobbs. And a hell of a lot easier. He was thankful he would not have to be present for the whole taxidermy process, and now he would just have to go ask Mr. Taylor if he was up for it.