Free State Of Dodge

by Javan Bonds

  He pushed open the front door and heard four men shout in unison, “Yes sir!” He rounded the corner to Bobbi Jo’s office as the men ended their salute and turned to march past him. He walked forward a few more steps and heard the back door shut behind them as they marched out.

  Sherman stood at parade rest behind the secretary’s desk, and the redhead attempted to imitate his pose. After failing, he simply stood with his arms at his sides as the SFC watched him with barely hidden scorn. The two men faced each other in complete silence, and Redstone could see Sherman preparing to ask a question but asked his own first. “Where are they going?”

  Sherman had not been expecting this question but answered, “They are going out on a routine patrol.”

  “Patrolling what?”

  “The overall town. They are just keeping the peace.”

  Redstone found that funny. It was pretty damn peaceful anyway. He smiled as he said, “And taking people’s guns, right?”

  Sherman seemed offended that one stupid hillbilly would even ask but answered, “If the opportunity presents itself. But for now they will mostly let anyone they see know there is a buyback program taking place here at town hall. Did you notice the banner out front?”

  A banner? It was probably advertising that a person would receive government vouchers for guns. And even though Redstone had not been paying enough attention to notice it as he pulled up, he acted informed. “Oh, so that’s what that was for. How long is this buyback going to last?”

  “Citizens will be allowed fourteen days to voluntarily bring their firearms here—”

  Before Sherman could finish, Redstone cut in. “And what happens when the two weeks is up?”

  Sherman did not enjoy being interrupted, and, after pausing to take a deep breath, he continued. “If the great majority of guns are not turned in, then our patrols must go to each house and begin confiscation.” It appeared Sherman had more to say, and Redstone wanted to tell him he would be lucky to get two guns from his little buyback horseshit. Holding a smile just below the surface, Sherman answered the question he knew Redstone was going to ask. “These patrols will, of course, be armed and will confiscate firearms by force if necessary.”

  At this Redstone’s eyes grew wide, and he took a step back to steady himself against the doorframe. Holy shit, this guy’s a fascist! Wait until I tell Jeff. He’s going to lose it.

  With a knowing look in his eyes and a hint of a smile across his face, Sherman condescendingly asked, “Would you care to participate in some of these confiscation patrols?”

  Hell no. You couldn’t pay me enough, especially with your vouchers! Redstone knew he needed to remain being seen as a stupid country cop, and he simply said, “That’s all right. Y’all are probably better equipped to deal with that.”

  Sherman had known that this fucking yokel wouldn’t have the balls to take control of his stupid little town, but he just had to ask to hear this guy admit he was a pussy. He pulled the chair from under the desk so he could take a seat, but Redstone continued standing and glancing back over his shoulder, as if waiting for someone.

  As Sherman opened his laptop, Redstone asked, “Where’s Alvarez?”

  Sherman turned his head and looked to Redstone as he replied. “I believe he is doing maintenance on my Humvee. Why?”

  It didn’t sound as if Alvarez had Sherman’s permission to take him to the target range, and Redstone didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. He just wanted to blow shit up. So he tried to think of a good reason and stammered, “Uhh…Because I told him I would help him out with that.”

  Redstone winced, fearing the ruse would fail, but the SFC simply wanted to be rid of him. He shrugged and looked back down to his laptop. “You’ll find him somewhere. Knock yourself out.”

  Redstone nodded his head and took a step back, about to make his way to the door, and it struck him that he had completely forgotten to say anything about Webb. He felt ashamed that he had been too worried about going to have fun and had forgotten something so important.

  He stopped and, without even turning back to face Sherman, stated flatly, “Webb passed away last night.”

  Sherman cocked his head to the side and raised his questioning eyes. “The…”

  Redstone felt slightly insulted. “Yes, the mayor!”

  Sherman could hardly contain his cynical laughter and tried to sound overly concerned. “That’s horrible! How did it happen?”

  Redstone dropped his head and replied, “I watched him have a heart attack in his yard.”

  Sherman wanted to raise his fists in triumph but offered sympathetically, “Well, glad I got to meet him. Is there anything we can do for his wife?” Like sending her a bottle of whiskey? This was hilarious. This Podunk inbred actually thought he gave a shit about some fat old idiot. He would tell Alvarez when he had time, but the little pussy probably wouldn’t find it as funny as he did.

  “Not that I can think of. I’ll go by there in a few hours to see how she’s doing, and I think I have a plan on what to do with the body.”

  SFC Sherman didn’t give a flying fuck if the body stayed right where it was. He silently nodded, as if to say he was too choked up to speak.

  Redstone returned the nod and stepped out of the office in the direction of the rear door. That son of a bitch don’t care. He could give his fake condolences and bullshit sympathies all day, but Redstone wasn’t falling for it.

  “What’s going on, Bol?” Redstone asked as he rounded the side of the military vehicle to see Alvarez’s feet sticking out from under it.

  A muffled, grunting reply came a few seconds later. “Almost finished with this damn truck, ese.”

  Redstone walked closer and then asked almost conspiratorially, “So can we go mow down some trees?”

  Alvarez chuckled as he began to roll out from under the truck and said, “I’m ready when you are. I was just tuning up our ride.”

  Redstone’s eyes grew wide and he shouted, “Awesome! I never rode in a Humvee before.”

  This exclamation was funny to Alvarez. Redstone was about to experience what he had been through for years: riding in a big metal box with no air conditioner and no shocks. Alvarez stood, stretched his arms, and tried to wipe away a smudge of grease from his face as he said, “Well, do you know where you want to…” He looked up to see that Redstone was no longer standing where he had just been. He looked around, confused, to see that the local cop had magically appeared in the passenger seat of the Humvee and was grinning and giggling like an excited child on his way to a petting zoo.

  Redstone frantically gestured for Bol to get in. “Today, slow ass! I know the perfect place.”

  Alvarez just laughed as he climbed in. He was glad he had remembered to pack the equipment, because he was afraid if they had to wait any longer, Redstone would start crying. “All right, tell me how to get there,” he said as he turned the ignition.

  Redstone pointed out each turn, and Alvarez felt he could be friends with this goofy guy. And even though he had known him only a couple of days, he thought Redstone could be a better friend than the guys he had been serving with since joining the agency.

  “Who owns this property?” Bol questioned as he stepped out of the Humvee to face a small field surrounded on three sides by trees and holding nothing but wilted grass and a few rotten hay bales that had been in one place for so long, grass was growing from the top of them.

  Redstone’s boots crunched on the red dirt road as he made his way around the vehicle to stand beside Bol, and he said, “I ain’t got a damn clue. I just know that nobody lives round here, and this field ain’t been tended in years. This is just where everybody went parking when I was in school.”

  Bol wasn’t sure if Redstone meant the same thing by “parking” as he thought, but he guessed it really didn’t matter, since Redstone was confident they would not get caught. Bol clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

  Redstone, sensing his hesitation, offered, “Man, I promise w
e won’t get busted! If anybody says anything, we can say we were shooting at a rabid animal.” He paused, trying to think up a rabid animal, and his eyes lit up as something came to mind. But he dropped his head as he said it. “Armadillo?” It came out as a question, and he immediately regretted not using a more predatory animal.

  Bol looked out over the field and tried to see through to the end of the woods behind, but he couldn’t see anything. Then he looked over both shoulders, staring down the road in either direction, but didn’t see or hear anything. Getting caught making out with your girlfriend on a Friday night was one thing; filling trees full of holes with automatic weapons was on another level of “oh shit, we’re dead.” Even now he was hesitant. Bol turned slightly, his boots crunching on the chert as he began to move to the back of the truck to grab the gear, and he said with a weak smile, “Where do you want to set up?”

  CHAPTER 20

  July 17

  IF JACKSON HAD not been holding the doorknob with one hand, he probably would have fallen over. After a string of obscenities he wasn’t even attempting to make complete sentences of, he stepped to the side to let the light pouring in through the open doorway illuminate his cousin. Jackson could not ask everything fast enough, so he asked what was at the forefront of his mind. “Why the hell are you here?”

  His cousin was disheveled—his blond hair was matted, his clothes were dirty, he looked as if he had not slept in days, and he seriously needed a bath. Hollis had stood and was still in position over the plastic lawn chair from which he had arisen when Jackson had entered, so he just sat back down before starting the story about his journey home.

  Jackson grabbed one of the chairs from the wall and took a seat near his kid cousin. “Where have you been? Your mom has been freaking out. How did you get here?” Jackson wasn’t one to worry, but seeing Hollis like this confused him.

  Hollis reached down to retrieve the water bottle he had rested on the ground, raised it, and took a heavy pull before speaking. Jackson noticed he sounded older and didn’t know whether it was because he was tired or because Jackson had not seen him in almost a year.

  “I’ve been trying to get home. And I know…I’ve wanted to call her or just talk to her, but I’ve been afraid they are watching.”

  He said “they” as if it was italicized, and a smile crossed Jackson’s face as he realized he was about to ask the same question that had been asked in a million movies. “Who’s been watching?”

  Hollis looked at the open door as if asking Jackson to shut it, and, after a long moment, Jackson stood and reached to close the door. The shack was considerably darker, but there was plenty of light coming through the windows.

  This seemed to placate Hollis, and he continued. “The FBI or the CIA or the NSA or the DHS or something. The guys that killed all the senators!”

  Even in this seriousness, Jackson could not help but realize his cousin had lost a little bit of his Southern twang in the few months he had been gone, and he held up a hand as he said, “Slow down, Holly. You’ve got to start at the beginning.” He was hoping if he used the nickname for his cousin that only the two of them knew, he would relax.

  But Hollis spoke a little lower and more panicked than before. “But we can’t stay here too long. They’ll find me!”

  Jackson didn’t know what was going on, but he slowly stood and spoke calmly. “Nobody will find you, man. Nobody is with me, and nobody but Daddy knows I came down here.”

  Holly gestured at the woods surrounding them with one hand and shot back, “They’re already here!”

  Jackson bent to sit back down as he scooted his chair a few steps closer to his cousin. When he was in range, he put a hand on Hollis’s shoulder and said in a comforting tone, “It’s OK, man. You’re safe here.” And then he asked, “So why would they be after you, anyway?” making sure to accent “they” just as his cousin had.

  Hollis took a deep breath before he began. “Well, you knew I was in that room when everything went down.”

  Jackson remained silent but nodded for Hollis to continue, and Hollis seemed to drift off, his eyes looking miles away as he began his story.

  Hollis had been sitting beside Senator Jefferson while they were listening to the speaker on the floor, with no sound other than the debating of the senators. It seemed as peaceful as any day could be on Capitol Hill when four people burst through one of the emergency exits and began shooting. It appeared they were just randomly shooting up in the air, demanding silence, but they may have hit a couple of people—Hollis couldn’t be sure with all the movement and screams of surprise. Once everything settled down, the big guy walked to the center podium as the senator who had been standing there speaking cowered. The other three dudes—actually, one appeared to be a woman—with guns scanned over the gallery and the visible exits.

  The guy at the podium reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper, and placed it on the podium as he began speaking. “Greetings, oppressors. My name is Rockwell Robertson. I am one of the leaders of the Missouri Free Militia, which is just one part of a nationwide Aryan movement to wrest power from your impure hands.”

  Hollis supposed this Rockwell had practiced the speech a lot, because his eyes ignited, and he didn’t seem to glance at the paper. He appeared to be looking out over his whole audience but not really looking at anyone. As everyone tried to remain as still as possible, he continued. “I know that you all must be wondering as to the reason we are here. It is to make you aware of the people’s will and ensure that we are properly represented. The first item I would like to bring your attention to is”—he paused as if for a dramatic effect—“your recent gu—”

  Two explosions filled the chamber, and red holes instantly appeared on Rockwell, one at the center of his forehead and the other right where his Adam’s apple should have been. There were shouts from the crowd and people dropping to the floor as the woman holding the gun let out a tortured scream and began unloading her automatic weapon into the gallery. The two men joined her in shooting, but Hollis couldn’t tell what they were aiming at because he had already hit the deck. Briefly Hollis could hear a rapid staccato of firearms, and though he did not look, it sounded as if some of the chatter was coming from places other than the three terrorists. It abruptly tapered off to sporadic bursts, to a few single rounds, to utter silence.

  As the smoke cleared and the echoes of gunshots began to die, Hollis and several others raised up to see guys in body armor, some nudging the bodies of the dead terrorists and speaking into shoulder radios. Some of the crowd sobbed tears of joy while others began to stand and make their way toward their heroes—these men with “DHS” emblazoned on their body armor had saved them.

  Hollis stood beside Senator Jefferson, for whom he was paging, without saying a word. Agents were moving up the rows, evacuating the injured and speaking a few comforting words. A few rows down, Hollis gathered, they were taking a few of the senators to secure locations as witnesses, and, as he and Senator Jefferson exchanged quizzical looks, two of the men with guns appeared at Hollis’s side and asked that the senator come with them. He stepped past Hollis and gave a thumbs-up before he began to descend the stairs with the agents. Hollis watched and moved to the edge of the balcony, anticipating their exit. Other agents were hurriedly taking everyone else from the large conference room, but his senator and five others were halted at the door beneath Hollis because they had to walk down a short stairway to get to the exit doors.

  Rather than leave with everyone else through one of the emergency exits, Hollis hid behind one of the seats until everyone else was gone and the agents gave the all-clear signal. He retrieved his smartphone from his pants pocket and held it over the side of the balcony, recording and hoping to hear what was going on. He had seen this in movies. The senators were going to be part of a team that took down a major terrorist cell, and he wanted to be the unruly kid who accidentally heard too much and tagged along. He knew that anyone who glanced up would easily see h
im if he was hanging his head over the side but was hoping it would be harder to spot only half of his phone.

  As the senators were asked some basic questions, one agent stood behind each as if to be a bodyguard, each pulling a silenced pistol from somewhere in his armor and holding it to the back of the head of the person in front of him at an angle so that the bullets could easily embed into the floor as the bodies of the lifeless senators dropped. Hollis did not see this as it happened but rather by watching the recording later. He had played enough first-person shooters that he knew what the muffled bangs were and was too afraid to glance over the side. He shoved his phone back into his pocket and quietly made his way down the carpeted stairs to the emergency exit door.

  “Bullshit!” Jackson shouted in disbelief to his cousin.

  “No, I have it on video,” Hollis insisted.

  Jackson stood and looked over his shoulder out of the window; he started speaking before turning back around. “Well, that still don’t tell me how or why you came back here.”

  Hollis breathed deeply and exasperatedly said, “They had me and most of the other witnesses in a hotel and had a therapist there for all of us to go talk to.” Hollis paused before explaining, “Some kind of trauma therapist or something.” Jackson gave a short nod of understanding and let the boy continue. “Anyway, we all had to go see this therapist at a certain time each day. And on the first day, I arrived a little early and decided to hang out on one of the benches in the hall.”

  Hollis raised his finger to pause again, leaving Jackson in suspense as he reached down to take a swig from his bottle of water. He began again after closing the bottle and setting it on the ground. “So I was sitting on the bench in the hallway, and I could hear the doctor talking to the patient who came before me. But after a little while, I realized he wasn’t talking to a kid but to some dude wearing a suit who looked like Tony Soprano. And they were talking about me!”