by Javan Bonds
The soldier toppled to the ground, holding his hands in a sign of surrender. But Redstone was blinded by his rage at the loss of his father, and he kept walking closer. “That was my daddy!” Redstone bashed the butt of his rifle into the soldier’s collarbone, which knocked him flat on his back and probably broke a couple of bones. “I’m going to kill every one of you!” Redstone hammered the butt of his rifle into the man’s face, throat, and chest, feeling bones crack with each forceful slam. Redstone could hear boots hit the pavement behind him between the man’s gurgled attempts at cries for help.
“Redstone?” He could hear his name called several times before he paused and looked behind him. Jackson, followed by the two older men, was moving to him; they kept their rifles trained on the tip of the rifle where the other soldier was trying to hide. He was obviously too scared to lift his weapon and was probably no threat, but there was no need to take another chance. “Dude, you can stop now.”
Jackson knew he would have done the same exact thing if they had shot his father, but after Redstone took a deep breath and turned to look down at the bloodied soldier, he realized there weren’t many bones left to break; the soldier’s face was nothing but a bloody pulp, and his sternum was obviously crushed.
“Motherfucker!” Redstone spit on the body that lay before him and then looked where his father lay to make sure he was not imagining what had just happened. “Shit!” Redstone screamed in grief as he glanced away from his father’s body and to the sky.
Jackson comforted his friend, but Jeff was unable to overhear because his focus was on the rifleman who was sitting on the ground behind the tire of Keith’s truck.
He and Old Ben moved as silently as possible, steadily closer, and Jeff was certain he could hear whimpers from the soldier. He would get the situation under control before he even thought about the death of his friend, but with each step he took, his mind replayed everything that had just happened. He promised himself he would not kill this soldier; the guy had done nothing wrong but be part of the wrong unit and was obviously too scared even to stand up.
“Stick ’em up!” Jeff shouted as he and the Jedi Master reached the truck.
The soldier’s hands shot up in surrender. Jeff realized he had never had the opportunity to use these words, but they worked as well as any other cliché. Jeff slowly peered over the edge of the hood to see a wet-faced young soldier looking up.
Jackson was standing between the two bodies while his friend crouched beside Keith’s body. He was amazed that Redstone could beat a man to a bloody mush in the short time it had taken him to trot from the field to the highway, but he thought justice had been served. Redstone was covered in blood, shards of bone, and pieces of flesh (none of which was his own) from his knees to the top of his head, so it was impossible to tell if he was crying as he talked to his father.
Jackson knew they would take Keith’s body home, but he had absolutely no idea what they would do with the National Guardsman—Specialist Green, if he read the name tag right. I vote we just roll the bastard into the ditch and let the coyotes have him, he decided. Jackson turned to see the elder men standing in front of the surviving soldier, who was leaning against the hood of the truck. His hands were zip-tied behind him, showing that they had already searched him and used his own plastic handcuffs. Old Ben was holding him at gunpoint while Jeff interrogated him.
This kid was bad as a soldier. It seemed to Jeff that he barely had any military training, and the wet spot trailing down his legs was very unprofessional. After asking his rank, name, and whether they had planned to shoot Keith, Jeff really couldn’t think of anything more to ask Private Freeman. They would just have to keep Redstone from beating him to death while they carried him to town hall.
There it was again: Keith Stone—his friend, his neighbor, and the father of his son’s best friend—was dead a few yards away. He would never say it, but the blame for this death was technically Redstone’s, and he could not even imagine the grief and anger the young man must have been feeling. He knew he could not replace Keith, but he would try to act as a surrogate; Redstone had always been the second son Jeff would never have, and he would try doubly to live up to Keith’s memory.
Redstone had wiped his face clean, and, after stripping off his soaked and ruined shirt and sporting the A-shirt he wore beneath, he sat on the edge of the asphalt with his rifle on the ground beside him, looking away from everyone at the water running under the bridge a few yards away. Jackson had followed him to where they were out of hearing distance of the others and tried to think of something comforting to say.
“I laid a sheet over him.” Jackson hooked a thumb in the direction of the scene behind them.
Redstone was tossing pebbles without much force to the creek, and some of them made splashes. He had just seen his father brutally murdered and then beaten a man to death, so Jackson was taken aback when he smiled weakly.
“You know, the Jedi Master is probably going to think I’m turning to the dark side.”
Jackson had no idea how to reply and actually thought about smiling or carrying on the joke with his friend, who had never been sad or emotional in front of him. “He’ll understand, man. We all would have done the same thing.” Jackson wasn’t really sure how he would have reacted. He wasn’t sure if he could crush a man’s face, but he couldn’t judge his friend. He might be capable of even worse if someone he loved was shot in front of him. Seeing that his friend wanted to lighten the mood, even so shortly after everything that had just happened, Jackson changed his tone slightly. “Don’t worry, though. We can get you a red light saber.”
Redstone, still sitting, turned to face his friend, standing behind him, with a grin Jackson thought should not be possible. “I’d prefer a black double-bladed one; it’s what I had in The Force Unleashed!”
◆◆◆
Jeff slowly walked along the middle of the highway toward them, making sure his son could see him coming, and saw no sign to stay back. He made his way closer to them, both of them noticing his nearing and remaining silent as he drew up beside Jackson.
“We’re going to throw him in the back of the Hummer.” He was obviously referring to Freeman. He added, “You two can follow us up to town hall in Keith’s truck.”
Jeff winced. He had not consciously planned to mention Redstone’s father, but a look from Jackson told him this small mention was not going to send Redstone into any deeper depression. He decided it would not be a good idea to tell them they had already loaded the body of the elder Stone into the Hummer, though.
They both nodded silently. Before Jeff stepped back to walk away, he solemnly said, “And Redstone, I’m sorry.”
Redstone’s eyes began to fill as he turned away and nodded again. The two friends remained exactly where they were, not speaking a word until they heard one of the other two open a vehicle door, no doubt to set the soldier inside, and shut the door.
“Come on, man.” Jackson urged, “We got to get going.”
The Hummer had turned around, and it would be a lonely and short parade back into town. Jackson had noticed, but did not bring it to Redstone’s attention, that the other two had apparently rolled the body of his father’s murderer, Specialist Marcus Green, into the ditch along the highway and had somehow managed to even clean some of the gore off of the asphalt. By the grace of God, the keys were still in the ignition of Keith’s truck, and Jackson jumped behind the steering wheel as his friend fell into the seat beside him.
CHAPTER 26
July 25
JACKSON PULLED THE truck up to the parking spot at the right of the Humvee, whose engine had just been silenced. To the vehement complaint of Redstone, Jeff and the Old Jedi had decided the younger man should remain with Jackson. They were tasked with keeping an eye on the imprisoned Private Freeman, whose wrists were bound to the frame of the Humvee, while the others went inside and had a friendly discussion with Sergeant First Class Sherman. Redstone also had a hissy fit when they required him t
o disarm; it would not help the situation if he punched Sherman or shot an unarmed soldier.
With the door of the truck open, Jackson sat behind the steering wheel, facing out, with his feet on the ground and his rifle resting on his knee pointing in the general direction of the soldier. Redstone rested against the side of the truck, eating a piece of watermelon he had carved out of one of the vegetable baskets that had been secured in the bed. Redstone was spitting seeds at the soldier, who winced each time a seed hit him, and joking with Jackson as if he had not just seen his father killed and killed a man himself.
“So what would you do if you won a million dollars?” Redstone asked Jackson while trying and failing to hit the soldier in the eye with a seed.
If I had a dime for every time you asked me about this, I’d probably have two million. “Well, the way things are now, I would really have a hell of a lot of fire starter.” Jackson laughed as he spoke.
“Well, would you suck—”
Jackson knew what Redstone was going to ask, but before he could finish the question, Sergeant Alvarez walked around from behind town hall.
“Yo, homes, what the dealeo?” He asked as he made his way around the front of the truck, glancing over to Freeman.
Freeman remained silent, but his eyes screamed “help” as Redstone said, “You better pop a squat. This will take a while.”
◆◆◆
Sherman could barely contain himself. He was overjoyed that one of the inbred hillbillies had been given what he deserved but at the same time was slightly saddened that a dutiful American serviceman such as Marcus Green had been murdered by these retarded yokels. What the fuck was that little brownnoser’s real name? He forced himself to remain calm and not shoot or arrest the old rednecks in front of him.
“So you’re telling me Private Freeman conspired with the specialist—whom you willfully admit one of your cohorts murdered—to shoot and kill Keith Stone?”
Old Ben had taken a fighting stance and was prepared to argue with Sergeant First Class Sherman until he backed down. “You can call it ‘conspiracy’ if you like, but that doesn’t really matter, because we are witnesses, and we have accused him. So you are required by law to detain him, at least until the scene has been investigated.”
Damn, this old guy was apparently a law major or something. Sherman bit his lip, holding back a smile. He had just thought of something these bumpkins could not contest. “According to the Giffords-Feinstein Act, in an area that has been declared a disaster area, where martial law is in effect, if the charges are against a federal employee on my staff, I do not have to accept these charges or even hold him on suspicion.”
The old man’s mouth dropped.
Hell yes! I just made that shit up. Suck it, Grandpa.
Jeff had not said much since they had entered and had been standing motionless near the door, with his hands relaxed by his sides and his pistol. Old Ben tried to process what the sergeant first class had just told him, dumbfounded, with mouth agape. Jeff realized Old Ben was speechless for what he assumed was the first time in his long life and broke his own silence without really looking in Sherman’s general direction. “If you do not arrest him, we will do it ourselves.”
This son of a bitch is really going to try to defy me? “You will not disobey my orders, or I will fucking kill you and everyone you know!” Sherman wanted to scream, but he knew these damn “independent” Southerners thought they had rights and could tell him what to do. If he didn’t give them something to shut them up, they would just go tell all of their gun-toting cousins he was a Nazi, and they would come for a gunfight at the O. K. Corral.
He dropped his shoulders in defeat and sighed. “Fine. I’ll hold him here until there has been an investigation. But you cannot speak of the accusations to anyone. It can affect testimony.” He wasn’t sure there would be any testimony, because they were going to be hard-pressed to have a trial, but he would worry about trivial things like facts later. He just didn’t want these yokels getting their yokel friends up in arms.
◆◆◆
“Madre de Dios.” Bol crossed himself. “That sucks, bro Green was a dick with an itchy trigger finger.”
Alvarez was sitting in the open front passenger seat of the Hummer, across from the two locals in the civilian truck and beside the handcuffed Private Freeman. Bol had never really liked Green, who had seemed like the kind of guy who would have shot his best friend without question if a superior told him to do it. This thought made Alvarez glance at the private sitting beside him staring at the ground. He knew that Freeman and Green had been buddy-buddy, and even though he felt sorry for the private, his bastard friend had deserved it, especially if he had just shot a guy execution style. He couldn’t remember what Marcus Green’s real name was; he had never been a friend, and Bol hadn’t even considered the guy a likable acquaintance.
◆◆◆
I am only giving this shit to you because the people who sign my paychecks want to keep you hayseeds from going Robert E. Lee on us. As soon as we find and kill this kid, I don’t really care what happens to any of you. A thought crossed Sherman’s mind: could he have possibly been wrong? Maybe the kid had not decided to run back home, or maybe he had been on his way and was murdered or killed. Something horrible could have happened to him. Sherman unconsciously smiled, wishing that if the boy was never found, he had been raped to death and eaten by a weirdo in Kentucky.
Old Ben must have seen the smile and understood it as Sherman realizing how he could cheat. “Oh, and there will be someone up here every day to check on the prisoner.”
I am deeply offended that you won’t trust me. I’ll just tell him he needs to be in the cage whenever one of you idiots comes to the door, you stupid old geezer. Sherman could barely contain his disgust, but he knew he was almost done with these people, at least for today. “So it is settled. Private Freeman will be detained until the investigation is complete.” He paused, not wanting to mention a trial, which would undoubtedly start a whole new discussion, and he added, “Oh, I need to question the individual who shot specialist Green. Do you know where he is?”
Jeff realized neither of them had actually identified Redstone. Before old Ben could say anything incriminating, Jeff shouted to cut the older man off. “We didn’t really see who it was. We were too far away, and it all happened so fast, the person got away before we could clearly see him. If we hear anything or get any leads, we’ll be sure to let you know.”
The sudden change in attitude Jeff gave off wasn’t very believable, and even if it had been, Sherman wasn’t going to forgive this bastard for being a rebellious prick just because he had all of a sudden become submissive. I’ll just send a friendly armed patrol by this hick’s house and scare his wife, or maybe even find a reason to search his house. That’s what he gets for thinking independently.
Old Ben remained silent but glanced out the window behind Sherman to see Jackson sitting in the truck and the traumatized soldier in the Humvee, though the man who had killed specialist Green was nowhere to be seen.
◆◆◆
Redstone stood at the front tire of one of the Humvees in the rear parking lot and urinated on it, his back to Bol, who was standing at the back of the vehicle a few feet away.
“I would’ve done the same thing if the puto had shot my papa.” Alvarez found it strange that Redstone had no problem with talking about what had just happened and became more conversationally comfortable himself as the redheaded cop spoke of how he would probably ask Mr. Taylor, a local retired taxidermist, to ready his father for burial just as he had with Webb’s body. Maybe he was going into shock, Alvarez thought, and he had not yet started grieving. He almost gagged when he thought about taxidermy on humans.
Redstone bounced up and down on the balls of his feet and turned around while zipping up; his shoulders had been scarred from burning in the sun, and, since he was wearing only a wife beater, his pale skin would be red pretty soon. His jeans were caked with what looked like red
clay, and Alvarez saw a lit cigarillo that had materialized out of thin air hanging out of his mouth.
Redstone clenched his cigarillo between his teeth and let smoke roll out of his mouth before asking, “So, you want to play Xbox?”
“I had to leave it at home. It would be considered contraband.”
Redstone was really asking if Bol wanted to go over to Jackson’s to play his Xbox; since the power had been off, Jeff had graciously allowed Redstone to leave his game console in the only house with power. After asking and then remembering that Jeff had made him swear on something humorous not to mention to anyone—especially outsiders—that their house was powered, he fell silent and was staring at his boots when Alvarez exclaimed, “Dude, you should bring yours; we have solar panels!”
The sergeant seemed to be excited to have something to do other than work on engines, and Redstone would be happy to be owned by someone other than Jackson or his own six-year-old son. “That sounds ultra cool. I’ll bring it up tomorrow.”
◆◆◆
“So, Half-Life, were you in Iraq?” Jackson had taken to calling Private Freeman the nickname Redstone had decided on when telling him about the National Guardsman’s middle name. Jackson was crunching on a carrot he had found in the bed of the truck and was asking irritating questions of the private.
“No, never been out of the country.” Simon Gordon Freeman actually had served and died in Iraq, and the man using his name, Francis Rene Bouvier, was telling the real truth. He wasn’t paying attention and did not care to stay in character; he was just ready to get away from these people and gave the shortest answer.
The private did not seem to be in a conversational mood. He was trying to sleep with his head hanging between his arms, which had been fastened to the top of the cab of the Humvee. So Jackson threw his head back on the back of the bench seat and closed his eyes. He was really tired but needed to think through all of the events of the morning. His best friend had just seen his own father murdered in front of him and within a few minutes had acted as if it were something that had happened years ago, talking about it as if it were something he barely remembered. Jackson knew Redstone was definitely in shock and would probably wait until he was home to break down. Redstone wanted to appear to be a tough and invincible cop, but Jackson knew that deep down, on a layer even a lifelong friend would never see, Redstone had the same emotions as every other guy. They didn’t talk about their feelings, and he couldn’t remember seeing Redstone ever cry in front of him—even that time when they were twelve and he broke his finger. So Jackson knew the death of his father would be mentioned only casually and in passing.
