by William Bebb
I realize there is a worldwide shortage of ash trays, Sandberg, but if I ever spot you littering again by God son you'll be so sorry that you'd be happier to have your balls sliced off and fed to a stray dog than experience what I will do to you,” the colonel said, stepping closer to the now heavily sweating wide eyed soldier. “Do you understand what I'm trying to say, son?”
“Sir. Yes sir.”
“Well then, that's fine. Would you be a good soldier and take care of your mistake then?”
“Sir. Yes sir,” the private said, running over and picking up his cigarette butt.
“While you’re doing that you might as well police the rest of the parking lot. I should be done inside in about fifteen minutes. When I come back out it would benefit you greatly to have it spotless. Do you understand me?”
“Sir. Yes sir,” the private said, running to the dumpster behind the building where he’d seen a broom and dustpan earlier.
The colonel opened the door to the restaurant and marched inside. He didn’t bother looking at the few soldiers and researchers who were eating an early breakfast. Instead, he looked at the guard standing outside the office door and presented his ID card.
The guard nodded and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Amalia Armstrong’s tired sounding voice called from behind the door.
Colonel Wilcox marched in, slammed the door shut behind him and stared at her. He didn’t speak nor move. He just stood and stared.
“Good morning, colonel. You seem perturbed,” she said, sitting behind her desk and looking at a stack of paper. “Please, have a seat and relax.”
“Relax?” He said the word as if its meaning was beyond his comprehension. “Relax is all your people seem to be doing.”
He walked over to the surveillance monitors and punched a button labeled 'analysis trailer'. On the large flat screen monitor an image of Dr. Anniston and Alice appeared. The old man seemed to be doodling on a yellow note pad while the lady played solitaire on her computer screen. The colonel tensed as he stared at the image. “Can you explain why this old fart is here? And more importantly why he's heading up the on-site deciphering program? For God’s sake, he’s got to be a hundred years old. And whoever that lady is, I want her out of here right now.”
Amalia sighed heavily and shook her head before speaking. “Brad, if you’ll look more closely you can see a program is working on the station next to hers. You should try it sometime. Solitaire that is, it helps the mind focus on problem solving and concentration. I read a fascinating study in a science journal a few months ago about-”
“Call me, colonel, God damn it! And shut up about some stupid game. I need answers and you haven’t given me any. You said you were bringing in the world’s most respected cryptologist and all I see is a man who looks ready for the crypt.” he smiled bitterly, happily surprised with his spur of the moment turn of phrase.
“Colonel,” she said, trying not to smile. “Professor James Anniston may be an old fart to you, but to the deciphering community he is as near to god-like as any man who ever lived. I won’t go over his resume and try to convince you of that. If you want to learn something you could do an internet search on his name. However, he has Admiral Branson’s complete confidence. Hell, it was Branson that begged him to come out here and offer his help and that's more than sufficient for me.
As for the young lady you’d like to leave. Her name is Dr. Alice Weinstein. She heads up the MIT advanced encryption analysis program and we we’re lucky enough to persuade her to assist Professor Anniston, at the old man's request. Besides, they do not answer to you. They answer to me. When something develops I will keep you informed.”
Throughout her speech he’d kept his back to her and stared at the monitor in silence. “Alright, I’ll take your word on the old fart and the computer nerd, for now,” he said, turning and walking to her desk. “I read your report about your agents tracking down a lead west of here. It had some redneck kind of name, Ragville or something.
What kind of lead is it? Do they require additional manpower or resources?”
“You should read my reports more thoroughly. It is a preliminary investigation based on an eyewitness account of something that seemed peculiar. But before you order a squad of commandos to invade Ragland Alabama please bear in mind we’ve had other reports in half a dozen other locations since the blast,” she said, clearly annoyed.
“Your report didn’t specify what exactly was so peculiar. Was it an unidentified flying object, by any chance?”
“A day and a half ago, a farmer in Ragland called the police because he saw something odd. If that tabloid the Weekly World News was still around I’m sure they would have done a story on it too.” She looked up at the colonel and saw his patience was growing thin and then quickly continued. “He shot a crow with a gun.”
“And?” Wilcox asked suspiciously.
“His son, who saw what happened next, told his dad who told the police he blew off the bird’s wing. Sparks and some smoke came out of the bird’s body as it fell into a pond,” Amalia said, looking up defiantly.
Colonel Wilcox turned and walked over to a large window and saw the private he’d berated earlier busily sweeping the parking lot. He stood motionless with his hands clasped behind his back for several seconds.
Beyond the colonel's shoulder, Amalia saw the sun rising over some tree covered hills. Glancing back at the monitor, she saw the woman playing solitaire complete her game. The cards were bouncing off of her computer screen as she heard a quiet choking noise coming from Wilcox. “Brad, are you okay?” she asked, standing up behind her desk.
His shoulders trembled slightly as the choking sound grew louder.
She hurried across the temporary office and knocked her leg against a trashcan with a paper shredder attached to the top. It fell and a small tidal wave of white confetti spilled across the floor as she moved quickly beside him.
His face was bright red and his shoulders shook harder as he finally surrendered to the forces he was so desperately trying to contain. He turned and sat down hard on a plastic bench seat and roared in laughter. Tears streamed down his face as he coughed and laughed uncontrollably.
Shaking her head, she turned and picked up the trashcan and paper shredder.
Amalia then sat back at her desk and sipped some cold coffee. I told him it was probably nothing, she thought, turning back to her laptop.
After a while, the colonel grabbed some napkins from a dispenser on a table and wiped his eyes and face. He stood up chuckling, picked up his briefcase and managed to put on a serious expression when he was able to again speak. “Thank you for the update. I needed to hear something like that. And don’t worry Amalia; I’ll be sure to have our troops keep an eye out for any robotic birds.” Walking to the door, he broke out into giggles again and had to take a few seconds to compose himself before leaving.
When he left she raised her middle finger at the door. “Dumb fucker,” she muttered, before returning to work.
*****
The sun was shining through the trees as Jake and Frodo arrived at the football field. The parking lot was empty, except for a rusty old gray van parked near the trees. Jake ran across the lot and swore softly when he got to the fence. The gate was still padlocked securely shut. Frodo stopped to lick some aluminum foil that had held a cheeseburger the night before but now had only dried crudules of cheese stuck on it.
Jake called to the dog and trotted toward the far end of the parking lot. He checked his cell phone for the time and sighed. Where’s Andy? He wondered, climbing down into the drainage ditch that ran under a section of the fence. He tells me to get here early and clean up the stands and he’ll pay me twenty bucks, but does he show up to open the gate? Hell no. He’s probably drunk or asleep at home.
He peered through the large concrete culvert that went from the ditch, under the fence, and into the football field. It didn’t smell bad but it was dark and a small stream of water trickled out.
Far off, in the center of the darkness he saw a gray circle of light and considered waiting to see if Andy, the school’s custodian, would show up. Jake knew that some kids used the culvert to avoid paying admission to football games. They said it was no big deal.
“Come on Frodo. Let’s get moving,” he said, stooping over and walking slowly into the darkness. The dog watched the boy go in and looked back at a girl standing on the far side of the parking lot near the rusty van. He barked twice at her before following Jake.
The culvert echoed hollowly as he duck walked through it. He held his cell phone in front of him as he went. The light was feeble but better than nothing. Frodo trotted ahead into the murkiness. Halfway through the tunnel something caught the dog’s attention. It barked and ran forward. The loud echoing barks made Jake’s head hurt. He tried yelling for the dog to shut up but his shouts were lost in the rapid fire frenzy of barking. Feeling momentarily dizzy, Jake leaned against the cool curved concrete tube and watched his dog run out the far end of the culvert.
Outside, Frodo chased the rat across the football field and kept barking as he ran. The dog’s attention was focused only on the rat and it missed the girl standing outside the fence that surrounded the field.
Betty looked up at the six foot high chain link fence and then at the running dog. She backed up a few feet, squatted low and jumped into the air and cleared the fence. The girl landed and walked toward the culvert opening on the far side of the field.
While walking, she looked up the hill toward the back of the high school. There was a broken window with a large trash bag sitting just beneath it. Almost at the culvert opening, she saw someone inside the school lowering another plastic bag to the ground. At the opening of the drain, she stopped and looked back at the broken window and then at the three large plastic bags in the dew covered weeds beside the culvert.
Jake managed to trip over something within just a few feet of the exit and fell into the ankle deep water. He swore as the cell phone flew from his fingertips and rattled against the concrete. “Shit!” If it’s broken dad’s gonna tan my hide, he thought, getting back on his feet.
“Are you okay?” A girl’s voice asked from outside.
Getting back up, he duck walked the last few feet to the end of the drain and saw the girl from yesterday looking at him. “I’m just super, thanks for asking.”
He picked up the phone and stood up outside the culvert. Jake recognized her but the clothes were definitely different. She was wearing blue jeans and an old red short-sleeve shirt with white lettering that read Ragland, Home of the Fighting Possums.
“You are Jake Carver?” She asked walking toward him slowly.
“Yeah, I’m Jake. What are you…“he started to say, but was interrupted as Frodo jumped between them, faced the girl and growled fiercely.
Ever since he was a puppy, Frodo had never acted like that and Jake was stunned by the dog’s reaction. His fur was bushed up and his tail was stiffly pointed back at the boy. The girl didn’t seem to notice the dog as Jake reached forward and grabbed hold tightly to Frodo’s collar. “Don’t worry about my dog, he won’t bite. He’s usually pretty friendly. Frodo, you dope, quit that and calm down. You’re going to scare her,” Jake said, holding his collar with one hand and stroking the dog’s head with the other.
“I am not scared,” she said, walking toward the three trash bags. “I need to talk with you about something very important.”
Great, she’s a football groupie. Well, at least she’s not ugly. Sorta cute actually, he thought climbing up out of the ditch.
“Listen, I’d like to talk but I made a deal to get the football field cleaned up for the track meet this afternoon. Maybe later we could get together and chat.”
“Ah, young love. It’s a beautiful thing, ain't it Kenny?” A deep voice interrupted.
Two young men walked from behind a small concrete building that housed the restrooms. One of them was carrying a couple of large plastic trash bags.
Jake, Frodo, and Betty all turned to look at them.
Shit. It’s Orlando and one of his buddies, Jake realized and unconsciously moved forward to stand protectively in front of the girl.
Orlando Duprat was expelled from school a few weeks earlier after being caught with drugs and beating up the teacher who discovered them. He was almost eighteen years old and had no job, unless a growing variety of felonies counted as a career. In that case, he’d been employed part time for almost ten years.
Usually he would break into houses and steal whatever he thought was worth the trouble. His mother had abandoned both him and his father when he was just a little over a year old. Growing up, Orlando's dad had misused him in ways so horrible that no one in town wondered why he turned out pure mean.
His biggest claim to infamy was when he stole Ragland's chief of police’s car five years earlier. Orlando hadn’t known the trunk held a large seizure of marijuana when he took it, but after finding it he lived the good life in Atlanta Georgia for two months. When investigators finally tracked him down, he only had a few hundred dollars left out of an estimated $140,000 dollars worth of pot. Law enforcement officials considered him to be more of a redneck punk than a criminal genius.
After the marijuana escapade, he was sentenced to a juvenile rehabilitation program which released him at the end of the summer so he could return to school. During his time of incarceration he studied hard and learned everything he could about how to steal more proficiently. As a bonus, the facility had a new weight and exercise facility that lawmakers idiotically thought might help bad boys to build up their muscles and a sense of pride in themselves. Orlando's dirty black short sleeved shirt bulged out showing off his jailhouse created tattoo covered biceps and Jake felt nearly helpless as the man walked over with a wicked smile on his face.
“Okay Romeo, pick up those bags on the ground behind you. Haul them out for me and forget you saw us and everyone will live happily ever after,” Orlando said, holding a crowbar in one hand and a bulging plastic trash bag in the other.
“What's in the bags?” Jake asked as Frodo growled at the two men.
“Some laptop computers we found. Now quit stalling and pick them up,” Orlando said, stepping closer.
Jake wasn't small, in fact he was one of the biggest and quickest kids on the football team, but Orlando had age, size and years spent weight lifting at a correctional facility on his side.
Frodo barked loudly, sensing something was wrong. The nearest house was about half a mile away and Jake hoped someone might see what was going on and call the cops.
“Are you stealing these computers?” Betty asked, stepping up beside Jake. “That would be a felony and if we assist you it would make us accessories.”
“Shut that damn dog and that little bitch up, or I'll fuck you all up,” Orlando said, swinging the crowbar menacingly.
Frodo ignored Jake, who was trying to shush him. If anything, he barked louder and strained against his collar.
Orlando moved fast and swung the crowbar down hard. It hit the dog in the middle of its head with a sickening crackling of bones.
Frodo collapsed to the ground and was silent. A streak of blood on his fur marked where he'd been hit.
“No!” Jake yelled and fell to his knees beside the dog.
“Shut up, Romeo. Get up and carry the bag or your girlfriend gets it next and then you,” Orlando hissed as he slapped the crowbar repeatedly against his calloused palm.
Jake looked up with hate filled eyes, fighting back tears and stood up shakily. He looked at the girl and back at Orlando before turning and picking up the trash bags in silence.
“Romeo, you go first through the culvert. I'll be right behind you, with my crowbar, so don't do anything dumb. Juliet, you follow me, and Kenny, you bring up the rear. When we're all on the far side you two kids can go play doctor. Now move it,” Orlando said, gesturing to the dark culvert.
Jake looked back at his dog and hoped he wasn't dead before bending ov
er and duck walking back into the dark culvert with Orlando right behind him. Kenny shoved Betty toward the opening. The girl was so short she didn't need to duck her head and followed the others as Kenny pushed her from behind.
”You got a nice little ass, Juliet. You should ditch Romeo and we could have a lot of fun together,” Kenny whispered, as he carried two more bags.
The girl walked slowly forward in silence.
CHAPTER FIVE: True Grits
A metallic gray SUV with dark tinted windows pulled into a parking space at Ragland Alabama's finest restaurant: Billy Bob's Po Boy Eatery. Most of the other cars and trucks were much older than the SUV and it didn't look like it belonged.
Two old men, one wearing a cap with the words War Eagle on it, the other with one that had the words Roll Tide, walked to a rusty truck parked next to the gray car.
“I still say yer slap full of shit. I was there last night too. The Possums kicked ass. If that Carver boy doesn't get recruited to the University of Alabama, I'll kiss your saggy ass.” The first old man said, before spitting a gob of tobacco juice into the shrubs.
“I'll be sure not to wipe,” the other man said, with a grin. “You gonna be at the car lot later? They got free hot dogs today.”
“Nope. I wouldn't trust Sonny James with my lunch. That turd is a thief.
Besides, the track meet's this afternoon. Gonna go see my nephew win a few races. That boy runs like greased lightning,” the old man said, climbing into his truck. “You wanna lift somewhere?”
“Nah, gonna putter round town for a bit. I gotta work up an appetite for some free hotdogs before noon.”
The truck rumbled to life as the old man laughed out the open window. “I wouldn't eat them dogs if I was you. Twenty bucks says if you do yer gonna be either throwing up or stuck on the toilet with a bad case of the squirts for the whole weekend.”
Laughing, he waved as his buddy drove out of the parking lot. When he turned toward the park on the other side of the street, two people got out of the SUV. The old man stopped to watch the woman getting out and smiled. She looked exotic and out of place in his rural hometown.
