by Reece Hinze
Damn fitness nuts.
As he flipped his blinker they heard another siren. He took a right and a policeman sped past them with lights and horns blaring. “What in the hell is going on tonight?”
Paul accelerated onto IH-35. “That’s a good question,” Danielle replied. Her face was outlined by the subtle glow of the Cadillac’s flip down mirror, while she desperately tried to cover up evidence of her indiscretion with the best makeup money could buy. “Who is Bridgett?”
Paul sucked in a shocked breath. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
“You passed out before I did big boy. You said her name while you were napping. You cheating on her or what huh?”
“The fuck is it to you?” Paul snapped.
Danielle shrugged as if she touched a sensitive area. “Just asking, just asking.” A big green road sign passed over head. “There,” she said while dabbing her cheeks with powder. “You’re going to take the Portent Drive exit.”
But up ahead the way was blocked by glowing red of brake lights, flashing blue and red of squad cards, and a cacophony of frantic honking. “Damn, must be an accident,” he mumbled. Danielle paid no attention as she concentrated on the mirror.
As they drove closer, the scene became clear but the situation more confusing. Four black and white Texas D.P.S. cars blocked the shoulders while sparkling red road flares funneled traffic. The row of highway lights flicked on and off, temporarily illuminating and then hiding the chaos. Suddenly, Paul could see heavily armed men, shadow into man into shadow as the lights blinked, behind the vehicle barricade. The hair on Paul’s neck stood up as he saw two armored Humvees forming the end of the barricade. Dark figures manned the .50 caliber roof mounted machine guns.
This is no traffic accident.
He inched the Cadillac forward, filing inward when it was his turn to merge. “Holy shit,” he mumbled, realizing the soldiers manning the turrets of the Humvees wore gas masks as did every State Trooper he could see. The police were clearly agitated, pointing and yelling at motorists and one another often. Paul’s mind reeled for a rational explanation. Lost in thought, he forgot the obvious and had to slam the breaks to avoid colliding into the purple Volkswagen in front of him.
The jolt caused Danielle to smear her makeup. She flipped up the mirror annoyed. “What the fu-? What’s going on?” she demanded, as if he Paul knew something he wasn’t telling her.
“I’m not sure,” Paul replied. “I don’t like this. Maybe it’s just…”
A maroon minivan swerved erratically out of traffic, side swiping the truck in front of it, to smash into a parked squad car. Even more drivers laid on their horns. The highway lights flicked off and on. Masked troopers rushed towards the minivan with weapons drawn. One man pried open the driver’s side door. The others all shouted commands at the occupants at the same time. The soldiers in the Humvees pivoted their heavy machine guns towards the commotion.
A sizzling pop sounded overhead and the highway lights turned off again, this time for good. The travelers were left with only the glow of their vehicle lights to illuminate the confusing panic taking place in front of them.
Danielle tensed. Paul’s griped the steering wheel tight, his palms slick with sweat.
Chapter III: Small Town U.S.A.
The ancient cash register finally slid open. The old brass National stood atop a swirling marble counter like a guardian of ancient times. It always took an extra blow from an experienced hand to fully open the thing. Luke Slaughter could easily buy a brand new electronic register with the money he could get for the antique but he kept it around anyway. It was the register his Granddaddy and his Daddy before him used. With sweat stained sleeves rolled back and a haggard look, common to the working man near the end of his day, Luke tallied up the sale. The keys made a clack clack sound as he punched the numbers.
“Appreciate it Albert. I’ll see you soon,” Luke said with forced enthusiasm. He had never really liked Albert. He was a massively fat, unhygienic, mouth breather type and there was a rumor around town that he was rough on his wife, but the fat man’s money was just green as the next. His Grandfather, God rest his soul, would never have stood for such a thing but Luke sorely needed the sale.
A dusty bell jingled atop the old wooden door as Albert waddled out. Luke sighed, ran an impulsive hand through his hair, leaned an elbow against the counter, and a boot on the carved wooden base, in dire need of fresh tarnish. The marble counter was covered with a large pane of glass. A yellowed newspaper clipping, covering the recent attack on Hawaiian Naval Base Pearl Harbor, like the rest of the store, seemed sheltered from time itself. Luke inherited the place, which sold feed and grain to the local farmers, after his grandparent’s retirement. Luke’s family migrated from Germany to Texas sometime after the Civil War and founded Slaughter Family Feed and Grain in the rural town of Cibolo. Ownership of the store passed from generation to generation until finally, over a century later, landed on him.
When Luke and his brothers were still children, the old timers, who sweat and burned for so many years under the Texas sun, saw an easy retirement when hungry developers, imagining huge profits by building cheap housing on cheap land within commuting distance of San Antonio, came knocking. The builders became rich and the farmers moved away. When Luke took over, he had to think of alternate means to generate income to keep the store afloat. Now, the place sold more convenience items and gas than feed but he did keep the name.
Another throwback of his grandparent’s time sat five feet away from Luke on the creaky old church pew that had served Slaughter Feed and Grain customers since well before Luke could walk. Mr. Clifford Worsby had a full head of close cropped grey hair and a deep lined face nearly the same shade as the dark mahogany he sat on. He squinted, for his vision wasn’t what it once was, at the small television screen mounted above the door.
Oh, hell no. He don’t even look like me. Yes he do! Yes he do! You are the father. Ohhhhhh!
Luke had always been one to keep his nose in a book instead of a television screen. He glanced at the small book shelf near his desk housing The Count of Monte Christo and then to the T.V. with a look of distaste but he didn’t say anything. Luke enjoyed the old man’s company and figured, since he had been coming to the store since before he was born, he had a right to watch whatever he wanted. White cigar smoke drifted through the air as the old man lit his third of the day.
“You should go easy on those Mr. Worsby.” Even though he was a grown man in his own right, Luke addressed him formally, as he always had. Mr. Clifford Worsby had been ancient even when Luke was a boy.
The old man leaned back in the pew causing it to creak slightly. Thick smoke rolled over the brim of his black WWII Veteran cap. His eyes narrowed even more, causing the lines on his dark face to fold into great canyons. He spoke slowly and deliberately. “Boy, I’m Goin’ on my 93rd year. The damn things ain’t killed me yet.”
Luke chuckled and absently reaching for his broom, nearly knocking a half hidden bottle of whiskey to the floor. It was emptier then it had been this morning and his lunch buzz was long gone. Mr. Worsby gave Luke a disapproving stare but said nothing, respecting their unspoken truce. Shamed but unabashed, Luke reached for the bottle but stopped short when he heard the jingle of the old doorbell. One last customer and he could go get drunk.
He nearly dropped his broom when she walked through the door. The Ghost of Christmas Past with dark brunette curls, red lipstick, and a face that haunted his dreams every night he was sober enough to remember them. Even old man Worsby almost dropped the smoldering cigar from his mouth.
“Hi Luke.” Bridgett Webb smiled shyly. She kept her hands folded in front of her.
Luke made a guttural guffawing sound. He and Clifford shared a quick glance. “Bridgett, you’re back in town,” he squeaked.
“Just arrived.” She was beautiful. The sight was enough to melt his heart a thousand times over. The Webb family had grown up next door, as close as next d
oor got in this rural area. Bridgett, an only child, grew up laughing and playing with Luke and his brothers. She jerked her head towards the U-Haul truck parked at one of Luke’s new pumps. “I came to pick up a few things from Mom and Dad’s before heading back.”
“I heard about…” It was all Luke was able to say before casting his gaze downward, unable to meet her crystal blue eyes. He knew. As a matter of fact, the whole town knew. Two months ago, Mr. and Mrs. Webb had parked their family car on a train track a few miles outside of town. No one knew exactly what happened or why. Bridgett was suddenly and violently left the last of the Cibolo, Texas Webb family.
“I’m sorry,” Luke stammered. Bridgett held up a hand as if to say, it’s okay.
“I mean, it’s hard. I’ve never… But I… It’s great to see you Bridgett.”
“You too Luke.” They smiled awkwardly at each other for a moment. “I heard about Wade getting on with the department.” She turned to look at him. It wasn’t lost on Luke that she did not mention his other brother but he didn’t expect her to after what had happened.
Luke could have died happy when she tilted her head and said, “I’ve missed you guys.”
Luke threw his broom down and rushed around the counter, past Mr. Worsby who sat as still as a gargoyle, to embrace his old friend. Bridgett seemed content in his arms as they held each other for a silent moment. Luke noticed Bridgett’s lovely bosom pressed warmly against his stomach and suddenly ended the embrace for he felt a stir he didn’t want to become an embarrassing hindrance to their reunion. Luke pushed her to arm’s length. Even though her family was well known to be wealthy, she wore only a simple grey t-shirt and jeans. Her sweet perfume encompassed his entire world.
He glanced at her shirt. “The Dallas Cowboys huh,” he laughed. They both knew she only started watching football to make him happy and, being ever thoughtful, she meant for him to see it today. Luke hugged her again briefly and said, “It sure is great to see you.”
Suddenly, Luke remembered they weren’t alone in the room. He cleared his throat and backed away a few steps. Bridgett followed his eyes to old man on the bench.
“Oh hello, Mr. Worsby. It is good to see you again.”
“You too Miss. Webb. You too.” His cigar was nearly smoked down at twice his normal rate. It may or may not have had to do with the fact that he sat at waste level to the charming female. This fact was not lost on Luke. Mr. Worsby had once told him, regarding the feminine question, that even though there was snow on the roof, the fire still burned inside. Luke smiled.
Bridgett sat her handbag down on the counter and looked around the room. “This place hasn’t changed since we were kids. You, me, Wade, and Paul running around here without a care in the world.” Luke bristled at the mention of his oldest brother’s name.
She walked to the nearest shelf and ran her fingers along the old wood, the sense of touch seemingly stoking her memory like kindling to a fire. She stopped suddenly in a dark back corner, shooting Luke a mischievous grin. He looked away, his cheeks crimson. A vivid memory of their High School days invaded Luke’s mind. They had broken into the store one night and made clumsy love behind the pallets of feed bags.
“Oh, how could I forget?” Luke blurted out. “There’s someone you need to see!” He turned towards the pair of old wooden swinging doors in the back of the room that led to the warehouse.
“John!” Luke shouted. He waited for a reply. “John!”
Bridgett opened her mouth in a disbelieving smile. They heard footstep pounding towards them and then the boom of the old wooden warehouse doors opening with a slam.
A short gentle looking man with a round, smiling face shouted with joy. “Bridgett!” He ran towards her, jumping off the warehouse ramp and slamming to the ground with a puff of dust. Overweight and barely five feet tall, John Campbell smashed his thick round spectacles into Bridgett’s breasts, enveloping her in a great bear hug. She laughed and didn’t seem to care. Everyone who grew up with John knew he did not know lust, or attraction, or personal space for that matter. He was the only kid in their town with downs syndrome. A pure heart full of joy and love. John Campbell was adored by everyone who knew him.
“Oh-my-God John!” Bridgett said, pulling him off of her cleavage. “I missed you so much. How have you been?”
John smiled at her with gigantic dimpled cheeks.
“Good!” He drew out the word and backed up to show her his apron proudly, the same apron Luke’s grandfather wore around the place. It read Slaughter Feed and Grain in faded and cracked letters. John treasured it and wore it like a badge of honor.
“Look at that!” Bridget replied. “John the working man. I’m so proud of you.” She shot Luke a warm smile.
Always careful to make sure John felt useful and wanted, Luke said, “He runs the warehouse and carries all the grain out. He’s as quick as an arrow and strong as a bull.”
John, still smiling, pulled back the sleeve of his shirt to show Bridgett his bicep. She covered her mouth with her hand, clearly impressed.
“I couldn’t run this place without John. Isn’t that right J.C.?”
“That’s right Luke.” John replied, shuffling over to give him sideways hug. In John’s mind, everyone deserved a hug, except Mr. Worsby of course, who gave him a scary growl when he tried. Luke locked eyes with Bridgett over John’s unkempt curls, and grinned.
“J.C., is that what you’re going by now a days?” Bridgett asked.
A beaming John replied, “It’s my street name.” Bridgett laughed. Even Mr. Worsby let out a modest chuckle. She was so beautiful when she laughed.
Bridgett leaned on the counter, her curls gracefully tumbling to the side. “So do you boys still sell dog food here? My hounds are hungry!” They could hear the darks barking from the cracked window of the U-Haul.
“Of course!” John shouted, a little too loud. He held out his fingers and counted one by one. “We have the Beneful Healthy Fiesta, Purina, Purina Lamb and Beef, the Pedigree Complete, the Pedigree Healthy Joints…”
“I’ll take your best kind, John!” Bridgett interrupted.
His face lit up. “Oh, you want the good stuff.” He nodded in an understanding way. “The Alpo Prime Cut Gourmet Dinner!” He wringed his hands on his faded apron and disappeared through the swinging doors, giggling excitedly.
Luke walked behind the counter. Bridgett reached inside her handbag. “This one is on the house,” Luke said.
“No, no, I insist,” Bridgett said, pulling out a twenty.
Luke waved his hand in the same stubborn way he had when they were a couple.
“A tip then, for John,” she suggested.
Luke nodded and tucked the bill into his pocket and both of them smiled, not sure what to say next.
“Luke, I…” Bridgett began but was interrupted by the sound her dog’s slow barking turning frantic.
“What in the world?” Mr. Worsby mumbled. His bushy white eyebrows were like squirming caterpillars on his puzzled face. Clifford always told Luke, a man who had been to war, even if it was over 50 years ago, could sense danger on a subconscious level. The way the old man shot alert, startled Luke. Bridgett took a step towards the open door. Luke grabbed her arm.
“My dogs,” she protested.
Luke looked out the large side window and saw his two gas pumps with Bridgett’s U-Haul parked on the other side. Old Mr. Worsby, grasping the side of the pew and his large cane for support, stood up. Just then, the swinging doors to the warehouse flung open threatening to knock them off of their hinges. A terrified John shot down the ramp and clung to Luke like a drowning man. Tears streamed down his face.
Luke, now truly alarmed asked, “John, what in the heck is…?”
John’s speech came in sobs and gulps. “I got the… Alpo… Prime Cut… Gourmet Dinner.” He buried his face in Luke’s sleeve.
“It’s okay John.” Luke wrapped an arm around his friend, patting his curly head. “Calm down J.C. Tell me what happened
.”
“There’s a… bad man outside…” John gulped. A snot bubble popped in his nostril as he looked up at Luke. “He’s… mad!” He buried his face in Luke’s shoulder again, weeping uncontrollably.
Luke’s eyes darted from Clifford to Bridgett. “Did anyone else come with you from Dallas?”
“No,” Bridgett said. “Just my dogs.”
Clifford Worsby tugged on his pants, already nearly to his nipples, adjusted the brim of his dusty black WWII Veteran cap, and took another labored step towards the door. Luke saw him and nodded. He signaled Bridgett to come around the counter and detached his sobbing companion.
“Listen John, I need you to be brave and take care of Bridgett for a minute. Okay?” John detached himself from Luke and ran into her open arms. With his face squished firmly in her left breast, John stiffened his upper lip and nodded bravely.
Luke moved swiftly now, flipping a switch under the rim of his counter, producing an old hunting shotgun. He moved past Clifford and stopped at the door. One look outside turned him as pale as a ghost.
The dogs barked louder and more frantically.
He turned to Bridgett. “Call 911. Wade’s on duty. Tell the dispatcher to send him and send him quick.”
Glass shattered.
Bridgett hesitated. “Do it now!” Luke shouted, startling Bridgett into action.
He hesitated before stepping through the doorway, suddenly remembering the tarnished silver cross hanging around his neck. Luke’s mother, Anne Slaughter, had given it to him as a boy telling him to remember her and remember God. He tugged it from underneath his shirt and read the inscription on the back.
Fear not for I am with you. He rubbed it between his fingers and looked outside. His dry mouth craved a drink.
Luke Slaughter racked his shotgun and stepped into the South Texas sun.
Captain James Lasko lay motionless, staring at the ceiling of his cell. It was always the same darkness, eyes open or closed. Dark. So painfully dark. Nearly as pitch as the blackness that filled his heart. The dirty smock they gave him in afforded the only padding between him and the freezing concrete floor. When he wanted to sit, he could but only on the seat-less metal toilet bolted to the wall and doing so for any extended time would either agitate his rectum or, if he leaned his elbows forward on his knees, put his legs to sleep. There was no comfort in this place.
