Average Joe

by R. D. Sherrill

  FISH IN A BARREL

  The disappearance of the guards around the city bridges was not lost on Sheriff Randolph. Word from his lookouts stationed on his side of the river revealed the three guarding the other bridges had each been picked up by a Jeep about five minutes apart. Why had they left the bridges unguarded? Was something about to happen? Was it a trap?

  It was half past one in the morning. Federal authorities would arrive any time now and a plan of negotiation or, perhaps, a plan of attack could be put into place.

  Behind him, a small army of lawmen had amassed, including special weapons and tactics teams as well as sharpshooters. An element of the National Guard had even arrived, making the force on the sheriff's side of the river a veritable war machine. The sheriff knew anyone coming across the Barren Fork River wouldn't stand a chance. However, his concern was for the couple of thousand people still in the arena.

  Nothing had been heard from inside the civic center in about an hour and units that were stationed around its perimeter reported seeing no movement with the exception of a couple of motorcycles driving away. Also of a concern was his inability to raise Chief Bouldin, who had simply vanished from the airwaves after going to investigate the shooting. The two available patrol cars, still in Centertown, had been scanning the town looking for him for several minutes to no avail.

  Raising his binoculars, Sheriff Randolph saw a set of headlights approaching. The gunman, who had sat on a guard rail across the river, got up and walked toward the vehicle. A moment later the sheriff was able to make out the approaching Jeep contained other masked men.

  "What are they doing?" the sheriff mumbled under his breath as he watched the man get into the Jeep, which promptly drove away.

  The sheriff entertained the thought of sending men across the bridge, given the departure of the sentry. However, still nagging him were the flashing lights on the jackknifed tractor trailer. If they were, in fact, armed explosives, they could be detonated by proximity as well as by remote. He would wait a bit longer, at least until the explosives experts arrived within the hour. He had delayed an assault on the bridge this long. Crossing now would be reckless.

  "Sheriff Randolph, this is Patrolman Travis," came the panicked voice of one of the city officers.

  The patrolman's broadcast across the police radio struck the sheriff as unusual since most communications had been done by cellphone to keep the terrorists out of the loop. The sheriff assumed the terrorists were continuously monitoring the police channels.

  "This is Randolph, go ahead son," the sheriff responded, not willing to leave the officer hanging, even if they were being listened to by the bad guys.

  "The chief, he's dead," Travis said, the sheriff deducing from the sound of his voice the officer was likely in tears. "They're all dead."

  "Slow down. What do you mean they are all dead?" the sheriff asked.

  "We have two officers down here, the chief and Patrolman Jenkins and another man dead nearby," Travis said excitedly. "And, we have one of the terrorists dead about a block away. It's a war zone over here."

  Worried the young officer was in over his head and not knowing how many bad guys were roaming the streets, the sheriff told him to join those near the civic center.

  "Get out of there," the sheriff urged. "We’ll be there soon. Go to the civic center with the other officers. There's safety in numbers."

  The sheriff slammed his fist on the hood of the vehicle he stood behind, frustrated he had not been able to warn Patrolman Jenkins during their earlier conversation.

  Turning his focus to those inside the arena, the sheriff went to the main frequency.

  "Those holding the arena, come in," the sheriff ordered.

  The radio remained silent, only the sound of static could be heard.

  "This is Sheriff Randolph, we need to talk," he continued.

  His requests continued being met with silence as he turned up and down the dial, trying to raise the hostage takers.

  "Why aren't they answering?" the sheriff wondered aloud.

  He realized something was about to happen; the question was what that was. With the exception of a handful of city police, they were flying blind inside the town.

  "This is ... calling for Sheriff Randolph or anyone on the other side," came a crackling over the radio, the background noise making it hard to understand.

  "Come again," the sheriff said. "You're breaking up."

  "They are at the river," the voice responded on the other end. "Several of them. All armed."

  "Whoever this is, what’s your location?" the sheriff asked.

  "I'm about a half mile south of the four-lane bridge," the voice resumed, again barely audible. "They are working their way down to the banks near Tucker's Landing."

  "Understood," the sheriff said. "Who is this?"

  The sheriff's call was not returned, the barely audible voice disappearing from the radio despite repeated calls for his response.

  "What do you think?" asked Highway Patrol Trooper Dave Anderson who was standing nearby and had heard the conversation.

  “I think we need to take some men and go downriver to Tucker's Landing, and then we can go from there," the sheriff said. "We have plenty stationed at the bridges. If anyone is going to try to get out, it certainly won't be by one of these four bridges, I can tell you that. Besides, Tucker's is just around the bend."

  As if on cue, Dan put his hand on the sheriff's shoulder.

  "We got your flat bottom," Dan declared as he pointed to a truck that had just pulled up pulling an old flat bottom boat.

  "That has to be a sign," the sheriff smiled. "Bring it with us."

  With that, the sheriff lined up a team of about twenty men and headed on foot along the high banks of the river, using the tree line on their side to keep from being spotted by anyone on the other side.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of the river, Harold grinned as he laid down the police radio microphone, knowing the trap had been set. He had intentionally provided the sheriff with intelligence concerning the movement of their hired help.

  "Jerry, go ahead and send them, I'm almost there," Harold said, knowing he was about to hatch his new plan. "I'm in Doug's car, so look for me.”

  Above the banks of Tucker's Landing, also on the opposite side of the river from the sheriff, Jerry was making the final payments to the hired help. Jerry was unaware the five now just consisted of he and Harold since he was not privy to the police radio nor had Harold cared to share the updated situation with him. Instead, Jerry had been focused on finishing off his part of the mission before hightailing back to his house before those on the other side of the river decided to come across.

  "There's a big flat bottom just down the path," Jerry told one of the men who had been contracted to assist the five. "Head straight across and up the other side. On top you will find a Jeep parked beside the road, Take it and disappear. Don't ever come back to Centertown."

  Shaking Jerry's hand, thanking him for the business, the man, still masked along with his other four partners as had been their orders, began their descent down the steep hill even as the headlights of the patrol car appeared above.

  Harold stopped short at the edge of the river cliff, several yards away from Jerry who was standing at the top of the hill above the river. Jerry, seeing the patrol car, assumed it was Doug. He glanced away for a moment toward the men that were working their way down to the bank. The moon, now showing through the clouds, gave him a view of both the men below him and the patrol car.

  Inside the patrol car, both Joe and Brittany knew something was about to happen as Harold laid down the pistol he had used to keep them at bay and grabbed his rifle. Then, without hesitation he jumped out of the car, leaned against the driver door and took careful aim. His target was his long-time friend Jerry.

  "What are you doing?" Brittany yelled.

  She looked across the field to see Jerry throw his hand up in a wave toward the car. He didn't realize the barrel of a gun was
trained on him.

  Joe's ears vibrated as the shot rang out, the round striking Jerry in the head even while he was waving toward Harold. The betrayal was complete as he fell, dead before he hit the frozen ground.

  Sheriff Randolph heard the shot from the other side of the river. His men took cover, assuming the shot was meant for them.

  Meanwhile, witnessing yet another murder, Joe made his move. He reached through the broken window to trigger the lock and dove out of the car. He then ran around the trunk, hoping to catch the gunman off guard. Harold heard him coming. Unable to get his barrel leveled, he slung the butt of the rifle striking Joe between the eyes. Joe's world went black. Harold stepped back and aimed his gun on the unconscious coach, ready to finish the job. However, even as his finger tightened around the trigger, Brittany lunged for the rifle, pushing it away just as the shot rang out narrowly missing Joe's head.

  The shot snapped Joe back to consciousness as he looked up to see Brittany struggling with the gunman.

  "Don't you dare kill him," he could hear her saying as he struggled to his feet.

  Still not fully conscious, Joe made a grab for the rifle. The three wrestled over the weapon as they tumbled through the field. A third shot rang out. That was when Joe fell into nothingness. His foot, which he had put back for leverage in the fight, found nothing but air. He had stepped off the edge of the cliff. Grabbing at tree branches and throwing out his hands trying to slow his fall, Joe tumbled head over heels down to the river bank below where he lay stunned until the sound of gunfire again erupted from the darkness.

  What he heard was the sound of Sheriff Randolph's men returning fire, the three shots fired by Harold mistaken for fire intended for the lawmen. The entire river bank was a shooting alley. The concentration of fire from the opposite bank brought down by the twenty lawmen cut down two of the hired help immediately.

  The other three, believing it to be an ambush, returned fire. Unknown to the hired help, their "return fire" was an exercise in frustration as the blanks loaded in their guns were simply giving away their locations by their muzzle flashes. Even had they made it to the flat bottom, they would have found out, in the middle of the icy water, that it was not water-worthy. The frigid water would have quickly filled the boat halfway across the Barren Fork, plunging the unfortunate group into the deadly cold current. However, this night, they would not get the chance to drown. They would all die from gunfire.

  But then, that had been part of the plan the whole time, well, at least the part of the plan endorsed by Harold and Randy. The other three had not been let in on the planned sacrifice of the five mercenaries. Under no circumstances was the hired help supposed to make it out of Centertown alive. The contractors were going to be sacrificed for the good of the real five. Just as Harold had assured the conspirators, no one would be killed that didn't deserve it. And the hired help, they deserved it.

  All of them were career criminals and penitentiary rats. The five were actually doing society a favor by making sure the hardened criminals never left Centertown. Their killing would likely lower the crime rate in the city where they came from. Of course, best of all, dead men tell no tales. The career criminals would be blamed for staging the daring robbery and the case would be closed. With no witnesses, investigators would assume co-conspirators had spirited the money away while lawmen were busy having their showdown with the five in the river valley. They would look for the loot elsewhere and never find it, believing it had found its way into the coffers of organized crime. After all, who else could plan such an ingenious robbery? Surely only a master criminal could pull off such a job. Who would ever suspect five average Joes?

  Unfortunately, due to circumstances beyond his control, the plan didn't work that cleanly as the trail of dead bodies, including his co-conspirators, would tell a different tale than was originally planned. But that was okay. Harold had a new plan, even better than the original. And best of all, the money was all his. He had basically inherited the other portions.

  "Get in the car," Harold ordered. He motioned Brittany into the passenger side as the gunfire raged in the ravine below, pausing to look toward the edge of the ravine to make sure none of the hired help nor Joe were going to emerge. He leveled his rifle, ready to cut down anyone who topped the hill. No one did.

  Jumping back in the car and turning on the key, Harold hit the gas but the patrol car refused to move. Again stomping the accelerator, the car still remained stationary, the wheels now hopelessly buried in the snow. Harold, in wanting to get a quick shot on his old partner, had pulled off the access road, leaving the car sunk up to the bumper.

  "Come on, hurry, get out. Let's go," Harold yelled at Brittany, running around to grab her hand and pull her out of the car.

  "That way," Harold pointed.

  He directed Brittany away from the river, the pair having to high-step through the snow. The calf-deep powder made movement difficult, especially on her frostbitten toes.

  Meanwhile, the gunfire echoed throughout the river valley. Several officers at the bridge ran toward the sound of the shootout. Sheriff Randolph and his posse wouldn't need any help as they filled the other side of the river bank with high caliber fire. Not only did they have the high ground, they were also the only ones using live ammunition.

  Directing fire down on the muzzle flashes, Sheriff Randolph and his men soon neutralized the gunmen on the opposite bank, all five lying dead on the snowy banks of the Barren Fork.

  Spotting another figure climbing up the opposite bank, the sheriff himself took aim, using the figure's silhouette against the white backdrop of the snow covered hill to take his bearings. He didn't want to hit the fleeing suspect since he was not actively shooting at the sheriff or his officers. Plus, the sheriff was not about to shoot someone in the back. Instead, he fired just to the side of his head, hoping to stop the man's escape. The figure, however, was able to make it to the opposite hill and disappear into the night. Another shot, fired by another lawman from over the sheriff's shoulder, barely missed the figure just before he disappeared.

  "Hold your fire. Hold your fire," the sheriff ordered. "He's out of range. Besides, we don't know what's over there. We might hit an innocent civilian."

  Pausing for a moment to listen for any other movement on the bank, the sheriff gave orders.

  "Let's get down there and clear the bank and make sure there isn't anyone still lurking around in the brush."

  Several officers descended down to the banks of the Barren Fork, their spotlights shining on the opposite banks. They found nothing but five bullet-riddled bodies.

  The hired help never stood a chance. It was a turkey shoot. They had been sacrificed by design in the name of the mission.

  Hearing the shooting stop, Harold hustled Brittany on through the bitter cold. While doubting the lawmen would go ahead and try to cross the bridge this soon, he wanted to be on the safe side just in case there were some gung ho cops. He knew once just one crossed the river, the jig would be up and the rest would come swarming across.

  Harold shed his mask, hat and coat, getting rid of the clothing that could link him to the group that had taken over the civic center. If they did come in contact with law enforcement, he would at least have a shred of deniability. If he were caught in uniform, he would have a harder time explaining himself. Without his uniform, he could simply pitch away his rifle and be just a "regular citizen" fleeing the sound of gunfire provided it wasn't a local officer. They already had the money so there was no more reason to play the role. His performance, for the most part, was over. All he had to do now is enjoy the fruits of his labor. After all, he was the sole survivor.

  Seeing the road just a couple of hundred yards in front of him, Harold shot a look around behind him. Paranoia was starting to set in as he had an unsettling feeling someone was behind them. He was now painfully close to getting away with what, to many, would be considered an impossible mission. All he had to do is make it to the road and he could disappear into the
city streets.

  That's when he heard a sound, just behind him, the sound of fast footfalls in the snow. Turning to look, Harold was hit full speed by a figure before he could get turned around, the impact sending his rifle flying into the snow. He landed face down in the snow and groped for his gun. It was out of his reach. He heard the sound of a hammer cocking behind him.

  With a sense of dread, Harold slowly rolled over in the snow, looking up to see Joe standing over him. He was pointing a gun at his head. Harold couldn't help but smile even as he stared down the barrel of the coach's gun.

  MAKE ME LAUGH

  "What the ..." Joe began before hearing the cocking of a gun just behind his ear. The sickening sound caused him to catch his breath, knowing this might be the end of the line.

  Meanwhile, before him stood a dead man, a man he had seen executed just a few hours ago - Mayor Harold Thorn - a smile on his face.

  "I take it you're surprised to see me," Harold began, calmly standing up and wiping the snow off his clothes. Joe could still sense the gun being trained to the back of his head. "I assume you got that gun from one of my unfortunate associates by the river. After all, most coaches don't just go around packing iron."

  Hoping he at least had some power with Harold in his cross-hairs, Joe quickly decided to bluff. It was his only chance.

  "I'm not afraid to use it," Joe said, trying to sound threatening even though his voice cracked. "I swear. I'll shoot you if you don't tell your friend to put the gun down."

  Laughing, Harold looked over Joe's shoulder at the person holding the gun and winked.

  “I’m sure you would if it was loaded," Harold said.

  He unceremoniously reached out to jerk the gun out of Joe's hand. The coach tried to pull the trigger but it wouldn't squeeze.