“Crap crap crap crap crap!”
Jerry saw me spring into action, but he was several steps behind me, figuratively and literally.
“What? What’s happening?”
“Go hide!” I yelled as the caravan of pickups screeched into the parking lot. “The terrorists are back!”
“Do what now?”
I almost made it to the locks, but the men jumping out of their trucks and charging into the store were way faster than a scrawny guy on crutches.
The gust of icy air that hit my face smelled like trouble (assuming trouble smells like ripe body-odor and whiskey sweat). A man with a bushy white beard down his chest slammed into my shoulder as he charged past, nearly taking me off my feet. As I struggled to keep from falling over, he yelled back to the others, “Grab him!”
The next two guys both got me by an arm and forcefully yanked me towards the center of the room. One of them yelled to Whitebeard, “This guy’s a cripple!”
Whitebeard yelled back, “Then put him on the floor!” The next thing I knew, I was hitting the ground with no idea where my crutches had ended up. The rest of them came flooding in and formed a crowd around me. Somewhere between ten and twenty, all decked out in head-to-toe camo.
Whitebeard seemed to be the one in control. He barked out commands, and the others followed. He yelled at one of them to “get the phones.” The guy closest to the counter ripped the line from the wall and smashed the store phone against the floor as the others whooped and cackled like drunken hyenas.
Jerry may have had a chance to make a run for it out the back door, but he never even took his shot. He just walked into the mass of them and quipped, “You guys must be here for the micro-penis support group. Sorry, today’s meeting got cancelled due to insufficient staff.”
Whitebeard pointed and said, “Get him.”
A couple of the bigger ones lunged forward. Jerry got out a quick “Ruh roh” before they latched on. I tried to sit up, but I was immediately met with a boot to the chest and fell flat on my back again. Jerry took a few hits himself before being flung to the ground next to me, and we both went into the fetal position as they circled around us, screaming and laughing and kicking until finally Whitebeard let out a whistle like he was trying to break glass.
They stopped kicking, but I kept my head and face covered just to be safe. These guys were out for blood, and the fact that none of them were wearing masks told me that one of two things was happening. Either they didn’t expect to leave any witnesses, or they weren’t thinking straight enough to consider the consequences of their actions. Neither scenario boded well for us.
“Alright,” said Whitebeard, “Y’all did good work. We got the fucker, and his little friend, too.” Each of his sentences was met with a burst of cheers and laughter. These men were in a feeding frenzy, drunk on Whitebeard’s words (and probably alcohol). “Now I got one question. Who here knows how to tie a noose?”
Another triumphant burst of cheers and jeers. Some of the men were spreading out, knocking over displays and raiding the shelves. I could hear glass shattering at the back of the store.
“Hey!” Whitebeard yelled to someone specific. “Bring that over here.”
I tried to sit up and see what was happening, but the moment I got off my back, a series of kicks from every side put me back down.
Someone handed Whitebeard a bottle of expensive gin. He looked at the label and said, “Y’all know the only thing this piss water is good for?”
He raised it over his head and I immediately shut my eyes tight and covered my face. The bottle hit the floor right next to my head, exploding to the sound of raucous cheering. I could feel the stinging of glass shards where they had cut into the skin of my neck.
“Alright gentlemen, put that shit away! Everybody gather ‘round.”
The horde of angry men huddled around us tight enough to block out all light. We were in the collective shadow, under their breath, inside the powder keg. They were practically salivating over us.
Whitebeard started them up again, “It’s about time we show this bitch what justice looks like. What do y’all want to do first?”
One of the hunters answered, “I got some rope. I say we drag ‘em a couple miles down the road and see how they feel after they ain’t got any ass skin left.”
There was another hearty round of laughter, but it did nothing to convince me that anyone was joking. Somebody else offered, “I say we take ‘em to the creek, tie ‘em to a cinder block, and find out if they can swim.”
There was some more laughter, and some cheering. Then another voice broke into the room, “I say we let them both go.”
That was Jerry, using a fake falsetto. It went over like a turd in a punchbowl, and soon the mob was viciously screaming and kicking us all over again. They weren’t holding back, either. My arms were bruised and bleeding, but I kept my head and face covered. A single errant kick could prove fatal, and these guys didn’t seem to know what careful looked like.
I can’t say how long it went on, but eventually Whitebeard got them all calmed down again. He ordered two of the men to grab Jerry by the arms and stand him up.
“I wanna look him in the eyes.”
The men did as they were ordered, and the circle widened for them. Everybody wanted a chance to see what was about to happen.
“Alright,” Jerry announced to the room, “before we get started, my safe word is ‘banana.’ Okay?”
Whitebeard had about three inches, thirty years, and a hundred pounds on Jerry, and up to this point, he’d been fine with letting the others do most of the work. But as he squeezed his hand into a fist, I realized that the worst of it wasn’t over yet.
“You think you’re funny, murderer?”
Jerry looked genuinely confused.
“What? I haven’t murdered anyone... to your knowledge.”
“You think hurting a little girl makes you special? All it does is make you a coward. Too much of a pussy to fight someone able to punch back.” The men reacted to Whitebeard’s words like a fired-up congregation, and he was clearly high on it. “You messed with the wrong girl in the wrong town. Now let’s see if you got what it takes to fight a real man.”
“What? What the fuck are you even talking about?”
Someone in the crowd yelled, “We know what you did, murderer!” It took me a second to place it, but I recognized the voice. It belonged to a younger guy named Brian Locke, Vanessa’s on-again off-again ex-boyfriend.
Whitebeard went on, basking in adulation and self-righteous fury. “You may think you fooled the cops, and you may think you got away with it. But God knows what you did, and ain’t nobody gettin’ away from what they deserve. Not if I got anything to say about it.”
He leaned into the unreserved punch, landing it solidly in Jerry’s stomach, forcing him to double over. If it weren’t for the two guys holding him up, he would have collapsed to the ground. When the cheers had subsided and Jerry’s breath returned, he stood up straight under his own power and said, “Banana! Jesus Fuck, dude. I thought you were supposed to be jolly.”
“Hey!” I yelled, trying to get Whitebeard’s attention, but before I could say anything else, somebody kicked me in the shoulder and knocked me down all over again. Unfortunately, it worked. I succeeded in getting his attention.
He took a step over to me, turned to make sure Jerry was watching, then pulled a handgun from the holster on his hip and pointed it right at my face. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said. “We’re going to kill you. You didn’t leave us no choice. But your friend here, I don’t give a fuck about him. I’m going to ask you some questions. Each time you lie, I’ll put a bullet in his good leg.” He looked out at the crowd and asked, “How long y’all figure before this Special Ed bleeds out?”
They all cheered. It was a truly nonsensical answer to a pretty direct question, but they were well past rational thought. They just wanted to see someone get hurt.
They all calmed do
wn to watch the show, and I was finally able to get a clear look at the faces in the crowd. They were locals, for sure. I recognized some of them from all the times they came in to buy gas and hunting supplies. At least a couple were members of the Baptist church. One was an old classmate named Travis Guidry. It’s bad enough when strangers form a mob to revenge-murder you in a misguided attempt at vigilantism, but it’s especially hurtful when it’s someone you grew up with.
“Alright, first question. Where’d you put her?”
Jerry looked down at me. A line of blood flowed from a gash below his eye like red tears.
“Give me a little context. Where’d I put whom?”
Whitebeard pulled back the hammer of his gun and screamed, “Don’t play stupid!”
“Whoa!” I shouted, “Calm down! He’s really not playing. Look at him! He has no idea what you’re talking about!”
“I’m talking about Vanessa!”
For one short moment, the room was deathly quiet. Then Jerry frowned and said, “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. I would never hurt Van.”
The room erupted in angry, loud screams. Whitebeard couldn’t keep them together anymore. Somebody took the initiative to jump between the old man and Jerry and start throwing punches. There were cries of “Don’t you dare say her name!” and “Kill the fucker!” Whatever control the old man had over them when they came in, they were completely out of it now. He tried screaming, then whistling, but nothing would calm them down. The mob was a wild animal, unleashed and unpredictable, and there was nothing to stop them from ripping Jerry to pieces.
I didn’t see who it was, but one of the hunters couldn’t get to Jerry fast enough, so he settled on the next best thing and kicked my cast right below the knee. I do not say this lightly, but the pain that shot through my body in that moment was worse than any I’d ever felt, and for a moment, all I could do was lay on the floor with my eyes squeezed shut and scream.
And then we heard the gunshot. I opened my eyes expecting to find that they had executed Jerry on the spot. The crowd moved away from him like he was suddenly toxic, but he was still alive and standing, and now he was looking at the front door. I followed his gaze to see Deputy O’Brien outside, walking across the parking lot.
The doors opened with a whoosh of cold air as the deputy let herself in and holstered her service pistol. The room was quiet enough now to hear a mouse blink. She scanned the gas station with a blank face, making eye contact with everyone inside, then slowly walked into the center of the room, right up to me. A few members of the pack circled around behind her, and for the first time I realized that at least half of them were holding guns.
O’Brien used a quiet, but extremely clear voice, “I’m gonna say this one time, and one time only: pick him up off the ground.”
Whitebeard puffed up his chest. It seemed he didn’t enjoy having his authority challenged. “Why should we listen to you? Don’t you know who my brother is, cunt?” He spat that last word with disgust, like he was trying to get the taste of shit out of his mouth.
She kept her cool and locked eyes with him. “I don’t give a fuck who you know, what your last name is, or who’s your fucking uncle. I don’t answer to the sheriff. Understand? You get one chance. After this, the only way out of here is in cuffs or a body bag.”
He broke first, looking away from her and down at me. O’Brien slowly turned a full circle, addressing the rest of the room, “Now, looking at this crowd, I don’t think I’m gonna fit everybody in the back of the cruiser. And it’d be a fucking shame to shoot every one of you. But I’ve got a feeling I won’t have to do that.” She finished her circle and looked back at Whitebeard, adding, “I bet the only person I’d have to shoot is you, and the rest will scatter. What’s it going to be, Leon? You feel like testing me tonight?”
Whitebeard (or “Leon,” apparently) looked at a couple of the other hunters and nodded in my direction. They took the silent order, pulled me to my feet, and stuffed the crutches under my arms. Somebody patted me on the back and whispered in my ear, “You know we were just messing with you, right?”
O’Brien raised her voice for the first time since walking in, “Listen up. All of you are going to go outside, get back in your trucks, and leave. If any one of you ever sets foot on this property again, you’ll be lucky to go to jail.” The men all looked at one another uncomfortably, like nobody knew what the next move should be. Her voice went deathly quiet as she asked, “Did I stutter?”
The man closest to the entrance didn’t wait for Leon’s permission. Once the door had opened, it was like a dam burst, and the rest immediately followed him out. The last to budge was Leon himself, but even he wasn’t bold enough to stay in O’Brien’s company without any backup. As he walked past her, he growled, “You’re dead, cop-bitch.”
The rest of the night was a foggy blur.
***
We gave ourselves a once over to make sure we still had the same number of broken bones that we started with.
***
I think we pulled out the med kit and began cleaning our wounds. To be honest, I’m not exactly sure.
***
I remember O’Brien asking something along the lines of “Why do you look so pale?”
***
And I think Jerry pointed out that I was sweating a little too much.
***
I know at some point, O’Brien felt my face and realized that I was running a high fever.
***
And that’s about all I can remember.
***
As much as the first part of that night is forever crystalized in my memory, the rest is nothing more than fluid fragments of abstract feelings. I remember fear, anger, pain, confusion. All of these emotions bereft of any context, unattached to reason but strong and justified. My mind held a how without a what or why.
I learned the what’s and why’s a few days later. The drugs they gave me at the emergency room had blocked my ability to properly store short-term memories. I know, scientifically speaking, that it makes perfect sense, but the feeling of a hole in your mind where memories are supposed to be is something I’ll never get used to. It’s almost like knowing that a piece of you is missing.
The next thing I knew, I was alone in a hospital bed, watching “The Price is Right” on a tiny television in the top corner of my room and eating a cup of ice cream.
Something was wrong, I knew that much. But I didn’t care because I was high as a kite. With the exception of a few brief glimpses of blood splattering against the faces of my surgeons and the unmistakable burnt smell of bone dust, the entire two days between the southern-justice vigilante party and this moment in the hospital room were completely erased from my memory.
Later that night, O’Brien and Jerry came to visit me at the hospital. That’s when they told me the bad news.
Chapter Nine
A skinny old nurse with white hair tied up in a bun came into my room to announce that I had visitors. I was still riding a wave of hardcore pain killers, which is probably why I’d convinced myself that this elderly woman was actually my butler. I smiled and said, “Please show them in, Gaston.”
She grunted and left. A second later, she returned with O’Brien and Jerry, whispered some warnings to them that I couldn’t quite make out, then excused herself. The deputy took her spot standing at the foot of my bed while Jerry pulled a seat up next to me. He put a red balloon on my chest (no helium—just a balloon filled with mouth air and the words “Get Better” written on the side in black marker).
Hey guys, I said as I closed my journal (it was only then that I realized I had been reading my journal—or was I writing in it?). What brings you both out here?
Jerry’s face was covered in dark spots like a dalmatian. In time, I realized that these were bruises, but I couldn’t exactly remember why.
“How are you feeling?” She asked.
I’m good, I said. But why are you both staring at me like that?
“You doing okay?” He asked.
Yeah, I’m better than okay. In fact, everything seems a little funny for no reason, and honestly, I can’t understand why people are always being so serious all the time. Did you guys come all the way out here just to see me? Or were you already at the hospital for something else? I’d hate it if you wasted-
“Can you hear us?” She enunciated her words carefully.
Yeah. Why? Can’t you hear me?
O’Brien gave Jerry a worried look, then said my name a little louder. “Jack? Are you here with us?”
Of course I am. Can’t you…
Oh shit. I suddenly realized that I hadn’t been speaking out loud this entire time.
“Sorry,” I said, “I forgot how to talk. I think somebody spiked my drink or something. Wait, where are my manners? Do you two need anything? Some food, ice cream, hot towel? Where did Gaston go?”
O’Brien leaned closer and asked, “Who’s Gaston?”
“My butler.”
Jerry laughed. “Did you save me any of them drugs?”
O’Brien cleared her throat. “You do know I’m standing right here, don’t you?”
“Oh sorry,” he corrected, “Did you save us any of them drugs?”
I stretched my arms and felt the dull ache of days-old defensive wounds. It wasn’t normal pain; the medicine I was on wouldn’t allow me to feel normal pain. Up and down my hands and arms were blue and purple ovals, just like the ones on Jerry’s face. The memories started to come back to me in doughy clumps.
I’d been in a fight. But not a regular fight. More like a beating.
“What the hell happened?” I asked.
O’Brien sighed. “You still don’t remember? They said it was going to take some time for everything to wear off.”
A key piece of the puzzle fell into place.
I’ve been here before.
“Twilight anesthesia?” I guessed. She nodded. “Those Y’all-Qaeda guys must have really messed us up, huh?”
O’Brien and Jerry glanced at each other. Something else was going on. It sobered me up a notch. O’Brien walked up next to me, rested against the edge of my bed, then put her hand over mine in a gentle, caring, terrifying manner. That sobered me up a couple notches more.
Tales From the Gas Station 2 Page 10
