Emerging (Subdue Book 2)

by Thomas S. Flowers

  “Yes, sir,” some man said near the front.

  “Tell it, Mayor Low, tell it!” another woman shouted from somewhere near the middle of the crowd.

  “Just look at this bizness going on with ISIS and Iraq. Is it our prerogative to be social workers in Iraq and put them all on expanded Medicaid? No. No, I don’t believe it is. It is, however, our job to kill terrorists’ capability to murder innocent Americans. It is our prerogative to protect our country, our society, our way of life.” Mayor Low stepped back, wiping the sweat with a rag from his back pocket. Many from the crowd began to applaud, nodding their heads and agreeing among themselves.

  “It’s a sad state, Mayor,” called some man in bib-overalls standing in front of Jake.

  “Yes, Jimmy, it most certainly is. It is a very sad State,” said the mayor, gesturing toward the man. “You look at our Constitution, you look at our Bill of Rights. This is an administration that seems bound and determined to violate every single one of our freedoms. What’s next? Obama go’n to start quartering soldiers in people’s homes? Is this president and his cronies going to start taking away our guns?” Mayor Low gestured toward the crowd, seemingly selecting people who stood mouths ajar. Most of them wore hunting hats.

  “Not in Jotham!” some shouted.

  “It could very well happen…even here, in our little corner of the world, but that is why you elect the right representatives. Representatives that believe that the American Dream was not founded by any man, but from God Almighty—”

  “Amen!”

  “You elect representatives who understand that the Constitution serves as a chain to bind government mischief—”

  “Amen!”

  “You elect representatives who ought to preserve the promise of America, to keep the Dream from slipping away from our hands. By re-electing me, I promise to keep the fight. I will represent Jotham, the soul of Texas, making us a united city on a hill, fulfilling the promise of freedom realized some two hundred and thirty-nine years ago. To stand against those politicians who would love to take away our liberties.”

  “Amen!”

  “If you want to keep to the family values that have made Jotham the jewel of the south, then please, reelect me, Mayor Robert Low.”

  “Amen!”

  “Or…I suppose, if you’d rather give your vote to this extreme progressive movement, to this other gal running against me,” Low fluttered his hand as if chasing off a pesky gnat, “you could. But I promise you, as I have always done, to keep Jotham within the principles that our founders had established, to keep Jotham prosperous. To keep Jotham the visage of the American Dream!”

  Many from the crowd began to cheer and hoot and applaud loudly. Some whistled, others clapped, and there were some who even saluted. Mayor Low handed the microphone to the smaller man standing behind him. Turning back to the crowd, he smiled and waved. Jotham residents smiled as they walked up and shook hands with the mayor. Others took pictures and selfies. Mayor Low talked with the men. He signed autographs with the women. He handed out pamphlets and made promises to continue making the American Dream the crux of Jotham’s conservative principles. Jake killed his cone of cotton candy and moved away from the crowd. His stomach rumbled something fierce.

  “Jesus…” he whispered, and went to look for Johnathan.

  CHAPTER 23

  BUD’S GUNS

  Johnathan

  There were dozens of vendors and concessions stands littered throughout Jotham County Fairgrounds selling bags of trinkets and jars of jam and baskets of sea salts brought up from somewhere in South America and marble cutting boards and Texas-sized belt buckles and autographed Nolan Ryan baseball cards and fresh farm vegetables and fruits picked from Delores’ garden and funnel cakes and fried everything and homemade red velvet cakes and pecan pies and apple pies and peach cobblers, yet of all these southern charmed booths, not a single one, that Johnathan could find, sold or traded guns; nor pistols; nor rifles; nor shotguns, he couldn’t find a single blunt object…not even a Japanese samurai sword knock-off, which was something he was sure every county festival had.

  Johnathan flopped down at an empty bench. He rubbed his residual limb, just above the prosthetic. His tumble in the restroom, with Ricky, had done a number on him, in more ways than one. As he worked out his trembling nerves, he watched a rather robust woman in a flower print muumuu help a small child next to her select a flavor of Blue Bell ice-cream from this vendor with a large sign hanging above it called, ‘Sugar Shack.’ The proprietor, a moderately attractive woman who probably wore too much blush, waited patiently as the little girl in piggy-tails made her selection. He watched, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

  “Yummy!” the little girl exclaimed.

  “What do you tell the nice lady?” scolded the mom with an awful drawl accent.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said the little girl begrudgingly as she took a wide lick off the cone.

  “You’re welcome, sug. Enjoy your bubblegum ice cream,” smiled the vendor.

  Johnathan watched, but in his mind’s eye he was sliding across the grimy floors of the Jotham Fairgrounds restroom, thumping his head against the tile wall. Seeing stars. Smelling rot.

  Thank you, sir. Can I have another?

  Johnathan rubbed the back of his head and felt a small lump festering just underneath the hair.

  Where am I supposed to get a gun? That one concern, of course, was only part of the problem. The fact that he was even looking for a gun to purchase in the first place meant that on some level he believed his hallucination, Ricky, was real. And if Ricky was real, then perhaps he was also telling the truth about Maggie, about the house being dangerous, and about Them. Whatever or whoever Them was, Ricky had not been very clear on that. Truth of the matter, he wasn’t sure what he believed. He just knew he needed a gun.

  Maybe I have gone batshit crazy. Talking to ghosts…and buying the carnival ride. Johnathan buried his face in his hands. Fuck me, man. What am I supposed to do?

  In that moment, he thought of Karen and Tabitha. They’re probably back home already. Settling in. Tabitha pouring over her big insect book. What was it? Oh yes, Doctor Howard’s Wonderful World of Insects. Strange kid. I thought girls hated bugs? Karen would be in the living room watching one of her shows, Grey’s Anatomy, perhaps, or binging a few episodes of Gilmore Girls…thinking about me, maybe. Hopefully not too much, though. The holidays were rough, I know that. And this weekend, last night…jeez, I really did it this time, didn’t I? I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t just call it quits. Tabitha’s not even mine, so there’s no entanglement there. There’s no reason for her to stay.

  Johnathan looked back up in time to see a father and daughter walk by. The girl, a teenager by the look of her size, was chatting excitedly about seeing the ponies before the petting zoo closed. The father said they should hurry and guided her, hand in hand.

  Closed? What time is it? Johnathan wondered. Just then, bells from the western end of Saint Francis Xavier Catholic Church began to ring, signaling evening mass. He looked and could see the belfry poking out above the vendor stands on that side of the fairgrounds. When do they ring for mass? Seven or so? Damn…is it realty that late? Jake is probably looking for me, but before he finds me, I’ll need to…

  —What? Get a gun? Am I really believing this? Johnathan shook his head. It was all so ridiculous, yet in his gut he felt it was all also somehow true. If it was, then he would need to be ready, for whatever threat there might be in the house. He needed a gun. He’d deal with whatever consequence came from getting one later, with the probability of his dementia, or lack thereof. These things could be worked out tomorrow. Tonight, he needed to get Maggie out of that house, and somehow convince her and Jake he wasn’t entirely crazy in the process.

  He laughed out loud. The world’s gone mad. Corpses coming back. It feels almost trivial. Funny, how quick one can accept the incredible if one sees it enough…Didn’t someone say that once? Right? Some book about
a plague that mutated every man, woman, and child into bloodthirsty, nocturnal creatures who’d set themselves to destroy this one dude, Neville, wasn’t it? Shit! Ricky would know. If he were here…He wondered for a while if his friend would come back again. He didn’t think so. Whatever happened in the Jotham Fairgrounds restroom, it felt final. He had no way of knowing for sure. He had what noire detective novels like to call, a hunch.

  First things first. I need a gun. He brooded, coming back to the problem at hand.

  Somewhere high above, a cloud drifted, allowing a single ray of sunlight to shine down on a booth Johnathan had not noticed before. The banner above it said, ‘Bud’s Guns.’ Seriously? Okay then. He stood, carefully putting weight on his artificial leg, balancing with his cane.

  Let’s go see Bud.

  ***

  Rusty

  Rusty “Gonzo” Gonzales had his hands in the arms business since his daddy, Buddy Gonzales, shuffled off this mortal coil sometime after all that Watergate business turned sour and Mr. Nixon hit the skids, so to speak. Lung cancer ushered Buddy into an early grave, leaving Rusty alone to pick up the family trade. At first, Rusty wasn’t really sure the arms business was his style. To be perfectly honest, he’d seen enough guns during his tour in Nam, not to mention being a little disgruntled for having an eye taken from him during the Battle of Khe Sanh in ’68 when the North Vietcong bombarded the hell of out his Twenty-Sixth Marine regiment near the border of Laos. But as the years passed into decades, his stance softened. It’s not the gun that kills, it’s the person. And it takes a good arms dealer to know what kind of person should or shouldn’t get a gun.

  Rusty had always considered himself to be a fine judge of character, so when this pale looking fellow came walking up to his booth, eyeing the merchandise, something about him set him on edge. Until he discovered, that is, this young man was a veteran, a wounded veteran from the look of him, or more point to fact, when he got a good look at him, Rusty’s chills boiled warm. If you couldn’t trust a veteran, who could you trust?

  “Anything catch your eye, brother?” asked Rusty, leaning on the glass display counter, flicking on the florescent switch, igniting the inside with a warm white glow.

  “Not sure, really,” said the young veteran, leaning on his cane.

  “Well,” started Rusty, combing a hand through his white shaggy hair, “we don’t have much left. The AR-15s sold-out earlier this afternoon. I’ve got a few twelve-gauges left. Two Colts. And…” he scratched his head trying to remember.

  “I guess I’ll take—” the veteran started.

  “—Shit! I damn near forgot.” Rusty slapped his knee. “I’ve got a real fine piece, depending on what you’re looking for, anyhow. It’s an historical piece, great for a collector, and the best part, it still fires real good.” He dipped behind one of the display boxes, searching almost frantically. “Eureka!” he exclaimed and bounced back up with an engraved wooden case in hand with what looked like roses and vine etched into the sides. The box was stained dark and showed signs of age and moss.

  “Ever hear of an English Bull Dog?” asked Rusty, smiling as happy as a hog in mud.

  “Those ugly dogs with all the wrinkles?” asked the veteran.

  “No, the gun.” Rusty opened the box and turned it toward the young man. Inside, a snub nosed pistol lay on a green velvet carpet, perfectly molded in the shape of the gun.

  The veteran whistled.

  Rusty smiled.

  “This is what you’d call a fine piece of hardware,” said arms dealer. “A British Bull Dog revolver, originally patented by Philip Webley in, well, I’d say sometime around 1870-something. She takes a .44 caliber special made round, and before you ask, yes, I’ve got a box of rounds just for this here purchase.”

  The veteran gazed curiously at the Bull Dog, his fingers reaching out, tickling the edge of the box.

  “She’s a shorter barreled revolver than most, but she’s a sweet double-action with a bitch of a punch. See here, this is the ejector. See how it swings out? Nice, right?” Rusty was on his tippy-toes, showing the features of the gun with a glee craftsmen get when showing off their craft.

  “Very.”

  “The grip there is custom made. Elephant tusk. I don’t condone killing for ivory, myself, but it sure does make it look pretty. Don’t you think?”

  “Very.”

  “Notice the engraving on the handle?”

  The veteran looked. “CJG?”

  “Charles J. Guiteau.”

  “The original owner?”

  “Right you are, and the man who happened to assassinate President James A. Garfield in 1881.”

  “You’re kidding me! This belonged to…oh jeez, what was his name? The Mad Preacher?”

  “The very same.”

  “Shit.”

  Rusty laughed. “I’m kinda surprised. Most folk, when I mention the gun, don’t know who this fellow was. Hell, most folk don’t even know Garfield was one of our presidents.”

  “Well, I’m a bit of a history buff, I guess,” said the veteran.

  “Surprising.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Most young men I know are too busy on their i-Whatevers and tablets and computers and getting drunk down at Lou’s Bar and Grill or heading across county lines to Giddings to watch them long legged ladies dance on stage to ever open a book.”

  The veteran smiled sheepishly. “How did you get the revolver, if you don’t mind me asking. I thought it’d be locked up in a museum somewhere, the Smithsonian maybe.”

  Rusty cleared his throat. “That it was. Has an interesting story. More like a legend, really, how the revolver disappeared one night, just before we entered in the Great War. No one knows for sure who took it. According to the Smithsonian records, the revolver just up and vanished one night.”

  “How’d you get it?” asked the veteran.

  Rusty tapped his black eye patch, a nervous habit. “Now, I’m not sure who took the gun, but the feller who sold it to my daddy claimed it had been passed down in his family, from father to son, for several decades. Supposedly, this fellow’s great-granddaddy took it with him to France in 1917.” Rusty returned the revolver inside the case and closed the box.

  “See much action?” asked the veteran, his gaze lingering on the box.

  “Mostly rats, I’d imagine. The fellow said his great-granddaddy spent most of his time there in trenches. I’ve heard some horror stories about them rats, though. Suckers can be vicious when their pushed into a corner. Guess we got something in common, huh?”

  “What?”

  “Of Rats and Men.”

  “Guess so.”

  “You interested?”

  “How much?”

  “Well, being this here revolver has a fine piece of history, a history that cannot be collaborated in any way shape or form, have you, and I’m sure them tight-wad curators at the Smithsonian would love to get their sticky little fingers on it, I suppose I couldn’t ask too much for it.” Rusty tapped the glass display counter, thinking.

  The younger veteran waited patiently.

  “Seeing how you’re a veteran and this is Armed Forces Appreciation Day here in Jotham, I think I can cut you one hell of a deal.”

  “How do you know I’m a veteran?”

  Rusty pointed at where the young man’s left leg should have been. The ploy carbon prosthetic stood out from beneath his basketball shorts, wretchedly thinner than his other flesh covered leg.

  “So?”

  “You got the look, son. Trust me.” Rusty tapped his eye patch, smiling warmly.

  The young veteran nodded.

  “So, what d’ya say?”

  “About?”

  “The Bull Dog.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Great!”

  Rusty sold the British Bull Dog revolver with the Mad Preacher’s initials carved in the ivory handle for the fair asking price of $350, plus the box of specially made ammunition with Bud’s Guns busine
ss card stapled to the top, made out to, as stated on the bill of sale, one Johnathan Steele. The young veteran paid with a Visa debit card. He had smiled when he signed the receipt, but that cold sternness came back, the same queer look about him that set Rusty on edge when the fellow came limping up to his booth no more than twenty minutes before he slid the neatly packed case and gun across the glass display counter. The young veteran, Johnathan by the name on the bill of sale, seemed to be somewhere far away. Rusty had just about changed his mind on the sale. The young man had a gaze that reminded him of some of his buddies from Vietnam, the same buddies who had given him the nickname Gonzo, because of the crooked slope of his nose, the thousand-yard stare, as some had called it. The LARPS had it worse. But then again, the boy was a veteran, a combat veteran, a wounded combat veteran. Besides, I’m a fine judge of character, Rusty thought, slipping the receipt inside the register. He looked back up at his customer, hitching his thumbs inside his belt loop. He smiled, now happy to have made the transaction.

  “Hope you enjoy the revolver. It’ll sure make one hell of a conversation piece,” said Rusty.

  “Sure.”

  “And thanks for your service.”

  The young veteran smiled uncomfortably and then turned and limped away, cane in one hand, the boxed English Bull Dog Revolver in the other.

  CHAPTER 24

  THE FANTASTIC

  Jake

  “You bought what?” Jake blurted, struggling to maintain control of his borrowed church Volvo as he kicked gravel pulling out on Main Street. There was a different Jotham County police officer directing traffic, an older forty-ish looking fellow with an aura of someone in charge, wearing, what they call in Texas, a ten-gallon hat and a pair of brown lensed aviator sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. The bright star badge on his chest reflecting the setting sun and his service issued revolver strapped to his hip made him look like some old western gun slinger, with a chin as chiseled and handsome as Michelangelo’s David to boot. Jake waved his hand timidly, as if to say ‘Sorry, Sheriff.’