by Doug Kelly
John knew that he had a problem with alcohol. A little voice, a distant voice in his conscience, whispered an urge for caution and advised him to walk away. He knew that would be the prudent thing to do, but another voice began to beckon. A stronger voice, a closer voice in his mind, shouted a demand to stay and drink it. He took a tiny sip of the liquid, his body shuddered, and he twisted the lid back on tightly. He embraced the sensation like a favorite relative at a family reunion. Somewhere in the depths of John’s conscience, a door slammed and the tiny voice of reason was locked away. “Where do I sign up?”
“Hold on. If you don’t have any sugar, then we should just forget about this,” said Dylan.
“You can do whatever you want with your share of the corn,” said Tom.
Dylan pushed his jar a little farther away.
“Just think about it, sleep on it. Take that little jar to the barter lot and see what it can do. After you do all that, come back here and tell me no.”
“Hey, if you go to that barter lot, I want to go with you,” said John. “Tom, do you care if I take your truck?”
“Not at all. Take that jar as a souvenir.”
Dylan pushed himself back from the table and stood up. Tom and John looked at the distance between Dylan and the jar he had left on the table. They both frowned. Dylan took a step forward, hesitated, and then reached for the jar. “Okay, I’ll sleep on it.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” said Tom.
Tom tossed John the key to the truck, and then opened a drawer by the sink to remove the distributer cap he had hidden.
John turned to look out the kitchen window and spoke without looking at Dylan. “How about I pick you up in the morning?”
“The morning it is.” Dylan walked away and the screen door slammed shut by the time the wooden porch began to creak under his feet. He walked to the empty fuel cans, picked them up, and walked home.
In the morning, Dylan took a shower for the first time in longer than he cared to remember. He put on clean clothes that did not smell like lake water. After his shower, he ran a comb through his hair. It was long enough that he could pull it back into a short ponytail, and he pulled it through an elastic band to do so. It was cooler now in the mornings, and Dylan wore a button-up flannel shirt over his cotton undershirt. He left the flannel shirt unbuttoned and untucked.
On the front steps of his porch, Dylan set down the jar that Tom had given him, sat next to it, and removed his knife to clean under his fingernails. He was killing time while he waited for John to arrive with the truck.
Kevin opened the door and leaned over the threshold. “Hey, Brad wants to go with us.”
Dylan did not look up, intently scraping the dirt away under each fingernail. “Not a good idea.”
“He’s really upset, Dylan. You’ve been gone a lot.”
Dylan put the knife back in its sheath, groaned, and said, “Okay, tell him he can come.”
Kevin opened the front door again, and Brad rushed out to sit by his father. Kevin paced across the driveway, waiting for John and the truck to arrive.
Dylan put his arm around his son’s shoulder and leaned toward the boy. “There might be bad people where we’re going. You have to stay right by Kevin or me. Understand?”
“Yes. I stay right by you or Kevin.”
“Good.” Dylan gave him a quick hug with one arm.
“Here he comes,” announced Kevin. He began to walk toward the street, holding up a hand and pointing to the oncoming truck.
John drove the old truck to the end of Dylan’s driveway. With Brad by his side, Dylan slung his rifle over his shoulder and strode to the truck. Kevin jumped into the bed of the pickup. After opening the truck’s passenger door, Dylan stepped back so his son could enter first.
John shook his head and said, “Bad idea,” as he moved his jar of alcohol closer to him to make room for Brad. Dylan sat down and slammed the door shut. Kevin slapped the top of the truck’s cab to signal John that he was ready to leave. John eased it into first gear and drove away. He worked the clutch and the gearshift gently and did not brake or accelerate hastily. Driving ever so carefully, he did not want to pitch the little glass jar of liquid gold off the seat.
As they approached the intersection of the four-lane road and the highway, the barter lot came into view. Kevin slapped the roof again, and John stopped the vehicle. Kevin told him to park on the street near the intersection. Remembering that he had already talked with someone at the lot near here, Kevin felt familiar with this area and thought that it was a good place to start.
John went to the intersection and pulled to the curb. After curiously listening to the motor idle roughly, John turned the key and the engine went silent. He wondered to himself if there might be something wrong with the engine.
Kevin leaped out of the truck, landing squarely on his feet. Dylan held the door open for his son, and the young boy slid off the truck seat and into the tall grass by the curb. Dylan adjusted his rifle, concealing the jar of alcohol under a flap of his unbuttoned shirt, and held his son’s hand. They all stared at the swarming throng of people buzzing about the lot.
John slammed his door shut. “Let’s look around.”
Kevin immediately took the lead and walked to Pete’s area. He found him in the same location as his last visit. Junior was near the truck, seated with the door open again, and was attending to three small goats tethered to the vehicle’s side mirror. Pete was standing with his back turned to Kevin’s approach.
Kevin spoke to Pete’s back and asked, “Are you trading for water today?”
Pete, standing with his thumbs hooked under each strap of his overalls, began to shake his head and answered, “No, no, no,” before he completely turned around. When he turned, he immediately recognized Kevin.
“You’re back.” He turned to look at his son, Junior. “I’ve got a handle on him. No spilled water today.”
Junior heard his father and stood up, casting his immense shadow across the ground. He lifted each arm and inquisitively looked down at his torso, from one side to the other, for a handle. Confused by the comment, he dropped his hands, knelt by the bleating goats, and gently scratched their necks.
Brad saw the young goats and stared at them with a child’s curiosity. He tugged on his father’s pants. “Can I pet the goats?”
“Yeah, but keep an eye on me. Just in case we have to leave in a hurry.”
Brad approached the goats and ran his curious fingers across their backs.
John, nervously fondling his jar, leaned over to Dylan and said, “I’m going to take a quick walk around.”
Dylan nodded, and John disappeared into the crowd.
“Come here,” said Pete. “I picked up something I think you’ll like.” Pete reached into his truck bed and removed a long, rolled-up bath towel. He put it on the table and unrolled it. He revealed several dozen arrows with razor-sharp tips, all in nearly new condition.
Kevin looked at Dylan, and Dylan confessed; “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”
“Then let’s trade,” said Pete.
Dylan removed the jar of clear liquid from under his shirt and placed it on the table.
Pete scoffed and looked at Kevin, “Funny man, I told you I don’t need water today.”
“No, take a swig,” said Dylan, with eager eyes on the jar.
Pete picked up the glass jar, unscrewed the lid, and took a sip of the clear liquid. He contorted his face and proclaimed, “That’s the real deal!” He quickly screwed the lid on tightly and hid the jar in his trunk. “Got to hide that from the militia.” He scanned the parking lot to see if anyone had noticed the trade for alcohol. “We’re supposed to deal with the militia’s liquor if we want to trade here. It’s best to avoid that crowd.” He scanned the mass of people in the lot with his quickly shifting eyes, his thumbs found their way back under the straps of his overalls, and he pulled them tight.
“It’s a trade?” asked Dylan.
“They
’re all yours,” replied Pete. He went back to the truck bed and removed a quiver with arrows. “You can have this, too.”
They graciously accepted the arrows, wrapping them all together with the towel as a way to carry them.
“If your friend that just disappeared into the crowd has a bottle of hooch, you better get him quick and tell him to keep it low. The militia doesn’t want any competition.”
Before Dylan and Kevin had a chance to think about finding John in the crowd, an old 1973 Mercedes 200D rumbled to a stop next to their parked truck. The dark exhaust from a diesel engine rose from the tailpipe before the motor went silent. The vehicle looked shiny and spotless. A frail-looking older man emerged from the driver’s seat and shut the door behind him. His baggy clothes hung off his skeleton frame. His hair was thinning. His baldness was not from old age, but malnutrition. He stumbled toward Pete’s vehicle. He stared at the goats as he stood there with his hands deep in the pockets of his black leather trench coat. Brad looked back at his father. Dylan nodded his head in a way his son understood to mean to come to his side, and Brad did.
Pete approached the stranger. “Help you?”
The man turned, and with a weak voice asked, “Are the goats for sale?”
“All three of them.” Pete was beside the goats and bent at the waist to pet one of them.
The man then walked over to Pete’s table and dropped a handful of gold coins across it. “I’ll take them all.”
Pete turned and saw the surprised expressions on everyone’s faces. Then he looked at the table and saw the glitter of gold. He dashed back to the table and tried to cover the coins. Then he desperately looked around to see if anyone noticed the precious metal.
“You fool!” exclaimed Pete. “You can’t flash that around here. Put that back in your pocket. You could get us both killed for that.” He scanned the crowd again for militia. He did not see any, but it was too late. Whispers began to spread through the crowd.
The man’s frail hands picked up the gold coins, and he dropped them back into his pocket. “But I want the goats. I need the goats.”
Pete looked back at the car that the man had driven and remembered how weak and desperate the man seemed. “I’ll make you a deal. Give me your car, and I’ll give you the goats.”
“My car for the goats? That’s it?”
“No, I’ll give you some advice too. Leave quickly.”
The man dropped the key on the table and walked away, his wrist tethered to three nagging goats.
John, unaware of the risk, openly walked around carrying a jar of distilled alcohol that was not from the militia’s inventory. He went from table, to trunk, to trailer, looking for some item to trade for the alcohol. Then he bumped into a man with a number thirteen tattooed to his arm. That brought the attention of another member of the militia who was also on patrol.
“What do you have?” asked the armed man.
“Hooch, moonshine, whatever you want to call it.”
The soldier squinted and looked hard at John. “I don’t know you.”
“The name’s John.” John extended a hand, and the soldier slapped it away.
“You don’t touch anybody in the militia.” He waved for his comrade on patrol to join him. The two soldiers stood side by side in front of John. John began to realize that he was in trouble and all alone.
“What’s he got there?” asked the second soldier.
“He’s trying to sell his own liquor in our lot.”
The second soldier whistled. “Maybe we ought to teach him a lesson?”
“Hold on,” John pleaded. “I’ll leave; I don’t know your rules.”
“No, it’s not that easy,” said the second soldier. “We have rules, and everybody has to follow them.” They stood on either side of John, hooked an arm underneath each of his, and began to walk away with him.
“Hey, where are you taking me?” John pleaded again.
“How about to the new guy?” asked the first soldier. “We could let him do it. Maybe he could get his tattoo that way?”
“Yeah,” said the second soldier. “Let the new guy cap him.”
John’s legs buckled, and he began to whimper. Unable to support his own weight, the two soldiers dragged him away, his shoes scraping the asphalt. John was still clutching the jar tightly when the soldiers stopped walking. He looked up and tried to focus his eyes on the blurry image of the man standing in front of him.
The blurry silhouette asked, “John?”
John blinked quickly, and the fog disappeared. “Michael, is that you?”
Almost simultaneously, the soldier asked Michael, “You know this guy?”
“Yes.”
They dropped him, and he landed hard on his knees, still clutching the jar.
“You deal with this,” ordered the first soldier. They stepped away, looking back into the crowd like lions on the African savannah.
“You’re in a militia?” asked John.
“Yes, they saved my life. I had no other place to go. Dylan Smith chased me out of the neighborhood at gunpoint. Do you remember him?”
“I think so.” He lied.
“I’d like to taste some sweet revenge.” Michael was feeling the gap of his missing front tooth with his tongue. He looked down at John, still on his knees and cradling the jar of alcohol. “Did you make that?” asked Michael.
“No. Is it worth anything?” he handed the jar to Michael.
Michael twisted the lid and sniffed the fumes. He grimaced and said, “Oh, that’s strong.” He put the lid back on the jar. “Can you get more? I can talk to people, and you could supply it to us. Then we could sell it here.”
John nodded his head. “I like that.”
“If you can do this for me,” Michael took a quick glance at the two soldiers, “I could get the tattoo and a weapon. Then I would have some real power.” Michael looked at the jar of alcohol. “I’m going to take this back and show it to Sam. I’ll let him know that I found a potential suppler.”
“Who’s Sam?”
“Sam Deville. He’s our leader. Everything goes through him. We’re at the old Allied Grocery Distribution warehouse.”
John nodded his head. “I’ll do it.”
Someone from the crowd walked up to the soldiers and began to talk to them while pointing back into the crowd. The first soldier turned to Michael and said, “Somebody is flashing gold coins on the other side of the lot. We’re going to go check it out.” Each man mounted a motorcycle and slowly scooted the bikes through the crowd.
“It’s good to see you again, Michael, but I need to get going now.”
“Are you here alone?”
“Yes.” John lied again.
He jogged through the crowd and emerged to see his companions waiting for him at the truck. Kevin was in the back of the truck with the bundle of arrows. John quickly retrieved the keys, got into the truck, and turned the ignition to bring the engine back to life. John eased out on the clutch, put it in first gear, cranked the wheel hard to the left, and turned the truck around to head home.
“What did you get?” Dylan asked John.
“Nothing, I dropped my jar.” He lied again.
John was driving slowly. The engine did not seem to be running as smoothly as it should. He held the gearshift delicately to feel the vibrations emanating from the engine and transmission. It seemed rough to John. As he drove slowly down the road, they saw the old man walking home with his three goats. John passed the man, but stopped shortly thereafter to look at the engine.
“Something’s not right. It’s running rough,” said John, as he pulled the truck to the side of the road. “I’m going to pop the hood and take a look.” John was lifting the hood to look at the motor when everyone heard the rumble of two motorcycle engines coming down the street. John saw the men who had stopped him at the barter lot, and he moved behind the truck to conceal himself. The two soldiers parked their motorcycles beside the old man walking with the goats.
Kevin jumped out of the truck and stood next to John. “That doesn’t look good,” said Kevin.
“None of my business,” replied John.
Dylan turned around in his seat and saw what was getting ready to happen. He realized that the militia was not paying attention to the truck. They were focused on the old man. He quietly got out of the truck and shouldered his rifle. “I’m going to put a stop to this.”
“It’s not our problem.” John came around the truck and grabbed Dylan’s arm. Dylan shrugged him away. He knew he had to act fast. The soldiers had left their weapons on the motorcycles, and their backs were still turned. Dylan walked softly across the street.
“Give me the gold!” The first soldier pushed the man to the ground. When he fell, he lost his grip of the ropes. The goats scattered a few yards away and began eating the tall grass along the sidewalk.
The old man reached into his pocket for the coins.
“Not so fast,” said the second soldier. As he turned to get his weapon from the motorcycle, he saw Dylan pointing the rifle at him.
“Not so fast yourself,” ordered Dylan. “Both of you need to take your shotguns off your bikes and put them on the ground. Nice and easy.”
“You’re not going to get away with this,” proclaimed the first soldier.
“Do you know who we are?” asked the second soldier.
“I don’t care. You better get moving before I change my mind.”
The soldiers cursed, dropped their weapons to the street, and rode away. Kevin ran over and picked up the weapons. He quickly put them into the truck and walked back over to Dylan, who was kneeling by the old man’s side.
“Are you okay?” Dylan asked the frail old man.
The man responded in a hoarse voice. “No. I might as well be dead.” He removed the gold coins from his pocket and tossed them on the concrete sidewalk. “I was wealthy beyond most people’s wildest imaginations. I had everything.” A tear formed in his eye. “I sent my children on a Caribbean vacation. I told them to leave the grandchildren with me, and they did.” The tear dropped down his gray skin and cut a path through the dirt on his face. “They flew away, and this happened. I sent them to their deaths, and half of my grandchildren have already starved. The rest are skeletons like me. Their little bellies are sticking out from the starvation…just starving to death.” He wiped the tear away and looked at the goats.” Right now, I would give all the gold in the world just to get a little milk into their swollen bellies. That’s why I got those goats. I’m going to milk them and try to keep my grandchildren from starving.”