by Doug Kelly
In the bedroom, Jim gave the little pill to Ruth. Mary handed her a cup of melted snow to drink with it. Ruth sat up, swirled the cup in her hand, and created a small vortex in the water. She smiled.
“Why are you smiling?” asked Mary. “I thought you had a headache?”
“Oh, I do.” Ruth swallowed the pill and drank the cup of cold water. “That was melted snow, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, what’s so funny about that?”
“Nothing, but it reminded me of something that happened back home, when I was much younger. My little brother tried to get me to eat yellow snow. He told me it tasted like lemonade.” She handed the empty cup back to Mary. “I miss my family.” Tears began to form in her eyes; she closed them and tried not to weep.
Dylan cleared his throat. “We can reminisce some other time. Right now, we need to make a decision.”
“If this is a family matter, I should go,” suggested Joel.
“No, it pertains to everyone in here…maybe everyone in the community.”
“Go ahead, Dylan, we’re all ears,” said Jim.
“Right when you knocked on the door,” said Dylan, as he pointed at Jim. “I started to say that we’re going to have to create a system of justice. The punishment needs to fit the crime.”
“Hold on. What do you mean by that?” asked Joel.
“I think we’ve got a crime here. Don’t you agree?” asked Dylan.
“I don’t think anyone questions that. It was the punishment I was asking about.”
Dylan turned to Mary for support and asked a question in a way he thought might persuade her and influence Joel. “Doesn’t the Bible say an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, or something like that?”
“Yes it does,” said Mary.
“And it also says love thy neighbor,” Joel interjected.
Frustrated at the contradiction, Dylan threw his hands in the air.
“But Dylan,” said Mary, “you don’t read the Bible.”
“I don’t read minds either, but I do know what that bastard is thinking right now. He must be thinking he can get away with anything. He has to stop. We have to stop him, permanently.”
“Just say it, Dylan. Say what you’re thinking,” ordered Joel.
“We have to kill him. If we don’t stop him now, well, he’s going to murder someone else.”
“Murder is murder. Count me out,” Joel stated firmly.
“We’ll vote on it. Majority rules,” said Dylan.
“By what authority?” asked Joel.
“This authority,” replied Dylan as he held up the rifle.
“This is anarchy, and I won’t have any part of it,” scoffed Joel. He stood up and crossed his arms.
“Then vote against it. All in favor of executing John Sisk, raise your right hand.” Dylan, Kevin, and Jim raised their hands. Kevin scowled at his wife, and she shook her head.
“There,” said Joel. “Only three; that’s a tie, not a majority.”
“So it is. But that doesn’t stop me from defending myself,” Dylan quickly interjected.
“You’re just as guilty if you provoke him,” replied Joel.
“What? So you’re going to remember your Hippocratic Oath now? Is that what you had trouble remembering when I had to force you to help David’s wife when she went into labor?”
“Maybe somebody needs to stop you.” Joel stormed out of the bedroom and then turned back around to speak to Dylan again. “Look in the mirror and ask yourself who’s out of control.” He shut the door loudly behind him when he left the house.
“Dylan, don’t do this for me,” said Ruth.
“I’m not. He has a history of dangerous behavior. This was bound to happen.” Dylan turned and began to walk out of the room, but stopped at the door and turned back around. “A goat saved your life, but you’re mad at me for trying to stop this from happening again?”
“I’m not mad,” replied Ruth.
“Come on, Kevin. It’s getting dark.” He waved his hand to summon Kevin. “You coming, Jim?”
“Not me, I’m too old for that stuff. I’ll stay here a little longer just in case Ruth needs anything.”
Dylan and Kevin zipped up their winter coats. Dylan slung the rifle across his back, Kevin put the pistol into his front pocket, and they both went to the front door.
Dylan put his hand on the knob and hesitated. “What do you want to do?” he asked.
“I’m going to kick his door down and knock his teeth out,” replied Kevin.
“Great minds think alike.”
He opened the door for Kevin, exited the house after him, and then closed the door as he stood on the front porch. He pursed his lips tightly together; the cold air hurt his teeth.
Moving down the driveway, they immediately noticed an orange glow from the eastern end of the neighborhood and a column of smoke rising from it.
“What do you think?” asked Kevin.
“I think a house is on fire.”
“That’s about where John lives, isn’t it?”
“Looks like we’re going to find out.”
Dylan and Kevin went down the sidewalk, shoulder to shoulder. As they passed Joel’s house, they saw him on his front porch looking toward the blaze. They stopped.
Dylan pointed toward the orange glow and spoke loudly. “I bet your friend has been hard at work over there.”
“He’s not my friend,” replied Joel.
“Maybe all he needs is a group hug or therapy?” Dylan asked flippantly.
“Look, Dylan, I’m sorry about what I said at your house. Sometimes I get mad because I can’t help people like I used to. Just do what you need to do. You have my vote.” He went inside.
Dylan looked at Kevin and said, “Majority rules.”
They stopped across the street from the burning house and the abandoned homes on either side of it. Flames completely engulfed the house, and the melted snow created a pool of reflecting water as it burned. They held their hands over their faces to protect themselves from the heat and bright light.
“That’s John’s house, isn’t it?” asked Kevin.
“Yeah. I don’t think you’ll be kicking down his door now.”
“What should we do?”
“Since we’re this close to Tom’s house, let’s tell him what happened.”
As they walked farther away from the heat, the water in the street changed to slush and then ice again. They crossed the frozen stream and walked onto Tom’s property. The orange glow from the fire reflected off the crystals of snow blanketing Tom’s land. As they walked toward the house, they noticed the open barn door. The truck had disappeared, but it had left fresh tire tracks in the snow on the gravel driveway, and the tracks turned to the right when they met the street.
“Do you think Tom would have left the barn door open?” asked Kevin. “The goats are inside.”
“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” replied Dylan. “Tom didn’t want to leave his property. Why would he do it on a night like this?”
“Someone is home. Look,” said Kevin, as he pointed to Tom’s front window. The soft blue glow of the propane heater’s flame escaped through the glass. “Maybe he let John borrow the truck again.”
They followed a set of footprints in the snow to the front window and peeked inside. Kevin was closest to the window.
“See anything?” asked Dylan.
“Heater’s on, so he has to be home. Knock on the door.”
Dylan pounded loudly on Tom’s front door. The house was silent. “Nobody’s home,” said Dylan.
“That heater looks good. Check the door and see if it’s locked.”
Dylan turned the knob. The door was unlocked. “You sure about this?” asked Dylan.
“Yeah, let’s wait awhile and warm up by that heater,” Kevin replied.
“What if he comes back with John?”
“I get John first,” Kevin demanded.
“That’s the spirit.” Dylan opened the door and they bot
h went over to the heater.
“Tom, you in here?” yelled Dylan, as he stood close to the burner and warmed his hands. No response. The only noise was the sound of the wind through the old window frames and the hiss of the gas burner.
“Lucky dog has a heater,” said Kevin, as he leaned his face into its warmth.
“Wait until that big tank of liquid propane runs out,” replied Dylan. “Then he’ll be like the rest of us.”
They stood quietly by the heater and began to warm up. Silent moments passed by, and Dylan wondered how much longer they should wait. He anxiously began to walk around the room, and as he did, noticed a strange odor in the air.
“You smell smoke?” asked Dylan.
“A house is on fire.”
“No, something different. I can’t quite place it.” Dylan tilted his head up and sniffed the air.
“This burner in the wall, maybe,” offered Kevin.
“No.” Dylan sniffed the air again, and then it dawned on him. “It’s gun smoke.” He raised the rifle to his shoulder. Kevin withdrew his pistol. Dylan signaled to Kevin that he was going through the draped blanket covering the kitchen doorway. Kevin nodded. Dylan used the barrel of his rifle to move the blanket to the side as he stepped through the doorway. He looked out the kitchen window as he moved forward. The fire’s orange glow captured his attention. An object tripped him, and the slippery linoleum made him fall. Lying on the floor, he saw Tom’s body beside him. He had slipped in a pool of blood. Kevin heard him fall and rushed to the doorway, moving the blanket to allow the meager light into the kitchen.
Dylan stood up and picked up his rifle. “I found Tom.”
“Shotgun got him,” said Kevin.
Dylan found a flashlight on the counter and shined it around the room. He moved the weak beam of light to the floor and outlined Tom’s corpse. Dylan noticed bloody smudges painted on the floor near Tom’s outstretched arm. He aimed the light near Tom’s right hand and tried to make sense of the markings smeared on the floor. They were letters.
“What do you make of this?” asked Dylan.
“You mean, what do I think it spells?”
“Yeah.”
“J-O-H-N.”
Chapter Twenty Three
John stopped on the highway and looked to his left. At the top of the hill, a few hundred yards away, he recognized his destination. From the highway, he saw the large letters on the front of the building and whispered, “Allied Grocery Distribution,” as he read the sign. Although snow covered the ground, tire tracks had made a path in the road to the top of the hill. He slowly released the clutch, turned left onto the road, and proceeded up the slope in first gear. The gas station to his left, on the corner of the road and the highway, appeared looted and destroyed. After the gas station, he passed an apartment complex, also to his left. The windows were dark with the exception of an occasional glow of candle light. A pile of garbage burned near the complex. The flickering light of the fire cast shifting shadows across the ground, and the snow surrounding the fire reflected the yellow color of the flame. The tire tracks in the snow led him to the building’s parking lot, and the truck bounced across the trenches of frozen slush before it stopped. The truck’s headlights, facing the metal front door, penetrated the door’s small rectangular window and alerted the men inside of his presence.
Rapidly, two shadows emerged from behind the door. Each had a pistol in one hand and a flashlight in the other. They separated and cautiously went to each side of the truck. John turned off the truck’s headlights and motor. After he rolled down his window, he raised his hands and tried to remain calm. Two beams of light met at his eyes and blinded him, rendering him unable to see the strangers’ faces.
A deep voice emerged from behind the light on the driver’s side of the truck. “Keep your hands up.”
“Alright,” replied John. “I’m cooperating.”
“He’s got a rifle and shotgun,” the other voice reported.
“I see that.”
John heard the metal barrel of a pistol tap the truck’s door on his left.
“If you move for those weapons, I’ll kill you. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.” John felt his heart pounding furiously in his chest.
The man on John’s right side pointed the flashlight at the bed of the truck, wondering if there were any other uninvited guests. He only noticed the shape of boxes covered by a tarp secured with rope. “I’m going to look around,” he said, and the person with the deep voice nodded, not taking his eyes off John.
“What do you want?” asked the deep voice.
“I’m looking for Michael,” answered John, as he tried to shade his eyes from the light with one of his raised hands.
“About what?”
“Business.”
“You talk to Sam about business.”
“I don’t know Sam.”
“How do you know Michael?”
“The barter lot. I told him I could get inventory. Valuable inventory.”
“Like what?”
“Hooch and weed.”
The man’s deep voice silenced, and his beam of light moved to the back of the truck. At that moment, John turned his head to catch a glimpse of his detainer. He saw the face of a teenage boy with straggly blonde hair. The voice was deceiving; John could not believe how young he looked. Nevertheless, the boy had a pistol pointed at him, so he quickly looked forward again to avoid eye contact with his juvenile captor.
“Is that what’s in the truck?”
“What do you think?”
The tap of the metal gun barrel on the driver’s door persuaded John not to answer a question with a question.
“Yeah, it’s full of it,” answered John.
After a pause in the conversation, John heard another tap of gunmetal on the truck’s door, and then the command, “Get out.”
John got out of the truck, still blinded by the flashlight. He tried to cover his eyes with his raised hands. “Can I get my key? I don’t want anyone to take my truck.”
“I’ll get the key. Walk toward the metal door. Don’t turn around and keep your hands on your head.”
John heard the side window roll up and the door shut before the crunch of snowy footsteps approached from behind him.
The young man whistled for his partner and yelled into the darkness, “I’m taking him in.”
A whistle echoed back, in reply.
The young captor checked John for weapons, and then the beam of light shined on the doorknob as a prompt for him to open the door and enter the building. A short distance away, Sam’s crew of thieves circled around a large kerosene heater. An oil lamp on a table had a mirror positioned by it. The mirror reflected the lamp’s light into the center of the group. The dark figures wore mostly black. From a distance, individuals were indiscernible from the group. They blended as one, like a pit of vipers on a dark cave floor.
In the center of the group, Michael leaned forward on a chair as he got a tattoo on his upper right arm. The tattoo artist worked with a large sewing needle and a broken magic marker, dipping the needle into the marker’s ink.
This was Michael’s night to get the number thirteen tattooed on his arm as a rite of passage into, The Lucky Thirteen. With the tattoo, Michael earned the right to carry a weapon and had authority over junior members without the tattoo.
“Hey, Mike, you got company.” John’s escort tossed him the key to the truck and slipped away into the shadows of the warehouse.
Michael, with his back turned, could not see who it was. He moved and tried to turn his head.
“Hey,” said the tattoo artist, as he grabbed Michael by the neck. “I said, stop moving! You’re going to mess this up.”
“It’s John.”
“John? What are you doing here?” asked Michael, as he shifted in the chair again.
The tattoo artist leaned back in his chair and threw his hands in the air. “Hey, man, you keep wiggling like a little bitch. You want me to stop?”
“No.” Michael clenched his teeth and braced for the sting and burn.
Each time the needle entered Michael’s flesh, he flinched, irritating his skin and the tattoo artist. His pale skin turned red and swollen around the wound.
“I had to leave,” said John.
“Why?” asked Michael, through clenched teeth.
“Bad things happened. I didn’t want to get into it with Dylan.”
Michael recoiled and exclaimed, “Dylan!”
“That does it. I’m through,” said the tattoo artist, as he stood up in frustration.
Michael turned his head to the right and looked down at the red swollen flesh on his arm. The light was dim, so he moved toward the lamp to inspect the artwork. His face turned red, and he spun around to face the man holding the ink-covered needle. “What is this shit?” barked Michael.
“What?” He shrugged his shoulders. “That’s your number thirteen. Congratulations.”
“It’s not a thirteen. Look again, asshole.” Michael turned toward the light and curious eyes from the circle of men took a closer look at his arm. The men laughed.
“Look,” said Michael. “Can’t you see it?”
He threw the needle in a trashcan. “I see a 1 and a 3.”
“Look again. You put the 1 and 3 too close together. They’re touching. It looks like the letter B.”
A voice from the circle asked, “What does the B stand for?”
A voice replied, “Bitch.”
All the men laughed loudly, and Michael became enraged. He withdrew his new pistol from his front pocket and pointed it at the man’s head.
With a shaky voice, the man raised his hands and said, “Hey, just cool it. When the swelling goes down, it’ll look okay.”
“Hey!” yelled Sam Deville. During the commotion, no one had noticed him descending the metal staircase from his office overlooking the warehouse floor.
The pit of vipers turned to look at their leader. They had recognized his voice, cooler heads prevailed, and Michael lowered the pistol.
“What’s going on?” asked Sam.
“Nothing,” answered the tattoo artist.
“Yeah, Sam, it’s cool,” replied Michael.
The audience retreated into the shadows.