by Jim Heskett
Jordan Beckett looked at the dozen members of the Disciples of the True America sitting on the second floor of the VFW. He had them gathered in the back room, which wasn’t the usual meet up spot in Shotgun for Disciples. But, there was no event planned at the VFW tonight, and Beckett worried about trying to keep the footprint of a large group hidden at the indoor climbing school. At least no one would think lights and sound at the VFW strange.
They were sitting around the tables, playing cards, staring at their phones. Reinforcements from Denver were en route. But Beckett didn't actually think of these incoming soldiers as reinforcements. They were not on his side. They were an obstacle.
In the last phone call with his bosses, they’d crushed his dreams by ordering him to pack up shop in town. He’d been ordered to clear out all evidence of their unfinished meth operation.
Like a going-out-of-business sale, he had been told to kill anyone who knew anything, and then return to Denver. Beckett could only imagine what sort of welcome he would receive there.
But he had no intentions of submitting to their demands. Would he throw away everything he had so painstakingly built over the last two years? Would he start over somewhere else, in a different crew, and work his way up again?
Hell no. Beckett was tired of accepting the table scraps of responsibility and power. The time had come to stop asking permission and take what he deserved. He had worked so hard for the spoils in this town, and they would have to steal it from his lifeless fingers. That would be the only way he’d give it up.
“They might get what they want, anyway,” he muttered, which drew a couple raised eyebrows from the men. He ignored them as he paced around the room.
The door at the far end opened, and Roscoe leaned in, eyebrows raised at Beckett. He offered a grave shake of the head and then flashed the fingers of one hand three times. Fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes until the hammer fell. Fifteen minutes until the unfriendly friendlies showed up in town. Beckett didn’t know if he would find them guns blazing, or like a strike team with handcuffs, ordering everyone back to the flatlands of central Colorado. He suspected the first one. Beckett knew too much for them to treat him with kid gloves.
So, he had to be ready for war.
He looked over the men here. Some he had worked with for months, some only a few days. But they felt like his people. They would fight for him, even though he had his doubts about the newest ones. Half of them, he didn’t remember their names.
Beckett had already seen what they could do firsthand, when turned loose on a problem.
Yes, the confrontation at the sanctuary had gotten out of hand. That had been one of the reasons his bosses were so pissy with him.
From one perspective, Beckett had let the situation escape his control, and the employees of the Big Cat Sanctuary had been slaughtered. From another perspective, he’d let his men take the initiative needed to eliminate a potential threat. After all, Beckett himself had fired the first shot. His men had taken the lead from there, and then he merely refrained from giving an order to stop.
Some of these new arrivals were brutal. Beckett was no stranger to gore. He had labored for two years doing wet work in Texas before coming here, and he’d sawed or chemically dissolved his share of bodies for disposal in oil drums. Blood and guts and dismembered limbs didn’t bother him one bit. But some of the things these new Disciples had done seemed unholy. Shooting people in the legs to impair them, then shooting them in the stomach and digging fingers into those bullet wounds. It had been a horror-show at the BCS.
Still, Beckett hadn’t told anyone to stop. It had felt right at the time. It had felt like the next step in Beckett’s leadership progression.
They would need to revisit the scene again with a big cleanup crew for the bodies and the sanctuary’s security recordings. For right now, they didn’t have time, and the place was closed to tourists, anyway. Surviving the night had to take priority. If Beckett was still alive in the morning, they would make the BCS look like a ghost town.
And he intended on surviving the night, partly out of spite. One hundred percent of Beckett’s time was borrowed. His bosses had told him to shut the operation down, but maybe this was a test. Maybe they wanted to check his conviction, to see if he was really the right person to lead the mountain expansion for the Disciples.
Fifteen minutes. They need to get in place to meet the invaders upon arrival.
Time for Beckett to give orders. While never a big fan of the halftime motivational speech, he figured now was the ideal scenario to try his hand at delivering one. Most likely, his final chance.
He faced them. As usual, he felt a moment of panic looking over their weathered expressions, seeing many of them who were older than he.
“Guys,” he said, “we’re about to face a test.”
They all ceased their activity and pointed their eyes at him. Some looked on with reverence, some with boredom. Beckett wished he could ask them to raise their hands if they intended to stay loyal to him, or if they intended to surrender to the army of mercenaries poised to descend on his town.
“What kind of test?” asked one.
“There are Disciple soldiers on their way to Shotgun. They’ve been given the task of shutting us down, but we are supposed to resist them. We are not supposed to let them win, and that order stays in this room. We don’t talk to anyone until it’s done.”
He paused a second to see how they would react. A few nodded in dumb compliance, a few more cast shifty eyes around, looking to see if their fellow grunts were on board with this or not.
“We’re supposed to shoot at our own people?” another asked.
“It’s a test,” Beckett said, and left it at that. He didn’t like having to explain himself more than once. Also, he hoped a calm confidence would make them all resist the urge to call back to Denver, to check in with the people they knew there. Some would, and they would join the other side. But he had to hope enough would rally to his cause and stay on the side of progress, not annihilation.
Heads craned around, still checking with each other.
Beckett felt himself growing annoyed. “Enough! Get your gear and get ready. Whether you like it or not, this is happening. The people on their way here are going to kill every last one of us, unless we’re on top of our shit. Who here wants to die today because we showed up as red on a spreadsheet instead of green? Who wants profit and loss to determine your future? I don’t! I want to live and be in charge of my own destiny.”
Heads shaking, many still looking suspicious. Now or never. Beckett had to rally them. No more time for indecision.
He slapped the table. “On your feet, soldiers. We’re going to war!”
37
Layne and Molly Waffles helped George out of the back seat of the car. With half his body impaired by the stroke, he didn’t move around all too well in perfect weather, let alone this. Layne worried about him slipping in all this snowy muck. The old man didn’t have shoes with great tread, either.
He worried about those trucks Harry had said were coming to town. He worried about the cats who had escaped from the sanctuary, although Harry had promised he was on top of that situation. Pretty soon, all of this would come to a head, and the variables worried Layne the most. Too many events happening at once. Too much left unsure.
Above all, they had to hurry.
“What is Shotgun Mine?” Layne asked.
George shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Damn it, Dad, not again.”
“I’m serious. I’ve heard of it, but I don’t know what it is.” He pointed at the East Mine entrance, barely visible through the wall of falling white. “There’s a key in that mine that opens it. It’s down deep on the second level, past the mine and into the caves. It’s not easy to find, but I know exactly how to get there.”
“There’s a key in a mine to open a different mine?” Layne said. “That doesn’t make any sense, Dad. We don’t have time to mess around, if
you’re taking us on a dead-end hunt.”
“It’s real,” George said, his jaw set, his expression hardened. “It’s real and I don’t give two shits if you think it makes sense or not. The key is down there, and I’m the only one who can guide you to it. Now are we going to stand here and talk about it, or are we going to do something?”
Layne flashed a look back toward Shotgun. Nothing out of the ordinary stood out to him, the same small number of twinkling lights as always highlighted the limits of the town. But he knew something bad was coming.
And maybe Layne needed to stay far away from it. Maybe being nearby when the bad thing arrived would actually doom the town.
“Fine,” Layne said, and he escorted his dad closer to the East Mine entrance while Molly lugged the gear.
They shuffled over toward the cliff, and Layne squinted to look. The main entrance was still beyond treacherous due to the collapsed stairs, and now, the side entrance they’d used before looked like it had turned into an ice chute. Not passable.
“I don’t know about this,” Molly said. “If we go, we have to go in the main entrance. You know, the one everyone in town knows is a death trap. I’m not going down that ventilation shaft without a lot of precautions.”
“I can do it,” George said. “Get me down there from the main entrance, and I can lead you through it to the key. I can do it.”
Layne checked his watch and gritted his teeth. Was this the best use of his time? Maybe he should be in town, finding a position to welcome the Disciple caravan. But it’s not as if he could set up a sniper nest, since there were multiple routes into town. It’s not as if he knew the exact intentions of the soldiers on those incoming trucks, either.
Or if they even did contain soldiers.
“Molly?” he said. “I’m not sure what the right move is. I’m open to suggestions.”
She winced, seemingly sharing his hesitation. She looked directly at George. “How long will it take us to get there?”
George shrugged. “Ten minutes? It’s not hard to find, but it’s in a place no one would expect. That’s why it’s so damn genius.”
Layne frowned at his father’s riddles. He had a terrible feeling they would descend into the cave and find themselves trapped after becoming turned around in the tunnels. Or worse, if any part collapsed. Layne couldn’t afford to spend all night down there. Not with everything else going on.
How important was this task in the mine?
“Do the Disciples want this key? Do they need it for their meth operation in town?” Layne asked his father. George nodded and said nothing.
No more indecision. The clock ticked on, stealing time with every moment of inaction. If they wanted it, then Layne would have to get it first and spoil their plans.
“Okay,” Layne said. “Let’s figure out how we’re going to get down.”
George shook his head. “I want to talk to my granddaughter first.”
“We don’t have time for this.”
The old man’s eyes were set, hardened. “I want to speak with Cameron. I talk to her now, or I don’t go anywhere. If you think I’m bluffing, then try me.”
“Dad…”
George bared his teeth. “Those are my terms.”
“Okay, fine. Make it fast.”
“How does this work?” George asked. “Do we call her mother?”
“No, Cameron has a tablet. We can video chat with her.”
“'Tablet’? What the hell is a tablet?”
“It’s like a phone.”
“Your five-year-old has a phone? That seems too young.”
Layne stifled an urge to yell at his father. All those ingrained buttons, so easily pushed. Instead, he ignored the comment and tapped a few buttons on his phone. A moment later, a low-res image of his daughter filled the screen.
“Daddy!” she said. She was sitting on the couch, with a bowl of tortilla chips next to her.
“Hey, little one. I want you to meet someone. I don’t have time to explain, so I’m going to let you speak to Grandpa, okay?”
She cocked her head in confusion. This mythical Grandpa person had been mentioned several times, but only in passing, because Layne had thought they would never have a chance to meet. So, this would be her first time speaking with him. Layne wished he’d had days or weeks to prepare Cam by showing her pictures and talking about him. Something to warm her up to the idea. But, they didn’t have time. Layne would have to sort out Cam’s feelings about it later.
He handed the phone to George, and the old man’s face lightened as soon as he looked at the phone. “Hello, my little angel,” George said, and his voice seemed relatively unaffected by the stroke. Only hints of the motor function struggles remained.
He turned and shuffled a few steps away to continue the conversation. Layne and Molly shared a look, and she raised her eyebrows. This was taking too long.
“Dad!” Layne growled. “We have to go!”
George held up a hand to tell Layne to wait, then he said a few more words into the phone. When he passed it back to Layne a moment later, the screen had darkened. George wiped tears away from his cheeks.
“Thank you,” he said, with the most sincere tone Layne had ever heard from his father. “Let’s go get that key.”
38
The two Parrishes and Molly Waffles entered the lip of the mine, past the giant warning signs about death and destruction upon entering. Layne could tell right away why they recommended never to enter this one from the main entrance. It began with a short 45-degree slope into darkness, which quickly gave way to a drop-off. There had been stairs adjacent to the drop at one time, but those were now in a lumber puddle below. Also, Layne shined his flashlight at pulleys and ropes others had used in the past. He wondered if those ropes and pulleys had been set by amateur mine explorers and then later knocked down by officials in the town. Probably, it would be in everyone’s best interest for everyone to believe this mine permanently inaccessible.
They stopped near the edge, where the rocks crumbled and Layne’s danger senses fired rapid blasts in his head.
“It’s not that far down,” George said. “It’s only ten feet or so. Looks further.”
Layne looked at his dad, struggling to keep his balance. Definitely closer to fifteen or twenty feet of a drop into the chaotic pile of wood, which would have jagged edges and nails to break the fall. How was this old man supposed to jump down fifteen feet without snapping every bone in his lower body?
“Tell us where we’re supposed to go, and we’ll leave you here. We’ll come back.”
George’s eyes flared. “No. I have to come with you.”
“You don’t know where anything is, do you, Dad?”
Those flared eyes tightened. “I do. I can’t give directions, but I know where we’re going when I see it. It’s the same place me and Eddie Money went exploring as teenagers. It’s down deep, past the mine part and into the caves.”
Layne breathed, studying his father. Eddie Money was a pop singer from the 1980s. Maybe his father had a friend with the same name, or maybe he was piecing together a bunch of disconnected memories to form a complete myth inside his head.
“What do you think, Molly?” Layne asked.
She was hunkered down at the edge of the cliff, swishing her lips back and forth as she squinted into the blackness below. “Working on a plan. Give me two seconds.”
Layne peered back at the mouth of the mine entrance. He didn’t know what to do. The town would be full of soldiers in a few minutes, but this key was important, too. Whatever it unlocked was crucial to the Disciples’ plan, and that meant Layne needed to find it first.
And as far as he knew, those additional Disciples might now be en route to start shooting up the town.
Or maybe they were here only to find Layne and kill him. Maybe not being in town was the better play right now. If he stayed away, would these new arrivals hunt for him and then leave without incident?
Possibly.
&nb
sp; There was no clear path. And he especially despised thinking that a decade earlier, he would have made this choice with ease. Now he struggled and second-guessed himself.
“Let’s jump,” George said. “It’ll be fine.”
“Not a chance,” Layne said, putting an arm out to keep George from wandering too close to the edge.
“I got it,” Molly said. “I’ll climb down to the edge. Layne, you hoist this cranky old man on your back, then you can climb down my back, and then drop down. Cuts the distance in half.”
“I don’t know about this,” George said, then trailed off.
Molly pointed. “There’s a spot over here on the right side with a couple pieces of blanket or carpet. It’s not perfect, but we’re probably less likely to get impaled over here.”
“You want four hundreds pounds on your back?” Layne asked.
Molly raised her mechanical arm and clicked the pinchers together a couple times. “I have a strong grip, but I can’t carry him. That’s your job, Muscles.”
Layne and George grumbled a little under their breath, but they both agreed. The younger hoisted the older man onto his back, and again was reminded how thin and frail his father seemed now. Layne always associated barrel arms and a broad chest with George Parrish. Instead, his father felt like when Inessa had jumped onto him for a piggy back ride the day they were married. Like, if he dropped the old man, he would fall to pieces.
Molly Waffles slid down into position. Layne adjusted his headlamp. He tried to focus as he put his feet onto Molly’s hips and grabbed her shoulders. “You’re sure this is okay?”
“Just make it quick,” she said, grunting.
Layne did, sliding down her until his feet were on the backs of her heels and his hands were on Molly’s hips. Then he dropped the last few feet. Crunch. His boots smacked into what felt like broken tiles. Bits of scree and old rotting lumber, shuffling around his feet.
He thought he smelled something off, but couldn’t place it. Thanks to the gear, he knew the air quality read fine. But it still smelled wrong.