by C. J. Sutton
“Great. Call them into my office.”
William rounded up his best men and the burned man approached Gabe.
“Do you know Sulley Ridge?” he asked, checking the message again. The driver closed one eye as he read the message, shaking his head.
“We’ve got a fair drive ahead. Prepare two cars. We leave within the hour.”
Gabe left the warehouse without a word. Ren and an aggrieved Mason, still hobbling after the swift kick, followed the burned man into his office. The wide space had only a desk, a black chair and a laptop within, for this boss rarely spent any time at the warehouse; if he did, it was to strike fear into his employees and keep them on their toes. He sat in his chair, opened his laptop and typed in ‘Sulley Ridge’. Scanning through the photos, it looked like some hillbilly country town reserved for farmers, drunks and people with minimal care for the 21st century. Ren moved behind him and leaned down so he could breathe in her scent.
“Do you think he’s fucking us?” she asked, ignoring Mason’s stare.
“No cop would believe him, especially not a country cop. No bribe has the ability to make a cop risk the consequences of helping the most wanted man in Australia, not even the million. He’s killed women and children and ruined hundreds of innocent lives. People believe what they see on screen. If he’s offered them money, they’ll simply take it and rat him out. The only reason he’s extending the olive branch is because he wants me away from his sister. Brady doesn’t think too far ahead.”
William walked into the room with an air of arrogance, his five chosen workers shuffling behind him with hands in pockets and faces downcast. They had never spoken to the burned man before, and they didn’t trust William. To reap the rewards of their assistance, the burned man needed to set them at ease. Each man was younger than twenty-five, sweating from hard work and driven by some inner demon.
“Close the door,” he said. Once they were locked without escape, he spoke.
“Everyone in this room will receive a lump sum payment on completion of this task. It will involve long drives, firearms, country air and a dead Brady Lockhart. If this makes you feel uncomfortable at all, please leave the room right now.”
Nobody moved. He wasn’t sure if the new entrants were afraid to move, but their eyes remained on him. From the moment he said ‘lump sum payment’ their attention did not avert. All except Ren were dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Common disguise for common folk, all clothes taken from his warehouse.
“Good. Brady Lockhart is in a rural town called Sulley Ridge. I’ve never been there, and you’ve never been there. Who gives a fuck. But he has hidden well, which means he may have help from some toothless slack jaws. We’re going to drive there tonight, and I will meet Brady alone in the pub. Your job will be to look out for anything that may disturb this process. That includes locals, potential tails and yes, even cops. We have drugs and guns, so use whichever means necessary to stop intervention. Got it?”
They all nodded in unison. Ren still stood behind him like an adoring queen to a king. The burned man liked it.
“Any questions?”
Nothing. They bubbled with anticipation. Nobody was going to pass up the opportunity to see the infamous Brady Lockhart. For a fleeting moment, the burned man was envious; did they fear Brady more than they feared him?
“Gabe is outside. Help him make any final preparations before we leave. All phones stay here. Anyone with a phone gets left behind.”
William and his five men left the room. Mason went to speak but noticed Ren lingering.
“A private word, boss?” he said, eyeing her off suspiciously.
“Shoot.”
“Without her, do you think?”
Ren placed hands on hips and wouldn’t budge.
“Give us a moment, Ren.”
After another ten seconds she finally left the room, feigning to kick Mason in the balls once more. He flinched, and then slammed the door after her.
“She’s got an attitude on her, boss. Think you need to put her back in place.”
The burned man watched Mason shift nervously on his feet. This was new for the enforcer.
“A woman got you scared?” he teased. The location of Brady put him in a good mood. “One kick in the balls and you’re struggling?”
“She’s playing you, boss. Everyone can see it.”
The good mood evaporated.
“Excuse me?” he said, lifting off the chair so fast that the wounds added spice to his rage.
“I mean…you don’t listen to anybody. But this chick has become your right hand. You fucking her, boss?”
The burned man opened his drawer and withdrew the pistol his father had given to him. Along the side was an inscription: DON’T MISS. He pointed it at Mason, the taller man looking more hurt than afraid.
“The only thing she’ll be doing with her right hand is jacking me off, you got that? I don’t take orders from her, and I don’t take orders from you. It gets tiring, doing all the work from the top. I’m burned half to hell and still nobody has taken my place. She wants power. She’s willing to do what it takes to get power, even if that includes sucking my dick. I need to show someone the ropes, because I’m dreaming of retirement after all this bullshit. Do you want that spot, Mason? Do you want to run this empire?”
He didn’t know how to respond, seeming unsure if trickery or honesty spat out of the burned man.
“If you were offering that spot up boss, I’d be happy to take it.”
“Happy to take it? That’s why she’s trumping you. You’re happy to take it, and she’s going to take it whether you like it or not. You’re a big boy, Mason. We’ve been rooting these streets for a decade together. I kept you by my side because of your size. But size doesn’t rule empires. Brains built this,” he said, gesturing to the warehouse. “Prove yourself tonight, and this kingdom is yours.”
The burned man holstered his pistol in the front of his pants, smacked Mason on the shoulder and led him out of the office. When the workers noticed their boss they scurried back to work and packed twice as fast. Peasants, he thought. The sight of their sweaty faces irritated him, but everything irritated him these days. He hated the country. Anywhere outside of Melbourne’s suburbs made him scoff. He believed the IQ dropped the further out of the CBD he went, and Sulley Ridge was about as far away from a city as you could go. A five-hour car ride with any of those bastards sounded dire, so he ordered William’s chosen group into the four-wheel drive. In the back of Gabe’s car were William and Ren, already arguing. Mason reluctantly sat beside William and folded his arms. The burned man entered the passenger side, the effort causing a part of the healing skin to split on his forearm. A yellow goo oozed out of the orifice and leaked onto Gabe’s gear stick. For a fleeting moment the burned man thought he saw the driver shake his head in disgust. Perhaps an imagined response.
In silence, Gabe drove away from the warehouse and turned onto an empty street.
“Your leg is touching me,” said Ren. “I don’t want your leg touching me.”
“Well close your legs for once in your life,” shot William.
“You wouldn’t know what it looks like between a woman’s legs, other than when you fell out of your mother’s cunt.”
The burned man clenched his fists.
“Would you two shut up?” said Mason.
“You wouldn’t know either,” said Ren. “You’re more of a cock hound.”
“Cock hound,” giggled William. “Pretty sure they’re called sausage dogs.”
“You stink,” said Mason, waving away William’s scent. The boy rarely went home now. His recent involvement with the burned man had given him a sense of authority over the other workers. Home became the warehouse; no rent, no cleaning duties, and apparently no care for hygiene.
“That’s not my mouth, it’s Ren’s pussy.”
“ALRIGHT!” screamed the burned man, slamming the glove compartment so hard that it ejected open and a wad of paper bags fell o
ut. “If any of you speak to anyone but me, we’re leaving you in the middle of fucking nowhere to live the remainder of your pathetic lives with wombats. Clear?”
William nodded, wedged in the middle and trying to find a place for his gangly limbs. Ren and Mason stared out of their side windows, searching for something worth looking at. Gabe had to pause at a zebra crossing to let a score of teenage boys and girls from the local high school cross. His eyes widened as they passed, a speck of saliva dripping from his lip onto his black shirt. He waited until everyone stepped off the road to start up again, and almost ran over an older lady walking her dog.
“You right?” asked the burned man, concerned for his company. Their minds were elsewhere. His was on Brady Lockhart, one million dollars and retribution.
They continued in silence as the skyscrapers began to drop in height and were replaced by suburban apartment blocks. Tree-lined streets and exercising middle-aged women passed by in a blur as Gabe dodged and weaved through home-bound traffic. Gabe didn’t like the radio. The hum of the car’s engine and the click-clack of Ren’s gum became the tape to their road trip. In the side-mirror the burned man could see the four-wheel drive full of his youthful employees. The driver, his head shaved and his shoulders bare, smiled and opened his mouth to which his passengers laughed. Not in here. The burned man rested his head against the headrest and closed his eyes, Sleep would not come. But he preferred the sight of darkness to the people surrounding him. In darkness he could imagine Brady Lockhart’s throat spilling with blood. In darkness the world would marvel at his capture of the most wanted man in Australia, the killer of hundreds. In darkness, Brady Lockhart pleaded on the ground for forgiveness as he handed over the million and apologised for fucking someone else’s wife. Time slipped away.
The burned man jolted forward as the car screeched against the road, causing the seatbelt to rub against the burn on his throat. There was a solid thud on the front bumper of Gabe’s car, followed by an even greater thud against the rear. Blood splattered against the windscreen as Gabe, in a rare moment of speech, cursed and waved his arms around.
“Fucking country. Fucking shit country. Why fucking live out here? They’re all backward. Fucking country,” he raved, continuing this way. And then his ire turned to the four-wheel drive that had smashed out his back lights. He got out of the car, strolled to the driver’s side of the four-wheel drive and punched the window. Everyone in both cars evacuated.
“Wow, easy you crazy bastard,” said the other driver as a hand grasped his throat. Ren had a smile on her face, and so did Mason. The burned man, wincing with the pain on the skin of his throat, withdrew his father’s pistol. He waited, shooing bugs away with the piece.
“Fucking kid. Look what you’ve done,” said Gabe, pointing to the damage on his ride and forcing the boy to look. The entire back of the car had caved in. Up ahead, a kangaroo was thrashing on the asphalt, illuminated by Gabe’s high beams. It was pitch black out here, twenty minutes from the most recent town which had nothing of merit but a service station and a 24-hour café. The burned man walked up to the kangaroo. One of its feet had bent around the other way, half of his guts spilled onto the road and blood throbbed out of its nose. The burned man aimed his pistol, DON’T MISS, and blew the kangaroo’s brains into the bush. The gunshot caused the nine others to pause. The burned man turned.
“This isn’t Melbourne,” he said. “You don’t tailgate out here. It’s too fucking dark and animals don’t care for laws. We’re going to a country town. The game is different.”
The driver spoke up.
“He was swerving all over the road, I tried to drive on by, but he took up both lanes.”
Gabe punched the driver in the chest. He heaved for air and lunged at Gabe’s face with claws. The burned man raised his pistol.
“Gabe. Get back in the car. Your high beams stunned the animal and you weren’t prepared.”
Gabe didn’t argue. He dusted himself off and entered the car.
“What’s your name, kid?” asked the burned man, tilting his face into the bright light. Every burn doubled in size, holes in cheese.
“Ruddy,” said the boy. And that was what he was, a boy barely out of his teenage years.
“Ruddy, why are you here?”
The boy hesitated, looking to the rest of his car members for support. As if sensing the hopelessness of his case, they copied Gabe and found their seats once more.
“William, you’re driving.”
“But…” started Ruddy, looking for a dingy to keep him afloat. The harsh winds were menacing. They were surrounded by nothing but a midnight ring. The burned man was about to tell this Ruddy to enter the back seat of Gabe’s car, when the young man did the unthinkable. He palmed the burned man in the face and grabbed his gun. Ruddy thought this was a life or death situation, fed on stories of the burned man by William every other day. He pointed the gun at his boss, hands shaking.
“Step back. Step back!” he roared. Everyone obeyed but the burned man.
“I don’t take orders from you, kid. Shoot me.”
“Boss?” said Mason. He ignored him.
“I’ll shoot. If I don’t, you’ll shoot me.”
“I will now,” said the burned man. The pain in his throat throbbed, pulsating goo. It held a direct line to his brain and tugged as though drawing a curtain across to block out the sun. The burned man stepped forward and allowed the gun to press into his clavicle.
“My father gave me this gun when I was your age,” he said. “My father told me, if you point a gun at someone you better be prepared to shoot. And when you do, don’t miss.”
The nozzle trembled against him. The burned man took the gun in both hands and pried it free.
“Sorry,” said Ruddy. The burned man forced him to kneel. He released the safety and aimed the gun between the boy’s eyes.
“Let this be a lesson to all of you. Our priority isn’t the state of our cars or the fault of others. It’s Brady Lockhart. He is our mission.”
He fired. The back of Ruddy’s head blew out in a splatter and his body slumped against the tyre of the four-wheel drive. Nobody looked. Nobody gasped. A switch had been flicked and their sole purpose was to obey the burned man.
“Ren, Mason, put his body in the trunk.”
The burned man wiped his gun and holstered it once more.
“Ah boss, what trunk?”
Sure enough, the back of Gabe’s car was almost non-existent.
“Dump him in the bush. We’ll pick him up on the way back. Brady can have a friend in the afterlife as they ride towards Melbourne.”
An Ode to Anarchy
Night ruled Sulley Ridge, the birds no longer soaring with the sullen breeze. Blades of grass bent together like soldiers on the battlefield, loyal to their cause. And the animals slept wearily, for down the path walked three figures instilled with naught but the anticipation of the boom.
Charlene was in the middle of two men as they approached the barn door. To her left was Mick, owner of the Hardware Store, a person stamped beneath the oppressive foot of Siphon and his crew. To her right was Kane, oldest brother of the Pritchard tribe, sober and holding a steel baseball bat over his shoulder despite her objections. Siphon ordered three culprits, and they were delivering themselves to his doorstep.
“He’s useless anyway,” said Mick of Billy. Even though he had joined Charlene and Mick on their venture into the barn to set the now-dead girl free, he was of the opinion that they forced him and therefore he was clean of any wrongdoing. When Mick went to his house to request his presence in their admission, he waved the gesture away and blamed Charlene for the intrusion. Kane, still searing with the pain of a dead brother and the threat of his own life, replaced Billy in fronting Siphon. His unpredictability concerned Charlene, for Kane had not seen the crew since that fateful night his brother dangled from a lamp post.
“We enter, and we see how it plays out,” she had said. Mick and Kane didn’t know of her neighbo
ur’s identity. Telling them would’ve made this easier. But often the trump card needs to be hidden from the team to ensure they play their roles as required. No getting cocky. Little was said between them, their boots leaving prints in the dirt trail. Charlene wondered if they would walk back this way again.
There was commotion within. Charlene could hear Hayes ranting about something, his voice raised in a manner that defied his general persona. Nobody answered him.
“You sure about this?” whispered Mick, standing a metre from the barn door. “Once we enter, there’s no going back.”
“We’ve avoided confrontation long enough,” she said. Charlene wore a thick red jumper and jeans, comfort clothes for the predicted mayhem. Within her sleeves were two kitchen knives, taped to her forearms. She knew the capabilities of these sadistic men. The knives were as much for her own throat as they were for the crew, should the time arise. Kane reached out with his baseball bat and tapped the barn door three times. Charlene held her breath. The steely eyes of Mick kept her steady.
The door opened slowly, a creak louder than any voice. Wolfgang, his large overall-wearing frame as wide as the entry, stared at them. He assessed Mick and Kane.
“Leave that out here,” he said, nodding to the bat.
“I don’t take orders from you.”
He swung the baseball bat and rested it across both shoulders, his arms Jesus-at-the-cross like. Wolfgang shrugged and motioned them within. Charlene led her fellowship into the barn, the temperature at least fifteen degrees warmer within. At first, she only saw Brick’s replacement (Whizz, she recalled) and Harvard leaning against a bale of hay, staring. But then the rest of the barn opened to her. More than twenty men lined the walls, arms crossed, many without shirts and sweat dripping off their glistening bodies. They stood like displays in a wax museum, their heaving chests and laser-like eyes the only signs of life as the trio were moving deeper within. Wolfgang slammed the door shut and stood in front of it, a guardian to their escape. And Charlene noticed Kane’s shoulders slowly droop, and Mick’s defiance seep away like smoke beneath the door. They came here prepared for a fight with even numbers. Here they faced a small, drugged-up army.