When he looked back over the last few years he had to admit he'd been wrong more often than not about his "feelings." He couldn't play cards and he never invested in the stock market. He went to a horse race one time only and abjured them ever after when one of the animals tripped or some equine equivalent thereof and had to be killed right there on the track in front of thousands of gaping fools who were really only disappointed about their bets. The jockey walked away unscathed.
He had been convinced that the world would end December 31, 1999 and had parked in a secluded Montana truck stop to wait out the millennial catastrophe. He woke January 1, 2000, turned on the radio and realized instantly it had all been a ruse to sell five kilowatt generators. Three days after the 911 terrorist attack he sold a commercial property he had purchased three years previous in Ocean City, New Jersey, for a profit of seventy thousand dollars. Two years later, the property would have netted him seven hundred thousand. Albert was a sure bet, in one sense; his financial instincts were almost always wrong.
The stew had been simmering for half an hour now and he pushed it around in the pan and then took it off the heat.
"I suppose you want some," he said, eyeing Ludwig.
The dog alerted and stared at the pan as Albert spooned the wonderful mix into two identical plates. And then Ludwig turned away suddenly and ran to the door, barking.
Albert laid the food aside and followed. He saw headlights bouncing off the trees.
"What the hell...?" he said out loud.
A delegation had arrived on his doorstep. First the Sheriff and then a city police car followed by a black SUV he didn't recognize and then Harlan's truck coming up the rear.
Albert instinctively checked for the pistol and magazines again and watched behind the door as the four vehicles skidded to a stop in his driveway. He could hear several other dogs barking. Ludwig was jumping and pawing at the door.
"Down," he ordered and the dog sat back, reluctantly, his senses focused on the interlopers outside.
They got out of their vehicles and stood together in the cold for a few moments, talking. There was Harlan, without the .223 he was so proud of and swore he would use on the first "gun-grabbing democrat motherfucker" who looked at him sideways. Albert saw the policeman absently check his 9mm. He couldn't quite make out who it was. The sheriff glanced at the house and in that instant Albert saw past him to Jeff Monteith's poorly articulated face. It always reminded him of a sculpture that the artist didn't bother to finish. The refinements were missing. Who was the kid in the black suit?
Albert opened the door as they started towards the house, setting off the security lights. He left Ludwig inside. They all stopped and looked at him. He could see Monteith already tensing, preparing for some kind of confrontation. The sheriff was more contained. Harlan stayed at the back of the group and made no attempt to engage at all.
"I don't like the looks of this," Albert said. "What's goin on?"
"Just wanna talk to you, Albert," Collins answered. He was too casual about it and this made Albert even more nervous.
"You with these boys, Harlan?" Albert asked. Harlan didn't answer and this confirmed all of Albert's misgivings.
"I don't know as we have anything to talk about," Albert said.
"This fellow here is from FEMA," Collins said. "That's the Federal-"
"I know what it is."
"Can we come inside?" the boy asked. "It's awful cold out here."
"I haven't done anything and anyone says different is a fuckin liar," Albert said.
"Nobody said you done anything," Collins replied. "We just wanna talk to you."
They weren't going away and if they did, they'd return with more muscle, Albert thought.
Somehow Ludwig's persistent pawing had jerked the door open and the big shepherd ran outside, barking. The invaders all tensed. Albert had to call the dog several times before he returned and stood beside him.
"That animal should be chained up," Monteith told him.
Albert looked at him curiously.
"What the fuck are you doin here? This land isn't in the city."
"Things have changed, Albert. It's not like it was," Collins said.
"Is that so? This is still my property, as far as I know."
"Nobody's sayin it ain't."
Albert looked at Harlan who averted his eyes. The sheriff came forward with his hand extended and Ludwig started growling but Albert shushed him. He didn't take the sheriff's hand and the man dropped it after a moment.
"You're makin this a lot more difficult than it has to be," he said.
"Making what more difficult? You haven't told me what you're doing here."
The FEMA agent came a little closer but didn't bother to try and shake hands.
"We're under emergency rules, Mr. Smith-
"It's Smythe," Albert corrected him.
The others had inched their way closer as well and Ludwig emitted a low, warning rumble.
"We-
"We?"
"We are part of the Provost Emergency Management Committee. The federal government has ordered FEMA to take an oversight position-
"A what?-"
"Jesus Christ, Albert. They've declared Martial Law. This...fellow here is in charge now."
"You gotta give up any stored food you got hidden around here," Monteith piped up.
Albert looked at Harlan again.
"They took the milk and threw it away before I could do anything," he whined.
"You can't give unprocessed milk to people," Mr. FEMA scolded him. "You could make them sick. It's against the law."
Albert let out a laugh and put his hand in his pockets to warm them a bit. Their breath hung in the cold air.
That's when Monteith inexplicably drew his 9mm. pistol and pointed it at Albert.
Someone said 'Jesus' and the sheriff turned around in disbelief, and stepped towards Monteith who had moved away from the others and was pointing the gun directly at Albert's chest.
"Down on the ground, asshole. Now. You are under arrest for resisting-" Monteith shouted.
And then Ludwig emitted a hard cross between a bark and a growl and stalked towards Monteith who lowered the gun and pointed it directly at the dog. Albert's heart skipped a beat and he called sharply to Ludwig who stopped in his tracks. He continued growling for a moment and Albert called him again. Monteith held the gun directly on the dog, his pudgy face formed into a dark concentrated mass. Ludwig trotted back to Albert and stopped once to turn his head a last time when Monteith fired. The bullet exploded with terrific force in the cold air and slammed right into Ludwig's left flank, paralyzing him instantly. The dog's yelp was drowned out by the second shot that Monteith pumped into his soft belly. Ludwig struggled in the snow, his blood pure black as it poured out of him. He twitched and ran in place for a moment longer and then died.
Albert looked down at the dog, almost unable to move. He didn't go near the body. The sheriff had moved on Monteith in that few seconds and forced the cop to holster his gun.
"You outta your fucking mind?"
"Who the hell told you to arrest anyone," Mr. FEMA screamed. He was about twenty five and had been cataloguing first aid kits at an Indianapolis warehouse when the bombers hit the trucks. Now, ten days later he was in a position of absolute power over four thousand people.
Collins turned and looked at Albert and the dog and back to Albert.
Albert couldn't even bend down to touch Ludwig. He knew he was dead. His eyes were open and the tongue lolled out. Albert felt his stomach surge and a bolus of vomit started to shoot up and he bent aside and let it out. The acid burned his mouth.
"Good God, Albert," the sheriff started to say.
He started walking back to Albert who straightened up and wiped his mouth and put his hands back in his pocket as he shook.
"I am not going to let this go, believe me."
"Me neither, “Albert said.
"I promise you-"
Albert withdrew his ha
nd from his jacket and pointed the small frame .45 directly at Sheriff Collin's face. The bullet entered his throat with a smack and exited out his sixth vertebra in a spray of shattered bone, blood and spinal fluid. Collins crumpled like a marionette. Albert immediately swung the barrel a few inches and pumped a shot into Monteith's arm as the cop tried to get his gun out again. Harlan seemed to be in a state of shock and just stood there. Mr. FEMA who had probably never even heard a gunshot in his entire life turned to run and Albert shot him the back. He fell and writhed on the snow. Albert swung around and fired twice again at Monteith, hitting him in the stomach and then the hip. Monteith screamed and tipped back, his blood pouring onto the snow. The gunshots still echoed in Albert's ears as he walked over to the cop. Monteith twisted on the ground, trying to get his gun out with his good arm.
"You're fuckin crazy, you bastard asshole, he gasped, holding his gut. "Do you know what you just did? You're dead, asshole...."
Albert was standing over him, looking down into his face. He took the gun from Monteith's holster and put in his pocket. He stood up and looked at Harlan who had not moved.
"What'dya do, Harlan?" Albert said, advancing on him with the gun extended. "What have you done?"
"They took the milk and told me I had to convince you to give up your stash...they said I didn't have any choice. They said-"
Albert shot him in the right eye from a foot away and some blood lashed back at him, streaking his face. Harlan fell like a stack of bricks. Mr. FEMA was trembling now but it wasn't from the cold. He had no more understanding of what was going on than if he'd been watching a Zulu bull ceremony. Albert looked at him, curiously. He was young, not thirty. FEMA had probably seemed like a good career move with its government wages and pensions and health plans. And then they told him to go down to Provost and confiscate the possessions of private citizens in the name of state security and he showed up in his shiny, black SUV, just like the ones after Katrina, and came up here to my place and-
He walked up to Mr. FEMA and looked him in the face. The man was so terrified he couldn't speak. He was pissing himself when he opened his mouth to speak but only sounds came out, not words. Albert stuck the gun into the hole and pulled the trigger.
Then he turned and walked slowly back to Monteith who was whimpering in the snow, trying to clutch his arm and his shattered leg and his gut all at the same time. Albert squatted down beside him and studied his face for a while.
"How are you going to get away with this, asshole? Call a fucking ambulance or something. Don't you think they're going to be here in a few minutes? I had my radio on. They-"
Albert watched him writhe and blubber, alternately threatening and pleading and then offering deals he couldn't back up.
Albert stood up and then deliberately went back into the mud room where he picked up a jerrican.
Albert walked over and started to pour the kerosene on him.
"What the fuck are you doing! You fuckin cocksucker! Please. Please. Please..." Monteith begged.
He forced the spout into Monteith's mouth and made him gulp a half a quart. A mixture of drool and kerosene-laced vomit spewed from Monteith's mouth.
When he lit Monteith's leg, the kerosene danced on his uniform and spread, but not explosively. It moved slowly, crawling up his legs and then finding a pool in the gut wound. Monteith was screaming long before he actually began to burn. Albert watched the flames dart into Monteith's fuel soaked mouth and shoot down his throat. He expelled flames with his screaming and Albert watched impassively until the fire was out. Monteith's face had melted. His eyes had boiled over and popped and his nose was gone. A strange moaning and gurgling hissed from the black hole. He was alive though and that's how Albert left him.
It was only then that he turned to look at Ludwig's body. The shepherd looked much smaller lying there in the blackened snow than he had in life. His eyes were open and his tongue was hanging down. He tried to speak but he couldn't breathe properly and instead he closed his eyes and bent down and kissed the dog's ruff and closed his eyes like you would anybody.
Albert got up and walked back into the house. He imagined he had about an hour before some authority would come looking. He went through the house, room by room, making sure it was all in order, the doors wide open so they wouldn't pull any heroics once they were inside. He disconnected the Yaesu and placed it under the floor. He opened the computer and removed the hard drive, which he put in his pocket. There was nothing else.
He glanced at the barn as he walked past, but did not go in. He couldn't think about them right now. They would be useful to the authorities and that would protect them, at least for a while. He walked north across his pasture into the perfect, black, night air, the creaking and churning of the old Axtell windmill leading him on.
It took longer than Albert had predicted before the new town authorities came looking for the sheriff and officer Monteith and Mr. FEMA and by the time they located them, daylight was breaking and feral dogs had begun to chew on the carcasses. They especially enjoyed Monteith's cooked flesh as most of these animals had seldom eaten anything raw. They had chewed the remnants of his face completely off and a small chow looked up ferociously as the various vehicles skidded to a stop and ripped a last strip of curled, scorched skin from Monteith's former neck before running off. Several shots were fired, but no one hit anything. The Chief Deputy, Brian Allsop, realized in a moment that he was now in charge of the sheriff's department and he wondered if it would mean a pay increase. He said as much to the new Mr. FEMA, who, though older than the first fellow, was having a lot of difficulty taking in the scene.
Guns drawn and arms extended, the bulge bellied, panting, lumbering herd, entered the house. Three of the four had never fired a weapon in the line of duty and the fourth had missed a drunk in the WalMart parking lot with a taser. They nodded to each other and made all kinds of hand signals and poked themselves in the eyes and gesticulated violently and whirled around corners. When they had assured themselves the house was empty, they slumped against door frames and holstered their .40 caliber Glocks, looking bored. Mr. FEMA walked in the front door and one of the cops promptly told him to get out.
"This is a crime scene, doncha know?" he said. "We don't want you contaminating our evidence."
Chief Deputy Allsop, thumbs in the belt of his puce uniform came forward to back up the officer and stare sternly at Mr. FEMA. Mr. FEMA might very well be in charge of the district but this was a crime scene and as far as Allsop was concerned, the sheriff's department would be in charge of the investigation.
A deputy pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sat down heavily in it. He was reading a newspaper upside down as Allsop and Mr. FEMA discussed territorial issues. It was a funny comic and he took the newspaper and picked it up to turn it around so he could read the punch line.
The word 'BOOM!!!' had been written on the table in red marker.
"Look at this," he called out. They stood around looking at the table and after a few moments of this they became uneasy. The fat deputy pushed the chair back slowly and stood and the others quietly backed out of the house, two with guns drawn, ready to shoot any explosions that tried to get away.
Later that morning, a black helicopter landed beside the house and Mr. FEMA met the passengers and led them to the bodies. The two men crouched down and studied each dead man for a few moments and then looked at the dog. They stood over the dog for a while, chatting and occasionally glancing at the house. From a distance it appeared that Allsop was angry because he walked over to the men and then pointed towards town, his face animated and his gestures assertive. Finally the two men from the helicopter puffed themselves up bigger than Allsop could and that settled it. He turned around in a fury and gestured at the herd of deputies. They all climbed into their vehicles and disappeared over the hill.
Mr. FEMA led the men into the house and showed them the table with the word 'BOOM!!!' written on it in red marker. The men stared at this for a long time. The
y drew their weapons and moved slowly through the house, checking for booby traps and trip wires.
Outside the world was white and bright with hard January sunlight glancing off the ice on the fences and catching in the trees. Bolivia bellowed from the barn and several of the goats nickered. The men spent a long time in the house but eventually they emerged and went over to the barn.
Bolivia was outraged at being kept waiting but she didn't recognize them and when they came towards her, she backed away and thundered outside. The goats ran after her. Mutt and Jeff watched sadly from a distance, standing side by side and nudging each other as if they were commenting for TV.
More black SUVs arrived in the next hour and several men and women and one dog that looked just like Ludwig got out wearing black uniforms with DHS patches, but they didn't look like they were there to hand out rice to the peasants. They spread through the property opening each building after the bomb dog had passed it. They were impressed with his workshop, a forty by sixty foot building that had been outfitted with every tool imaginable short of machining equipment, which Albert did not know how to use. He had a small metal lathe for parts but there was no indication that he was up to anything nefarious. The tools were scattered here and there on benches and on the floor. The dog located a shotgun reloading press, five pounds of powder and some fresh casings. It took them the rest of the day to examine everything and declare the property safe. The bodies had been taken away and a military forensics team concluded that Albert had resisted turning over his stores and the dog had probably precipitated the massacre by attacking the cop who killed it in self defense. Albert had managed to pull out a .45 caliber pistol and shot everyone, three at point blank range. Then he doused Monteith with kerosene and watched him burn.
They put out a warrant for his arrest but the only photograph they could find was from his driver's license which was deceptive at best and misleading at worst. In the photo he had a beard and a moustache, something he'd removed years ago. He was no more recognizable from that photo than he was from a sketch they tried to create using local people, such as Karl Ogle, the barber.
As Wind in Dry Grass Page 9