by D. Gideon
Abe crossed over to the pumps, apologizing. The men there weren’t having it. They pushed and shoved against Sean, yelling and jabbing fingers in Abe’s direction. Ignoring Jerry’s commands, the people standing in the parking lot drifted towards the pumps, their complaints loud and confused. Ray wove through them, head low.
“What do you mean there’s no more gas? You’re a gas station! Gas stations don’t run out of gas!” A woman walking towards the pumps yelled.
“Jerry! Get your ass over here!” Sean yelled from the pumps, arms outstretched, trying to keep the angry men away from Abe. Jerry ran to help, and as the parking lot crowd saw him running towards the pumps, they started running, too.
Abe raised the poster boards and shook them at the men. “See? No gas. No more!”
He laid the posters on top of one of the pumps and stripped off a roll of duct tape, oblivious to the mob in the lot.
“Bullshit you’re out of gas! There’s at least three 10,000-gallon tanks under this parking lot. I drive tanker trucks for a living, asshole!” A bear of a man in a John Deere cap yelled. Abe ignored him and taped one of the posters to the pump. He grabbed the stack and quickly moved to the next pump.
“Hey Blake, this doesn’t look good. Maybe we should go over there,” Thomas said, yanking up the emergency brake and opening his door.
“Stay in the truck,” Blake commanded, his voice all business now. “You’re still a civilian Tom, let us handle this.” He pulled the mic hanging on his shoulder. “Dispatch, we’ve got a situation at the Food Rite,” he said into it, then realized what he’d done. “Damn coms,” he grumbled, dropping it to dangle at his waist. “I’ll be right back. I’ve gotta hit the sirens to let the boys at the station know to get down here.” He moved around the front of the truck and trotted towards the police car.
“Everybody calm down! Calm down!” Sean yelled.
“Get back into your vehicles!” Jerry yelled, a few steps away. He had his baton held out in front of him with both hands, and used it to push against people as they pushed forward. The mob wasn’t listening. They pushed against the two Deputies, swarming around them, their accusations loud and angry.
“He shut the pumps off so he can jack up the price!”
“He’s keeping the rest for himself!”
“Make him turn the pumps back on!”
“Abe you know me! I shop here every week!”
“Turn the pumps back on! Turn the pumps back on!” One woman yelled. The crowd took up the chant instantly.
“Turn the pumps back on! Turn the pumps back on!”
A few cars back in the line, a man started rhythmically tapping his horn.
“Turn the pumps back on!” Honk. “Turn the pumps back on!” Honk.
Other cars in the line joined in.
“Thomas, shut the door,” Dotty said, tugging on his pants leg. “We need to go.”
“Blake hasn’t moved the sawhorse, Grams,” Thomas said, stepping out with one leg and looking over the windshield.
Abe hurried to tape the last “Out Of Gas” sign onto the pumps, casting nervous glances around the pump at the crowd. It and the Deputies were the only things between him and the mob. His shaking hands dropped the sign, and he bent to pick it up.
A man darted around the edge of the crowd. He ran up behind Abe and punched the storekeeper in the back of the head as he was standing back up. Abe crumpled to the ground.
Sean and Jerry, facing the crowd, hadn’t seen it happen. But the crowd did. As one, the mob snapped and surged forward.
“Shit!” Blake yelled, turning and racing for the pumps.
Sean and Jerry disappeared under the mass of bodies pushing forward. The crowd swarmed the pumps, ripping off the signs, trying to pull down the hoses. Dotty watched in horror as the man who’d punched Abe stood over him, rearing back and kicking his unconscious body again and again. Others joined in.
With a slam, the Ranger lurched forward. Thomas, still half-in and half-out of the truck, was thrown to the ground. The car behind them slammed them again, pushing them forward. It backed up, smashing into the car behind it, then jumped forward, clipping the bumper of the Ranger and pushing through the webbing of police tape and cones. With a squeal of tires, the car sped off, dragging a short line of cones with it.
“Thomas!” Dotty screamed, scrambling across the bench seat. He didn’t answer.
At the pumps, the mob was screaming and out of control. Some were fleeing back to their cars. Others were trying to push the pumps over. There was the sound of glass shattering, and the man in the John Deere hat bellowed in rage. He picked up the young man who had smashed the windshield and threw him onto the hood of the car. John Deere started slamming the man’s head into the hood again and again.
The fuel nozzles lay on the ground, forgotten.
Ray scooted around a pickup truck with a cap over the bed, ducking down as if trying to make himself invisible.
Blake screamed for Jerry and Sean, trying to push and elbow his way through the crowd.
Given room, other cars behind the Ranger pulled out and flew past, accelerating quickly. Dotty nearly fell out of the truck and shook Thomas, rolling him over. He was limp. Cars sped by them, some with inches to spare.
Ray, still bent low, darted from the cover of the pickup truck for the edge of the parking lot. A two-by-four whistled over his head. Screaming, he stumbled and clutched at his little gas can.
Pacino spun around and swung the board again. It smashed into Ray’s right arm. Ray screamed again and the gas can dropped onto the asphalt, tripping him. He went down, howling in agony when he landed on his arm.
“Don’t touch it,” Pacino said, lifting the two-by-four in warning. “Just go back to your van. That’s mine now.”
“No,” Ray said, gasping. He rolled over and reached for the can with his good arm. “Need it. S’mine.”
“Suit yourself,” Pacino said, and swung the board. It connected with a crack, and Ray lay still. Pacino dropped the board and picked up the can.
“Told you earlier to get back in the van,” he said. “Shoulda listened.”
“Get inside and flip the switches!” John Deere yelled, pushing through the crowd. The man who had busted his windshield lay unconcious on JD’s hood, face covered in blood. “Turn the pumps back on! Turn the pumps back on!”
Taking up the chant, part of the crowd moved with JD to Food Rite’s doors. Standing inside against the window, horrified shoppers and employees saw them coming and ran for the back of the store.
Pacino pulled open the gas cover on his rental and spun the cap. Yanking it out of the way, he bent to unscrew the cap on the gas can and fish out the spout.
“Thomas! Thomas!” Dotty cried, patting his face. “Wake up!”
There was a chirp of tires beside her and the rumbling growl of a big diesel engine. Dotty looked up to see the bottom of a white door opening and two dark brown, skinny legs dropping down.
“Miss Dotty! Oh my god. Thomas! Is he…?” Charlotte said, dropping to her knees beside Dotty. Her fingers went to his neck as she checked for a pulse.
“He must have hit his head. See this here?” She pointed to a swelling lump to the side of Thomas’s forehead.
“How?” Charlotte said. “How did this happen?”
“A car smashed into us and knocked him out of the truck,” Dotty said.
An engine revved and another car sped past, using the shoulder and part of someone’s lawn to get around the big dual-wheel diesel.
“Let them try smashing into my truck,” Charlotte said, voice angry. “They’ll bounce right off. His pulse is okay. I-“
“Grams?” Thomas’ eyes opened and he squinted at the bright sky above them.
“Oh thank the lord. Thomas, are you okay?” Dotty asked.
“Yeah, I think so…give me a sec,” he said, pushing to get an elbow under him. His fingers went to the goose egg on his head and he winced. “Ow.”
“Move slow,” Charlotte
said, putting a hand under his head. Thomas blinked at her, confused.
“Charlotte…hey. Why…how?”
“I was comin’ to get more salt for the brine and saw your truck and Miss Dotty here on the road,” Charlotte said. “Look, I don’t know more than basic first aid. How do we check if your neck is hurt?”
“My neck’s okay, I think,” Thomas said, pushing himself upright. “I can wiggle all of my fingers and AHH!” He grabbed for his right knee and hunched over it, breathing fast.
“What is it, baby? Is it broken?” Dotty tried to run her hands over his knee, but he smacked them away.
“Shit shit shit,” he gasped, rocking slightly and clenching his hands around his knee.
“Thomas, talk to us,” Charlotte said. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t move it,” he said, sucking air in across his teeth. “I think I twisted it up. Shit that hurts!”
“Language,” Dotty warned, but there was no heat in it.
“Okay, how do we help?” Charlotte asked, hands fluttering over Thomas’ leg. “Do we wrap it or something?”
Thomas shook his head. “Gotta immobilize it. I’ve got a leg brace, but it’s at home. Need the ambulance-“ he hissed in pain again and clenched his teeth. After a moment, he blew out a breath. “I need the short transport board out of the ambulance. Tie it down until I can get to my brace.”
“The ambulance should be here any second-” Charlotte started, but Thomas shook his head.
“No sirens,” he hissed. “If they were coming we’d hear the sirens.”
There was the sound of crunching metal and the squeal of tires from the parking lot.
“We’ll wait for the ambulance but you gotta leave, Charlotte. Get you and that baby out of here. People are goin’ crazy,” Dotty said, nodding at Charlotte’s gently protruding belly. She and Farmer John were expecting their third in December, but you could barely tell because the girl was so small.
Charlotte looked up at her truck and back to Thomas. “If we could get him lifted up, we could put him in my truck-“
“Can’t move me,” Thomas hissed. “It might-“
Shots rang out. The rear driver window on Charlotte’s truck exploded, raining safety glass onto them. Dotty screamed, covering her head.
“Oh I know they did not just shoot my truck,” Charlotte said, rising. Dotty grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. More shots were fired, and even over the rumble of Charlotte’s truck, they could hear the crowd screaming.
Pacino was jamming the gas can’s spout into his tank, shaking the can and cussing. He was crouched down beside his car, and from this angle he couldn’t put enough force on the can to push the little black safety lever on the side of the spout. Cars were emptying out of the parking lot all around him, tires squealing. He heard the zip! of a bullet whizzing over the car, and he tried to catch the lever on the lip of the tank and push again.
“Fucking thing! Gonna get me shot,” he growled.
“Nah,” a voice said, and a freight train slammed into the back of his head.
Ray dropped the two-by-four and put a hand on the car to steady himself. The ground kept insisting on tilting every time he blinked. His right arm throbbed from shoulder to elbow, and his hand kept clenching in little spasms. It had been all he could do to swing that board. Now he just wanted to sit down and rest, maybe see if he could get his ears to quit ringing.
His eyes drifted down and he tried to focus on something red and blurry. Blinking quickly, he cleared his vision.
“Oh yeah,” he said, and bent over for the gas can. The movement caused his stomach to do flips, and he emptied water, what was left of last night’s stale Combos, and bile onto Pacino’s head.
“Sherves you right, ash-oll,” he slurred. He picked up the can and fell against the car. Pushing hard with his wobbly knees, he got himself mostly standing up and shambled off, weaving like a man in the middle of a three-day bender.
“Charlotte, go,” Dotty said. “Get to the firehouse, get the ambulance here.”
Charlotte nodded, eyes tight and shiny black curls bouncing. “Stay down behind the truck. I’ll bring somebody back. I’ll be right back, I promise.” She turned and climbed up into the cab, trying to stay low. The door shut and with a roar, the truck sped off.
Dotty brushed glass off of Thomas’ shoulders, hands shaking. He was hunched over, squeezing his leg, and breathing fast.
“Lord, help us,” she whispered.
Inside the store, John Deere and two other men busted their way into the manager’s office with a barrage of strong kicks. The rest of the crowd that had followed them in had split up and gone wild, as if seeing an unattended store flipped on a neon sign that flashed “Free For The Taking.”
“It’ll be big red switches,” JD said. “Like light switches, but bigger.”
“Hurry up man, they’re shootin’ outside!” One of the men said.
“Here, here,” said the third, pushing his do-rag up a bit. “Big red switches. Right here.”
JD spun from the other wall and bent in front of the panel. A red LED flashed at the top of it.
“Shit,” JD said. “I can’t read whether they’re off or on. Light’s too dim.”
Do-rag pointed. “One of them is flipped the other way,” he said.
Behind them, their cohort watched them nervously as he grabbed cash from three piles on Abe’s desk and stuffed the bills into his pockets.
A shotgun blast boomed through the store.
“Get out!” A man’s voice yelled. “All of you! Out!”
There were screams, and JD straightened a bit and looked out the door to see many of the people who had come in with him rushing the door to get back out, still clinging to their ill-begotten loot.
Another blast rang out, and the ceiling above the crowd rained white chunks of fiberboard down on them.
“Time’s up,” JD said. “Just flip all three the other way. One of ‘em will turn on.”
Do-rag flipped the switches and nothing happened.
“Shouldn’t that light quit blinking?” He asked.
“Not when the fuel tank’s empty,” a man said. JD and Do-rag spun to find a man in a white butcher’s apron levelling a shotgun at them. The embroidered nametag peeking over the top of the apron read “Mark”.
“Hey man,” JD said, raising his hands. “Calm down. We ain’t stealing anything.”
“Yeah man, chill,” Do-rag said. “We didn’t do nothing but flip these switches.”
“And beat the shit out of Abe, and steal all of our petty cash,” Mark said, gesturing with the gun. The two turned back and looked, seeing their accomplice with his hands in the air…hands full of money.
“You fuckin’ idiot,” JD said. “All they had us on is kickin’ the door in.”
“I sent one of the stocker girls out the back door,” Mark said. “So you boys are going to stand right there, nice and quiet-like, until my backup gets here.”
“What backup?” Do-rag sneered. “Some scraggly-ass kid that stacks oranges all day?”
In the distance, they heard sirens.
“Sheriff Kane,” Mark said with a grin. “You’ll like him. He makes Buford Pusser look small, and his big stick goes boom.”
CHAPTER 23
M onday, September 3rd
Snow Hill, Maryland
Dotty pulled the Ranger into her driveway and got out. Stepping to the back, she bent and jiggled the bumper. It was cock-eyed now, and loose. On the way home from Snow Hill’s little med center it had made an awful racket anytime she’d gone over a bump.
“Just another thing to fix,” she said. The little truck was so old that Thomas only had liability on it, so he wouldn’t even bother reporting it. Maybe she could get an old wire hanger, or some twine, and tie it back up enough so it would stop vibrating.
“Tomorrow,” she said. Right now all she wanted to do was get some lunch and take a nap. The nurse at the med center had sent her home for a few ho
urs, rather than sitting in the lobby to wait for Thomas to be seen. She didn’t normally lay down in the middle of the day, but this morning had been exhausting.
She walked to the edge of her yard and grabbed the handle of the trash bin, intending to roll it back to its spot beside the house at the top of the driveway. When she gave it a tug to tilt it back, something shifted inside.
“What in the world?” She said, standing it back up and flipping the lid.
The stench hit her like a slap. The trash hadn’t been emptied. It had sat here all day in the sun and the heat, cooking up a nice rotten odor that nearly made her gag.
“Oh my lord!” She said, slamming the lid shut. She coughed a bit and waved her hand in front of her face to dissipate the smell. Looking up, she saw the line of trash bins and the cut-open bags beside them still lining the street. She’d driven past a few of them without even noticing them, with her thoughts so preoccupied with Thomas and the scene at the gas station this morning.
Stepping back up onto the sidewalk, she wondered if she should leave the bin there or take it back up to the house. She was certain there was supposed to be a pick-up today; but maybe the disposal service had decided to take the federal holiday off after all and she’d tossed out the notice with the junk mail. No, that couldn’t be right either, because if she had missed it, then everyone else on the street had missed it, too.
Now that she was standing still, she realized that she could smell it. Not just her can, but everyone’s. It was an unpleasant, sour smell; like a landfill. It wasn’t overpowering yet, but the longer the trash sat out here without being picked up, the worse it was going to get. Having the cans and the bags being open negated any effect of keeping the stench contained.
She shook her head and decided to leave the bin. Surely the disposal company would be by to get it tomorrow morning.
Jax was delighted to see her, and even more delighted to be let outside. Dotty watched her for a minute to make sure she went over to her own yard to do her business, and then went into the kitchen to pour herself some of Bill’s tea. After she’d taken a few sips, Jax still wasn’t scratching to come back in, so she figured she should go upstairs and get Thomas’ leg brace before she forgot about it. She could set it on the table by the door and not have to do it later, in the dark.