Let the Good Prevail

by Logan Miller

  The cord was in his hand.

  The Barney loop was motion-activated and so he knew about where Caleb was in relation to the door. A few steps further and poof—smithereens. Chop goes the woodchopper.

  Caleb limped onward with his weapon tucked in his shoulder. He was tempted to fire a burst through the walnut door but he didn’t want to reveal his position. He hadn’t seen any security cameras in the house and figured his exact whereabouts to be a mystery. It never crossed his mind that the Barney loop was an ingenious trip wire of sorts.

  He was almost within arm’s reach of the doorknob. A few more steps. When his prosthetic leg betrayed him and the ankle joint made a loud metallic creak—and he instinctively dropped to the floor—

  Just as Marlo heard the metallic creak and figured it was time for a glorious cannonade. He pulled the cord. The projectile exploded from the barrel with a colossal boom and the walnut door disintegrated in a chaos of sharp splinters. The cannon reared up and then crashed back down and broke the ceramic tiles beneath its wheels. The world shook with seismic force as the projectile rocketed down the length of the hallway, ripping the art off the walls and then blowing through the far adobe wall before tearing apart the kitchen and then plowing through several more walls and out the house where it buried itself a hundred yards beyond and hurled skyward a massive plume of red earth.

  Splinters and plaster tinkled to the floor in comet trails. Pulverized Sheetrock and adobe dust choked the hallway. A hot cloud of black powder fumes swirled in the bedroom.

  Marlo crouched with his MP9 pointed into the smoky havoc. He figured Caleb had been blown to wet fragments of flesh and bone but still he waited for the cloud to dissipate and confirm his suspicions.

  But Caleb had not been destroyed. He was buried beneath the pile of rubble, his ears ringing, disoriented and reeling from the percussion, but very much alive. His throat was chalky and he couldn’t swallow. He was on the verge of choking. He needed to cough and clear his windpipe but he knew better than to betray his position. He could last a few more seconds.

  He figured he had better get up in one quick motion. If he attempted to wriggle out the sound of the rubble falling off him would provoke a flurry of gunfire that would surely kill him at this close range.

  Better do it now. He’s coming for you.

  He placed his palms on the tile and pushed up and gained his feet in one muscular burst. He wobbled on the splintered two-by-fours and chunks of adobe and raised his weapon to fire.

  Marlo heard the falling debris in the hallway and unloaded his machine pistol toward the sound, unable to see his intended target through the curtain of smoke and dust.

  Caleb returned fire, hugged against the wall. The corridor flashed like lightning inside a cloud. A bullet grazed Caleb’s shoulder and spit out a piece of flesh. He flinched momentarily but did not alter his attack. He emptied his clip and slammed in another and let off a quick volley and then held his fire. He still couldn’t make out anything through the haze. But over the ringing in his ears he heard a door swing open and footsteps running across gravel. He touched his shoulder and probed the wound with his fingers. The bullet had torn more shirt than skin. It was little more than a hot scrape.

  He limped over the debris and into the bedroom. Smoke funneled out the open back door and he saw an unarmed Marlo bound through the cactus garden and leap over a short adobe wall and disappear. On the tile floor he saw Marlo’s machine pistol. The bottom of the clip was shattered. One of his shots must have struck the weapon and disabled it.

  Marlo ran across the gravel turnabout and climbed into a Dodge Charger. A real customized beast, an extra 250 horses under the hood, a full-throated scorcher with a glasspack muffler. He turned over the engine and peeled down the dirt road. He opened the console and removed another MP9 machine pistol. He racked the weapon and chambered a 9mm round. “You got lucky,” he said. “The woodchopper almost nailed you.” But he reminded himself that he had always been on the lucky side of things, and with a little more, he might live to see the next lunar eclipse.

  Caleb emerged from the house and limped across the property and into the grove of pinyon where he had parked the cruiser. He tossed the chainsaw onto the back seat and set the AR-15 upright in the gun rack and then hauled down the dirt road through the wake of dust from Marlo’s vehicle.

  A half-mile ahead Marlo bucked and rocked down the rutted road with both hands on the mahogany Grant banjo steering wheel, the ferocious eight pistons sucking fuel into the cylinders and the glasspack blowing, the chassis bottoming out on the ridges and water-guttered dips, sliding around the turns, straightening the wheel as the tires found their grip again.

  He sped underneath the mesa cliffs and the world opened up and he bolted across a straightaway through the parched grassland stretching in every direction. He motored toward a small bump in the dirt road over a corrugated pipe and launched into the air for several moments before landing with considerable force and bottoming out again, hurling chunks of dirt and gravel, bouncing and rocking and then regaining traction. The engine nearly redlined as he gassed the Charger ahead for the asphalt road.

  Caleb motored through the swirling dust and the saddle of mesas when the land opened up again and he could see Marlo’s car far ahead and below him, throwing up a rooster tail across the prairie, the wind blowing hard now and clearing the path ahead. For the sheer fuck of it he hit the sirens and lights and the desolation rang with flashing color and discord.

  Marlo approached the vacant two-lane highway and downshifted into second with a loud thrust of RPMs. As the suspension lowered and compressed, the car felt like it was suddenly pushed into the ground. The tires spun on the asphalt and spit chunks of melted rubber, smoking through the turn. He spun the banjo steering wheel hard to his right and the muscular machine fishtailed. The backend whipped from side to side and then the positraction applied power to the other wheel, righting the vehicle, straight and true. He slammed on the gas and motored ahead.

  Caleb wheeled off the dirt road and made a beeline across the grassland for the Charger now speeding down the asphalt. The cruiser bucked and jolted, the grassland far bumpier than it had looked through the windshield. He plowed through the barbed wire fence and made the road, dragging behind him a tangle of posts and wires. The posts tumbled and cracked about and flailed and leapt into the air off the asphalt and eventually the wire tangle tore loose.

  The open road stretched to the distance, a black vein rippling in the heat.

  He was closing on the Charger. He had the gas pedal pinned to the floor and it was now a race between manufacturers.

  Less than fifty yards separated them. He raised the .44 magnum and thrust his hand out the window and fired down the highway. Flames shot from the muzzle as the roaring wind beat down the aftersmoke.

  Marlo’s rear window shattered and he ducked long after the slug buried into the passenger seat headrest. He eased on the gas and lifted his machine pistol from between his legs and fired over his shoulder. Bullets hammered the cruiser’s hood, a blistering snake trail in the red, white, and blue paint.

  Marlo jerked the wheel and rammed the side of the cruiser.

  Caleb and his vehicle were knocked across the road and onto the gravel shoulder. The backend slid out and he thought for a moment that the car would flip. He steered into the turn and the tires caught and he was back on the asphalt before he had time to realize how close he had just come to losing it.

  They continued exchanging gunfire at three-digit speed while ramming each other with their vehicles when their front bumpers hooked together and they veered off the road suddenly, interlocked and bound as one, tires blowing out from the collision with the uneven ground and excessive speed and then the cars flipped and rolled and thrashed about in a maelstrom of sky, ground, sky, shattered glass and brass shell casings and dirt and gravel and small stones clanking around like change in a dryer and their arms and bodies at the mercy of centrifugal destruction, the smell of leak
ing gasoline and burned rubber, engine oil, metal twisting, screeching, the vehicles dismembering and finally coming to a violent rest, overturned and mangled beyond repair.

  44.

  Thirteen and a half seconds later Marlo regained consciousness. He was curled in a ball against the passenger door, bejeweled with tiny cubes of jagged glass, hundreds of them in the folds of his clothes and in his hair. He squinted and the cubes cut into the creases of skin around his eyes. His head was still in motion. He tried to find a point to focus on and stop the spinning. He searched the ground outside and found a gopher hole a few feet from where he had crashed and stared into its dark entrance. He wondered if anything was living in there when a furry head with two racing eyeballs popped out and then darted back inside.

  Flames were kindling underneath the buckled hood and he could taste the malignant fumes of burning paint and motor oil. The hot discharge nearly torched his lungs. He coughed, gagged, hacked, and squeezed out of the shattered passenger window onto the soft earth. He pushed himself up, but only with his right hand. Something was severely wrong with his left. He tottered and looked for a weapon. The 9mm pistol from his console had been ejected and was now on the dashboard. He reached inside and took hold of it.

  Where was the woodchopper?

  Marlo crouched and stepped around his car and tried to see into the overturned cruiser, which had come to rest about thirty feet away. But the cruiser’s roof was caved in and the greasy black smoke issuing from it made it impossible for him to see inside the cab. He needed to move closer.

  ᴥ

  It took Caleb a full three seconds longer than Marlo to reopen his eyes. When he did, he gradually realized that he was hanging upside down from his seat belt. His nose was bleeding and dripping into his eyes and his head was whirling in the after-flash of a concussion. He saw flames spurting from the ruptured fuel line and one of the front tires was on fire and dripping gobs of molten rubber onto the wheel well. He was confused at how he had come to this place, hanging upside down in a demolished vehicle, but when he peered through the spider-webbed windshield and saw Marlo’s feet approaching on the ceiling of his vision, he remembered all.

  He spotted the .44 magnum a few feet away on the interior roof and grabbed the weapon. He steadied his wobbly aim on Marlo’s legs and fired.

  The bullet tore into Marlo’s thigh. He dropped to a knee and fired a three round burst into the smoke and flames and then limped quickly behind his overturned vehicle for cover. He examined his wounds. A heavy flow of blood leaked from the bullet hole on his thigh, a direct hit through the meaty center. His left forearm was fractured and bleeding where a splinter of bone had stabbed through the skin some time during the wreck. He tried to make a fist with his left hand but it was as worthless as a paralyzed claw.

  Caleb unclipped his seatbelt and crashed onto his face and rolled onto his shoulder. His head flashed again and he slid across the interior roof and kicked out the back window and pulled himself out. He crawled behind the car and craned his neck around the rear fender when—

  Marlo did the same and fired from behind his.

  Caleb returned fire, each man ducking, shooting, trying to find a clear shot. The flames eating away at the vehicles would soon push both of them out into the open.

  Marlo stood and fired two rounds over the top of his front wheel. He tried to fire a third and the gun went click. He tossed the empty 9mm and limped off into the prairie.

  For several moments Caleb crouched in the safety of the wreckage. He crawled to the far end of the cruiser to get a better angle. He rose up, ready to shoot a burst, and saw Marlo hobbling away. He steadied the stainless steel magnum with both hands, his left elbow resting on the chassis for support, but his vision was still shaky. It felt as though his pupils were slightly bouncing. He could feel his head swelling.

  Marlo was moving out of range.

  Caleb pulled the trigger and the bullet sailed wide and to the right. He took a deep breath and tried to steady his vision once more and slow his heart rate. He opened the magnum’s cylinder. He had one shot left. He took another long inhale and dropped the sights onto Marlo’s back and closed his hand around the trigger. But again the bullet missed the mark and kicked up a spout of dust way beyond.

  He holstered the magnum and looked inside the cruiser for another weapon. The chainsaw lay on the floor, flames swirling around the blade, the burning upholstery hissing like a tar roofing kettle. He thrust his hand inside and yanked the chainsaw from the mouth of the fire.

  He drop-started the saw and revved the throttle and took off across the prairie.

  Marlo limped ahead. There was no place to go but the endless grassland. A profusion of blood spilled from the wound on his thigh and he was clutching it with his hand in a failed attempt to stanch the flow. He figured that the bullet had pierced his femoral artery and if he didn’t tie a makeshift tourniquet right away he would soon drift into unconsciousness and sleep forever.

  He could hear the chainsaw stalking him.

  Panting, chest heaving, unable to acquire the necessary oxygen to propel his muscles forward, Marlo dropped to one knee and then the other.

  No more four-leaf clovers, he said to himself, no more rabbits’ feet.

  He rolled onto his elbows with his legs sprawled in front of him and faced his approaching demise. An all-encompassing mood of resignation overtook him and he felt peacefully at ease. He was floating now on the sea, far-off, a tropical nowhere land with serene waves and birds of paradise. What he’d seen. What he’d done in his years in the exotic trade. The continents traveled and profited and slaughtered. The men he’d loved and the fortunes he’d made. The war always comes back around, doesn’t it? And now he faced the reckoning with little discomfort. He accepted his fate with the conviction of his creed. He had lived the way he wanted to live. He had lived by no one else’s prescription but his own.

  The woodchopper limped into his line of sight and filled the space in front of him, a towering giant against the cloudless sky. Marlo smiled up at him and simply nodded.

  With neither speech nor fanfare Caleb descended on Marlo’s neck with the screaming blade and sawed off his head.

  45.

  He took the head by the scalp and carried it dripping through the prairie dusk across the two-lane highway and up the dirt road in the darkening night and back to the compound where he nailed the head to the front door with a steel mallet and a rebar stake through its mouth.

  He grabbed the AK-47 from the guard he shot earlier and limped inside. He found a mahogany humidor on the counter at the bar and lit himself a cigar with a torch lighter. He had not turned on any of the house lights and in the darkness the jet flamed blue. The cigar had a sweet aftertaste and its smoke perfumed the rooms and unspooled silken threads from its smoldering core. Many of the rooms had windows from floor to ceiling and the moonlight casting inside helped illuminate his exploration. In the darker rooms the cigar cherry floated through the night like some distant horseback traveler with a lantern. Outside the prairie and mesas were silent and there was no sound beyond the windows and adobe walls that held him inside.

  He stared into the lonely country, blowing smoke in easy rolling waves against the window that swirled under and around in pinwheeling eddies, and he remembered when he and Lelah had gone camping in the mountains when he first came home from the hospital and how they sat around the glowing firelight, the warmth playing across their faces, she nestled in his arms, and how they spoke nothing for several hours for there was nothing to say that their union beneath the night sky didn’t already say in a silence more eloquent and profound. They shared a sleeping bag and made love under the cool mountain and in the morning they awoke to a blood orange sunrise and drank coffee around the fire and he held her again in his arms. He said that it was good to be home and she said, “I know.”

  He brought the cigar to his mouth and blew the smoke against the window.

  He walked over to a rustic pinewood table with
a stone mortar and pestle centerpiece. He lifted the pestle out of the mortar and set it on the table. Then he picked up the mortar and lobbed it underhand through the window and the glass shattered and fell like a sheet of ice from a glacier.

  He tried to count the hours since he had last slept but his faculties were shot and he figured he had been awake for no less than sixty. He wanted to lie down and rest, sleep for days, but he knew that he had to keep moving. He could sleep soon but not here.

  He limped across the dance studio and the mirror shards crunched under his boots and he continued toward the sound of trickling water and found himself in a meditation room of sorts. He looked down into the pool at the marbled orange and white koi, their tails waving in and out of the pale moonbeam from the skylight.

  He blew a cloud of cigar smoke and tipped the ash into the rocks and moved on.

  He limped into the kitchen and stepped over another guy he’d killed and continued toward the back of the house. He limped down the rubbled hallway and over the artwork torn from the walls. He kicked a doorknob across the floor and stepped into the room with the cannon and looked around. There was an open door to a walk-in closet. He limped across the room and turned on the closet light. A safe as tall as him with a combination lock stood against the rear wall.

  He moved over to the cannon and studied the firing mechanism. He was pretty sure he could make it work if he could locate the proper instruments. He found a can of black powder and a pyramid of lead projectiles next to the bed and a coil of green blasting fuse and a ramrod and figured he had everything he needed.