Big Wheat

by Richard A. Thompson

  The big deputy handed Drood his shotgun while he continued to hold one arm pinned behind her. Then he grabbed her hair with his free hand, frog marched her over to the biggest tank, and pushed her head under the water.

  “Can I fuck her, too?”

  Drood looked over the rest of the group. “Anybody ready to tell me what I need to hear? No? Sure, Clete, give her a stiff one up the ass.”

  The deputy named Clete released the woman’s hand so he could undo his trousers. Then he pulled her nightgown up around her waist, still holding her head underwater.

  “Give me your shotgun, Annie,” whispered Charlie.

  “You can’t just—”

  “I’ve got to.”

  Annie handed over the big gun, but before he could get to the door, the deputy’s chest exploded. A heartbeat later came the sharp, echoing report of a high-powered rifle.

  All heads turned to the east, the source of the sound. A quarter mile away, by the corner of the unharvested cornfield, a green flatbed truck drove toward the group, picking up speed quickly.

  “Jim Avery is back,” said Charlie.

  “Praise God.”

  The phony Mercer sheriff sprinted to his pickup and dropped to the ground, taking cover behind the rear wheel. Drood took cover behind the dead body of his deputy, which was now slumped down over Maggie Mae. Her face was still pushed down into the tank. Her arms were too short to reach the rim of the tank on the far side, and she didn’t have any leverage on the near rim, so she couldn’t push herself back up. Her hands flailed uselessly in the water.

  Drood pulled her body and head up and let her gasp some air. He did not pull the deputy’s body off her. Even from their hiding place in the barn, Charlie and Annie could hear him shout. “That’s all you get, bitch! I’m going to make that asshole buddy of yours with the long rifle come over here, nice and close, where we can have a friendly chat.”

  From the far corner of the cornfield, Avery proceeded to do just that. He drove the Chevrolet truck across the stubbly field with reckless speed, straight at Maggie Mae and her tormentor. When he got to within fifty yards, the sheriff and his remaining deputy opened up on him with their pistols. Most of the shots missed wildly, but a few hit the windshield, shattering it, and the radiator, which immediately began to gush live steam in a cloud that almost completely hid the driver. Charlie had a better angle and could see that Avery had the driver’s door open now and was crouched with one foot on the running board, returning fire with his own pistol.

  At ten yards, Avery had still not slowed down or swerved. He managed to shoot Drood in the arm, and as he drew a bead on the man’s head, the lawman abandoned his position. As he ran away, the truck came to a skidding stop alongside the tank. The motorcycle that had been lying on the truck bed went spinning off it and fell on the ground. Avery jumped out of the cab and ran to Maggie Mae, wildly spraying bullets in the general direction of Drood, who was still running away.

  He threw the dead deputy off Maggie Mae’s back and pulled her up to him. Then he pulled her back to the truck, getting her partly onto his lap, her feet on the running board. Charlie couldn’t tell if she was helping. He thought he should join the fight, but the deputy nearest him was intermingled with the Ark’s people and too far away to rush, and the other lawmen were too far away for an effective hit with Annie’s shotgun. He felt a frustration that was close to panic, and the whole scene went into slow motion. Simultaneous actions seemed oddly separated, each with its own narrow focus.

  Back by the Mercer County pickup, the man calling himself Hollander stepped out from behind the vehicle and took a two-handed shooting stance with his revolver. The Chevrolet jerked left and headed straight for him. He fired blindly into the steam cloud, as Avery continued to accelerate. The bumper and radiator of the truck hit him full front, throwing him backwards, head over heels, twenty feet or more. He landed in an awkward heap and did not move.

  Drood and the remaining deputy now had a line of fire from behind the cloud of steam, and they resumed shooting at the truck. To no effect. Miraculously, wonderfully, Jim Avery’s bullets had eyes on them and a sense of purpose, while theirs were crippled and blind. He was bulletproof, while they were mortal. He was right and they were evil. He was going to win.

  He slewed the truck around broadside to them and fired his rifle, using the windowsill of the truck for a brace, and the deputy dove for cover in a rut in the mud. Avery dropped the rifle and jerked the wheel again, heading for the main gate. He was blind speed and focus, and he was going to make it out of the yard. He was almost there.

  And then he wasn’t.

  Even as Charlie was about to grab Annie Wick and give her a celebratory hug, he saw the back of Avery’s head erupt with red spray. The truck coasted for another twenty yards or so and then bounced to a stop. Maggie Mae fell off Avery’s lap and did not move. She had probably been dead for some time.

  Charlie wanted to scream. He had hesitated about joining the fight for the stupidest of all possible reasons, the lack of a plan, and now Maggie Mae and Avery were both dead. Avery. What in God’s name would they do without him?

  “I’m sorry, Charlie.”

  “You’re not half as sorry as I am.”

  ***

  Time shifted back to normal, and Charlie sized up the situation. Somehow or other, he had to get the people of the Ark out of harm’s way, as he should have in the first place. He could see the Indian motorcycle on its side in the mud, fifty yards away from him. Would it start? Another fifty yards to his right, the Dodge sedan sat facing away from them, with nobody in it.

  He turned to Annie.

  “You know where the gas tank is, on a Dodge?”

  “Why would I know a fool thing like that?”

  “Because you’re going to shoot it.”

  “I am?”

  “You are. It’s right ahead of the back bumper. I want you to go out the front door of the barn and around the corner and shoot it with your shotgun. If it doesn’t blow up, count to ten and shoot it again. Then, whatever happens, run back in the house with Joe. Can you do that?”

  “Praise God, I can. And then you’ll get away?”

  “And then I’ll get away, Annie. And with any luck, they’ll see me get away and follow me.”

  “What if it doesn’t work?”

  “Then there will be no more praise for God today.”

  “When should I do it?”

  “Now.”

  Chapter 28

  Fight and Flight

  The barnyard went quiet as all eyes stared at the still bodies of Avery and Maggie Mae. Charlie could hear the last of the steam escaping from the radiator of the riddled Chevrolet. Apart from that, everything was silent. He risked cracking open the barn door, ready to dash out of it as soon as Annie had made her diversion. What would happen after that, he dared not imagine. He would or wouldn’t make it to the Indian without getting shot and the Indian would or wouldn’t start, letting him get away, leading the lawmen behind him. In any case, the Wicks and the people of the Ark would be clear of his troubles. He thought of a bit of advice his maternal grandfather had once given him about playing the game of whist: “If you’ve got a weak hand, play it as if the other cards are lying just the way they have to for you to win. What’s the point of playing any other way?” Too true. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open a bit farther.

  Out in the yard, Emily turned away from the sight of the wrecked truck. She had one hand clamped tightly over her mouth, probably stifling a sob. As she turned, she glanced over at the barn, and her eyes locked with Charlie’s. The hand went down and her jaw dropped. She made some kind of frantic shooing gesture that was probably meant to tell him to get out from the other end of the barn, while the getting was good. He held up a hand in a gesture that said, “Wait.”

  Nothing happened for several achingly long minutes. Then there was a loud bang by the far end of the barn, and the blue Dodge sedan squ
atted down in the rear, its tires blown. Gasoline streamed from several holes in its tank. A few seconds later, there was another bang, and the back end of the car exploded in a huge orange fireball, lifting it off the ground and tossing it end over end.

  The sheriff ran toward the burning wreck, and when he got clear of the end of the barn, he started shooting at something or somebody. But the deputy stayed where he was, with the others from the Ark, nervously fingering his shotgun. Behind him, Emily pointed at him with great exaggeration, as if Charlie might have somehow failed to notice him. He eased partway out of the barn door, his bayonet drawn. If the deputy looked even slightly over to his right, he would spot Charlie in plenty of time to shoot him dead. He would have to chance it.

  Emily obviously had a different idea.

  “What’s the matter, there, fizzle-wick? Haven’t you got the bollocks to get into a real gunfight?”

  “Are you talking to me, you little bitch?” He turned toward her, away from the barn.

  “Is there another gutless twit around here? Why don’t you show us what you’re made of?”

  “Oh, I’ll show you, all right. But you ain’t gonna like it.” He turned and strode over to her, grabbing her by the throat and shoving his shotgun in her belly. He was now completely turned away from Charlie.

  Suddenly the plan was different. Charlie exploded out of the barn door and ran the ten yards to the deputy, bayonet in front of him. He stabbed the man in the back, just below the rib cage, so hard that the blade went in all the way to the hilt. He hoped that it hadn’t erupted out of the man’s belly and accidentally stabbed Emily. He pulled it out and prepared to stab again, but it wasn’t necessary.

  The deputy’s eyes turned to saucers, and his mouth fell open in a silent “oh.” His hand on Emily’s neck went slack, and he dropped his shotgun. Charlie grabbed it before it hit the ground, and he also took the pistol out of the man’s holster.

  A torrent of blood gushed out of the deputy’s mouth and back and belly, and he sagged to the ground.

  “What the—”

  Emily spat on him as he fell.

  “Run, Charlie! Get far away from here.”

  “But you’re—”

  “Just go! Please, please go!”

  He tossed her the shotgun, stuck the pistol in his belt, and sprinted to the Indian. He stood it up and kicked the starter pedal. It took him four kicks to get it on the right cycle.

  “Hurry!”

  He switched on the ignition and kicked it a fifth and sixth time. It did not start. He tried a different timing setting. It still didn’t start.

  Over by the burning Dodge, Drood was reloading his revolver, apparently much recovered from his stab wound. His face was a mask of pure rage.

  In another part of the yard, slowly, inexplicably, the sheriff with the brown pickup, the one who had been hit by Avery’s speeding truck, began to stand up. It wasn’t possible, but it was happening. He got to his feet and began walking toward the motorcycle, haltingly at first, then with more assurance.

  “To your right, Charlie! There are two of them now.”

  After four more kicks, the Indian still had not started. Charlie jiggled the sparkplug wires, found one of them loose, and tried to push it more solidly onto the plug. The man who should have been dead was forty yards away from him now. Drood had reloaded his gun and was also walking toward him.

  “Charleee!” Emily put the shotgun to her shoulder and pointed it at Drood. But before she got off a shot, the modern-day Lazarus spoke.

  “Leave him alone, Drood.”

  “You go straight to Hell. Why would I do a damn fool thing like that?”

  “Because he’s mine.”

  “He’s whatever I—”

  The resurrected man shot him three times, twice in the torso and once in the head. “I appreciate all your help, Drood. I truly do. But I don’t need you anymore.”

  As the sound of the last shot was echoing away, it was replaced by the sound of the Indian. Charlie gunned it a few times and then kicked it in gear and disappeared into the cornfield.

  Emily moved her aiming point over to the last shooter, but he was already too far away for the shotgun to be either accurate or effective. He turned his back on her, went over to the brown Model T, and turned its crank once. It started immediately. He put his gun back in its holster, got in the pickup, and drove off, rounding the corner of the cornfield and heading in the same compass direction Charlie had taken.

  From what already seemed far behind him, Charlie could hear Emily shouting to him. “You keep running, Charlie Bacon. You get away from that crazy bastard.”

  Or kill him, he thought. Killing him would definitely be good.

  Chapter 29

  Fox and Hound

  Keeping the Indian upright on the greasy, soft ground was a major balancing act, but he managed it, with great concentration. He had a few near spills, but he kept going. And the mud, he reminded himself, was his friend. If the ground had been hard and dry, his pursuer could have just crashed into the field of corn after him, mowing down the stalks as he went. If he tried that now, he would get stuck in a hopeless tangle of muck and brittle foliage.

  He. His pursuer. Who the hell was this guy, anyway? And how could he not only be alive, but up and driving a Model T? Maybe he wasn’t even human; maybe he was just pure evil. It made no sense, but it fit. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he vaguely remembered somebody telling him that you can’t ever kill the bogeyman.

  Annie Wick had said the others were real lawmen. But whoever they were, they had all acted together to hurt Emily and kill Jim and Maggie Mae. And God help him, it was all on account of him. Even Stump’s death was on account of him. And all he could do about it was run away. He wanted to scream.

  The bike slewed especially violently, and the wheels flew out from under him. They hit the bases of a few corn stalks and jolted him back upright, his body knocking off a few ripe ears along the way. A little slap in the face there, to tell me to pay attention. He let his speed bleed off a little.

  Going straight through the cornfield while the pickup went around would give him a lead of about half a mile, tops. After that? He wasn’t sure how fast the motorcycle could go on muddy roads. He knew that a Model T was reliable and sure-footed and rugged, but nobody had ever accused it of being fast. It would do forty, period. But it could do it almost anywhere. How much could he do in the mud? Enough to have an edge?

  He looked down the cross-rows as he traveled, trying to see the pursuing vehicle, alternately checking right and left. After a while, he spotted it, paralleling him and a little behind, driving on some kind of field road or machinery trail. West of him, headed south, a quarter of a mile off. Not far enough.

  He let the bike coast to a near stop, kicked it down into the lower of its two gears, and turned left, running down an east-west row. God bless Joe Wick for a good and careful farmer, who always lined up his corn plants on both axes, making a true grid. He wound the throttle out, advanced the timing, and shifted up. Now when he broke out of the field, he would be a mile or more ahead of the pickup. Not a huge bit of cleverness, but a start. That was, of course, unless the field ended at a fence.

  Oh shit, could that be? As the jumble of brown stalks ahead of him began to thin, he slowed down a bit. If he hit a barbed wire fence, he would have to go back. There was simply no time to take it down, and he had no tools to do it with in any case. He came to the last ten yards of cornrow and slowed even more.

  And sure enough, straight ahead, amid the jumbled maze of leaves and stalks, he spotted three strands of barbed wire. The adjacent field was cow pasture, most likely. He skidded to a stop at the end of the cornrow. A quick look to the right and left showed him nothing to base a choice on, so he headed left, away from the end of the field that the pickup would be traversing. Fifty yards farther along the fence, he came to a crudely fashioned gate, and he opened it and walked the bike through. It was cow
pasture, sure enough. Green grass, even this late in the year, and a dozen spotted Holsteins milling about, waiting to be called for morning milking. He headed straight, to the far side of the green, dodging cow pies, occasionally having to just plow through them. On the far side, he found another gate, leading to a short gravelly apron and a raised road. It was a real County road, an east-west artery with a packed gravel surface. It was salvation.

  He headed east, as Annie had advised. With all the lawmen from Ithaca dead, the county line wouldn’t matter, of course. The crazy man who was still chasing him certainly wouldn’t care about it. But it was still the direction where he had a bit of an initial lead, and he pushed it. Less than a mile later, he turned his head around and saw the Model T pull out onto the same road. So now it was a straightforward horse race.

  It was also a question of endurance. He knew that the Model T had a cruising range of about a hundred and fifty miles. When people took them on long trips, they carried extra gas along in cans or Mason jars. But the phony lawman wouldn’t have known that he was going on a long trip that day, so he probably had no extra gas with him. And he wouldn’t have started at the Wicks with a full tank, either. So somewhere, some time soon, he would have to stop for gas. That most likely meant at some farm, since gas stations or general stores were not all that common out on the prairie. But sooner or later, Charlie would have to stop, too. He didn’t know what the Indian had for a cruising radius, and he definitely didn’t want to find out by exhausting it.

  He coasted to a stop in the middle of the road, opened the gas cap, and stuck his finger in the tank. Almost full. Too bad Avery wasn’t alive, for Charlie to thank him.

  Before he started out again, he had another look at the road behind him. In the short time he had been running at road speed, his pursuer had fallen noticeably farther behind. This was good. Charlie figured that on a dry road, for every hour he rode, he could gain a half hour on the pickup. Unfortunately, he didn’t have dry roads, and the mud would slow him down more than it did the Model T. So his edge would be less, but he couldn’t tell how much. He decided he would run another sixty miles and then start looking for a place to get some gas.