Average Joe

by R. D. Sherrill

  "We are members of the Free Citizens Army," Harold began as Randy slipped behind the stage and headed for the side door, opening it just as Doug was making his entrance, leaving three gunmen once again inside the arena.

  "Our issue is with your socialist government. We are here to make our voices heard and they will be heard," Harold told the crowd, his metallic voice booming through the megaphone. "Tomorrow, on Christmas Day, we will make contact with your socialist leaders and air our demands, then each of you as well as the entire world will know why you are being detained."

  Looking around the crowd, all of whom were still either kneeling or lying prone on the ground, Harold issued a new set of rules.

  "I assure you, your inconvenience will not last long and, provided you are well-behaved, we have no plans to hurt anyone else," Harold continued. "In the meantime, you may move around the arena, even help yourself to some of the delicious food and drink. We want your stay to be as comfortable as possible but, be advised, any attempt at escape will not only prove fatal to yourself but also anybody within fifty feet of yourself. And remember, you are being watched. Any heroes will end up shot by either our men upstairs or by me personally."

  Harold lowered the megaphone. Some members of the crowd cautiously dared to test his generosity by standing up, most looking around to make sure they were not going to be made the next example. Meanwhile, like prison guards around the exercise yard, Harold in the front, Doug on the side and Jerry in the back, they watched their prisoners, fingers on the triggers of the weapons as the flashing green lights cast an eerie glow in the dimly lit arena.

  Ralph and Randy hurried outside, both getting on the cycle, Randy taking the controls this time as they pulled out of the parking lot. In an act of boldness, Randy threw up his hand and waved at one of the policemen on the perimeter as he passed by. Cutting through the frigid air, the wind chill almost unbearable on the moving bike despite layers of clothes, Ralph leaned up to Randy's ear.

  "Centertown City Bank first," he said simply.

  Randy shook his head affirmatively as they headed downtown through the dark and deserted snow-covered streets, arriving outside the institution in less than five minutes.

  "I'll meet you back here in just a few," Randy said as he let Ralph off the bike before continuing down Main Street and disappearing in the darkness.

  Meanwhile, Ralph stepped over to the van he had left that morning in the side parking lot of the bank. Opening the door, Ralph pulled out the tools of his trade and walked to the side door of the bank, opening it and the interior door with ease before advancing to the outside safe door. One more minute and he stood before the bank safe, the gravity of the moment hitting the sixty-two-year-old locksmith like a ton of bricks.

  He pulled up a rickety wooden stool that he found near the far wall and positioned himself in front of the locking mechanism. He sat quietly for a moment looking at the safe as if it were a blank piece of canvas waiting for him to paint his masterpiece. It was an old model safe. Contrary to popular belief, the fact the safe was decades old would make Ralph’s job harder. Had he been dealing with a new electronic safe, there were ways he could defeat its security. The only way to open an old safe like the one he now faced inside the bowels of City Bank was the old fashioned way – he would have to crack it.

  Taking a deep breath, he took out his supplies and began his work. Sweat poured from his brow despite the rapidly dropping temperature in the bank, given the loss of power. He strained to listen to the tumblers inside the thick safe door, trying to ignore the pulsing of his irregular heartbeat in his ears. His specially-designed listening device funneled the faint sounds of the safe mechanism into his trained ears. While up in years, he still possessed the hearing of a young man, something that was key for his work in cracking the safe locks.

  “That’s one,” Ralph muttered to himself as he paused to write down the number on his note pad that was illuminated only by the headlamp he wore underneath his visor.

  The old locksmith sat back for a minute, cracked his knuckles and blew in his hands after finding the first number to the combination. He looked around and took in his situation. Centertown was as silent as a tomb.

  Taking advantage of the complete silence, he leaned in and began twisting the dial again. He had a time table. He had to meet his time goals. He was completely focused on his task as he skillfully turned the dial, waiting for the click of the mechanism with excited anticipation.

  “Two!” Ralph barked, his excited utterance echoing through the empty vault entry room.

  Ralph instinctively looked around again, realizing the loudness of his outburst. All he saw was his frozen breath reflecting off the narrow beam of his headlamp. No one heard him. No one was around to hear him. It was him and the safe. It was as if he was the last man on Earth.

  He jotted the number down and wiped the sweat from his brow. It was now pouring from his forehead despite the cold that was numbing his fingers. He could feel the sting of the salty sweat as it dripped into his eyes.

  “Just one more,” Ralph urged himself as he wiped the sweat out of his eyes. “Almost there.”

  Ralph took a deep sigh and leaned in again. He was on the home stretch. He felt his heart skip as he imagined the riches that lay just on the other side of the door. He was so close he could smell it.

  He began twisting the dial again, this time with renewed vigor. He paused for a moment to make himself breathe. He discovered that in all the excitement, he had been holding his breath in anticipation, leaving him feeling lightheaded.

  “Breathe, Ralph, you old idiot,” he scolded himself as he inhaled deeply and returned to his work.

  The last tumbler, however, played hard to get. Ralph closed his eyes as he twisted, hoping to hone his sense of sound.

  “You’re in there somewhere, honey,” Ralph urged as he bit his lip and strained his ears.

  The room was quiet enough that he could also swear he could hear the snow hitting the roof.

  “Come on. Come on,” Ralph half-mumbled, half-prayed. “Just one more. Please. Give it to me. Just one more.”

  Ralph stiffened. It was like his silent prayer had been answered, although he kind of doubted God answered the prayers of bank robbers. The mechanism turned inside the door, sounding like a gunshot to the veteran locksmith. It was music to his ears. He had cracked the safe.

  He sat there staring at the lock for a minute amidst the deafening silence. It was like he had just won a race and was taking a moment to reflect before accepting the trophy. He took one more deep breath and grasped the wheel on the door, spinning it until the latch clicked open. Then, with the expectation of a child looking under the tree on Christmas morning, he tugged at the heavy metal door.

  Ralph had long thought himself one of the foremost locksmiths, not only in the state, but perhaps in the country. On Christmas Eve night, he proved it. The safe door slowly swung open in less than twenty minutes after he began his work, Ralph's eyes opening wide as he saw the treasure before him. There would be no alarms. No police. Their crazy plan just might work.

  "This is for you, Linda," Ralph said, looking toward the heavens, remembering his late wife and their dreams together as he walked into the vault.

  SMOKE AND MIRRORS

  "It's a shell game," Harold told his cohorts as they sat around the card table during their last walk-thru the night before they put their plan into action. "We flood their senses with sights and sounds and let their brains do the rest for us. By the time their brains catch up, it'll all be over. They'll never know what hit them and we’ll all be filthy rich."

  The entire plan was smoke and mirrors, the element of surprise key in their game of misdirection. So far, an hour in, their plan had worked to perfection.

  Their first goal, which was to subdue a crowd estimated at over two thousand, was accomplished with relative ease. The ear-splitting sounds of gunfire, the smell of gun powder in the air and bullets whizzing above the heads of the stunned party goe
rs, did the trick of overwhelming their senses. Add that with the crowd being plunged into sudden darkness for an even more dramatic effect and they were one big quivering mass. And there was, of course, the public execution of the mayor, a nice little touch to make each and every man, woman and child examine their own mortality and keep them in fear that they could be next. Then there was the constant panning of laser beams that swept over the crowd, giving them the sensation they were being watched from the dark catwalks fifty feet above them. Those on the floor of the civic center would cower when the red dots crossed fleetingly across their foreheads. It was as if a sniper was looking down his sights at them, preparing to pull his trigger and snuff them out. In actuality, there were no snipers watching from above. The illusion was accomplished using desktop oscillating fans and laser pointers from the five and dime store that were planted there by Jerry earlier in the day. The red lasers had been sweeping the crowd all evening with no one noticing. It wasn’t until the lights dimmed and the suggestion made that snipers were on the catwalks that the lasers became as bright as spotlights in the minds of those on the arena floor. The entire illusion was accomplished by spending less than forty dollars and expending fifteen minutes of labor on the catwalks.

  The second goal was to divide and conquer. Again, this was accomplished with relative ease. By blocking all but one exit from the building, confiscating all cell phones and ringing the interior of the arena with "explosive devices" they had effectively turned the civic auditorium into a prison. As an added perk, half the police department was prisoner within their impromptu penal institution.

  Meanwhile, on the outside, fear of the unknown was keeping law enforcement at bay. They couldn't risk half the population of Centertown going up in a mushroom cloud so they had no option but to sit and wait. Time was exactly what the five conspirators needed.

  The police were even guarding the building for them. They were standing post like sentries outside the castle while the rest of the department was out doing their bidding, making sure everyone remained in their homes and out of their way. The officers could ward off any worried parents or family members who came to the civic center intent on playing hero.

  The arena had become both a prison and a fortress. It was a prison for the over two thousand Centertown souls inside and a fortress for the five conspirators. It was true that Centertown had been conquered by five average Joes.

  But then, conquer is such a strong word. They were simply borrowing the town and everything in it for an evening. Centertown, minus some of its possessions, would be returned to its residents with a few minor dents and wrinkles before the sun would rise the next morning, but only the five conspirators knew that.

  The third goal was underway as Ralph cracked the safe at Centertown City Bank, swinging the heavy metal door open to reveal a cool million in cash. The bank's coffers were busting at the seams from the deposits made by the numerous local business, the "Shop Centertown First" program obviously working very well. It was no wonder they could afford to give away five thousand bucks to some lucky shopper. Meanwhile, on the outside, Randy was supposed to be riding shotgun, patrolling the area to make sure Ralph's intrusion was not discovered. He was also supposed to be the muscle for the old locksmith, loading the bulky loot into the van outside each bank.

  It could almost be said there was a sixth conspirator - the weather. Actually, the weather was holding more people hostage, in their own homes, than the five were holding inside the civic auditorium. By nine o'clock, snow was again falling in earnest and the temperature was barely clinging to double digits. Those brave enough to venture out in the dangerously cold weather would run the risk of sliding into a ditch as the roads were a sheet of solid ice which were rapidly being buried by a covering of fresh powder. The conspirators had chosen their siege based on the weather, long-range forecasts one week before the takeover calling for nearly a foot of snow and near-record cold temperatures.

  It was going to be a white Christmas in Centertown. And that was a good thing for the five. Had the weather failed to cooperate, they were prepared to wait until the following Christmas, knowing cash supplies in town were nearly triple during the shopping season than what they were during normal times. Why not get the biggest bang for your buck?

  Trusting the weather man, the wheels were put into motion just over a week before. That was when the "hired help" was contracted. While each man brought their own individual talents to the group, the bottom line was things needed to be done quickly and they simply could not be everywhere at once. It might appear they were, but in actuality, they were just flesh and blood.

  That was when Doug's talents were put into play. His connection to less-than-savory members of society helped recruit five additional men who would assist them with the mission. The hired help, however, had no idea of the scale of what was going to happen. All they knew was they would be earning ten grand apiece for one night's work - twenty-five hundred up front and the balance when the job was done.

  Their jobs were simple, seal the border to insure no one could get in or out without having to brave the frigid waters of the Barren Fork which was swollen due to a wetter than normal winter. A thin layer of ice was starting to form atop the river, making it even more treacherous with ice thin enough to allow a man to fall to his death by breaking through while thick enough to hold a man beneath it, leaving him to drown beneath its grasp as the swift current took him downstream.

  Even the tools they would use to complete their task were supplied. Four tractor trailers, each parked within easy drives of each of the city's bridges were left with keys in their ignition and their batteries fully charged. As soon as the lights went out, their engines came to life. The hired help drove the tractor trailers to their targets, jackknifing them and wedging them like corks in a bottle in the middle of each of the city's bridges.

  While not exactly formidable at first glance, throw in a few of the flashing green disks courtesy of Randy's explosive expertise and it may as well have been the Great Wall of China. Given the treacherous roads, the bridges should have been closed anyway. The contractors were actually providing a public service by closing the bridges which were under a solid sheet of ice.

  After taking care of their duties, all the hired help had to do - while waiting for the balance of their payment - was to wander about, dressed just like the real five, thereby giving the illusion of an occupying force near the bridge barricades. They were even issued automatic weapons, filled with blanks. After all, they couldn't just entrust loaded firearms to convicted felons. That would be against the law and irresponsible. Of course, the hired help didn't realize that last little twist. They assumed they were armed with loaded weapons. It was on a need to know basis - and the hired help - didn't need to know. There was a lot the hired help didn’t need know.

  WRONG SIDE OF THE TRACKS

  "This is the Centertown Police Department. Stay inside your homes. There has been a tanker crash in Centertown. Toxic gas is leaking, posing a breathing hazard. I repeat, stay in your homes. We hope to restore power shortly."

  Joe and Brittany listened from inside what was now a frigidly cold high school locker room as the police car went by issuing the warning on its loudspeaker. Joe resisted his urge to run out and hail the officer, knowing something wasn't right. An hour ago they had fled an armed takeover at the arena, narrowly escaping with their lives after seeing the mayor executed before their eyes. Now, a police officer, or at least someone posing as a police officer, was claiming there had been a tanker truck wreck. They both knew better than that.

  "I don't know about you but I think we need to be getting out of here," Joe told Brittany, blowing in his hands, the cold now causing his digits to go numb. "My house is about four blocks away. If we can make it there, I have a kerosene heater we can use to keep warm"

  Brittany put her arm around Joe's as he looked out the window. The police cruiser slipped into the darkness, still repeating its message as it continued slowly down the stre
et.

  "Who needs power? I think this is pretty nice itself," Brittany said, gesturing toward the flickering candle around which they had sat since shortly after taking

  Brittany was now wearing Joe's coat. He had placed it around her shoulders minutes before to stop her shivering. He attempted to keep her warm since their arrival at the school with his mere personality, keeping her laughing with his little comments and jokes.

  His act of chivalry had not gone unnoticed by Brittany since she wasn't used to such selfless acts by members of the opposite sex. Most of her former boyfriends had been egotistical jerks, more concerned with themselves than about making her happy. That was the thing about being beautiful; she had always had to date the Ken dolls to stay in her station. The problem with Ken dolls was they were always self-absorbed and were about as much fun as a pet rock. And, in Centertown, the options were limited. There weren't a lot of winners to choose from in the small town, especially when you come from the wrong side of the tracks.

  Brittany's father had died when she was a child, leaving her mother to fend for her and her older brother. While her mother did her best working as a waitress at Bill's Diner in town, there never seemed to be enough money. It was normal to play "bill poker,” meaning her mom would hold out the bills like a deck of cards and pick one at random from the deck. That would be the bill she would pay that week.

  Being from a poor family, Brittany had always felt left out when her friends were doing things she couldn't afford. She would make up excuses why she couldn't go on a shopping spree at the mall or on a trip with her friends. Another problem with being beautiful was that beauty and money seem to go hand in hand. That wasn't the case for her. She could have applied for free lunches in school but chose not to out of pride. That left her going hungry many days. Being dirt poor was one of her many deep, dark secrets.