Comin' Home to You

by Dustin Mcwilliams

  A block away from the Shell station, he decided to flip through the radio station presets in order to take his mind off of the what-ifs. His second option was the local classic rock station, which had just started Metallica’s For Whom the Bell Tolls. Owen nodded, agreeing with the DJ’s choice of song. He turned the knob to the right to increase the volume. He even rolled the windows down, where an overweight and hygiene challenged man walking on the side of the road turned his head to the source of the booming music. Pulling besides a gas pump, Owen got out of the car to fill up the car. It was the least he could do for Ali allowing him to use her vehicle. While the gas was being pumped into the Accord, he went into the store to buy a couple of things. He purchased a bottle of water and a Butterfinger, which he craved upon seeing it. He did wander into the beer section, but no beverage screamed his name. Perhaps last night’s episode of not drinking much wasn’t such a fluke after all.

  After pushing open the twin glass doors to exit, he headed back to the car. A loud revving engine to his right caught his attention. A loud and lifted truck hit a curb as it pulled into the parking lot, but didn’t slow down. Owen’s body reacted quickly, taking a hop step backward to evade the parking truck. He growled due to immediately recognizing the truck and the driver.

  Stepping out of the vehicle in beat up brown cowboy boots, jeans and a black shirt with the sleeves crudely cut off of it, Scar had the most ridiculous shit eating grin on his face. “Shit, Owen. Where’d you come from? I almost got you.”

  Owen said nothing, other than thinking that his gun was in the passenger seat, now covered by a beach towel so no prying eyes would see it.

  Stumbling up to Owen, his grin didn’t cease. “You ready to fuckin’ go?”

  Owen could smell the alcohol on his breath. He was completely drunk. “Whenever you are.”

  Scar did nothing to acknowledge him. His unshaven face had beads of sweat on his forehead. “I’m going to get me some more beer. Maybe some fuckin’ beef jerky too.”

  Taking a deep breath as Scar walked past him, Owen half-jogged to his daughter’s car, threw the beach towel onto the floorboard and placed his palm around the handle of his gun. He felt comfort in just holding it, like a small girl holding her doll in the dark of night. He was beginning to think that he would end up using it before the day is through, especially with Scar being intoxicated. Drunk Graysons equaled bad news.

  Moments later, Scar confidently emerged from the store, holding a couple small paper bags, probably containing tall boys. Noticing he was heading this way, Owen quickly placed the gun into the middle console to conceal it. Scar peered through the opening of the passenger side window and straight at Owen. He was quite uncomfortable and found himself wishing this moment would hurry and pass. Scar spat onto the asphalt below. His face was becoming annoyed.

  Owen also grew irritated. “What?”

  “Your pump stopped.”

  “Oh.”

  “So put the nozzle back in and let’s get the fuck out of here. I ain’t got all day.”

  Owen wanted to retort with something along the lines of sarcastically asking Scar to do it for him, but he doubted that would fly right with him. This wasn’t the day for jokes. If Owen was in Scar’s shoes, he wouldn’t appreciate the humor either. Saying nothing, he stepped out of the car and walked by Scar, who stared a hole through him. Placing the nozzle into its slot with his back turned, Scar slapped the top of the car with his open palm. “Shit!”

  Startled, Owen spun around. “The fuck?”

  “Wait, fuck.”

  Confused, Owen watched Scar walk over to his truck and look into the back bed. He started laughing and cracked open one of his new beers. “Never mind. I did bring it.”

  Owen was starting to assume he slapped the car just to scare him. Nevertheless, he was curious as to what was going on in Scar’s drunk mind. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The shovel that you are going to use to dig out my brother.”

  “Oh.” Owen presumed that the shovel might also be used to put him in the ground. He wanted to hold his gun again.

  Scar raised the shovel up just enough for Owen to see it. “Yeah. I ain’t fucking digging him up. That’s your job, asshole.”

  Nodding silently and ignoring the insult, Owen entered the car. Scar followed suit into his own truck.

  This is it, thought Owen.

  He opened up the console, maneuvered the gun into the back waistline of his jeans and drove off with Scar trailing him.

  This is it.

  -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  In a small alcove behind a bend in the road well hidden by trees, Nicky and Clint sat in an older model of a Ford F-150 that belonged to BJ’s father. They waited patiently with their eyes peeled for the vehicles of Scar and Owen. There had been no real words spoken before Nicky broke the ice. “Hey, let me ask you something.”

  “What?”

  “Only me, Luella, Ben, and Ali know that Scar and Owen are coming out here. When they both don’t come home, you know who Ben’s going to want to question, right?”

  “Sure do.”

  “Okay…so it might be better if Owen comes back alive and shit, right? I bet it’d take the heat off of us.”

  “Let me tell you something, you remember when Bird Dog said something, and you asked what the hell he was talking about or whatever?”

  Nicky fidgeted in the passenger seat. “Sorta. Why?”

  “Let’s just say we got all that fuckin’ shit figured out.”

  “You ain’t gonna give me any more info than that?”

  Clint shook his head. “Gotta keep things on the down low sometimes.”

  There was so much irony in Clint’s words. Nicky did his best to keep this hit as low profile as possible, but Clint, who was about to make a big show out of this, kept him out of the loop by not giving out the dish. Nicky wanted to pry, but Clint was already on edge and had smoked some meth not too long ago. Whenever he was irked while high, he was extremely volatile and posed just as big of a danger as his older brother. With the way he was talking, it was unlikely Clint had slept at all the past two meth filled days, which made him even more unpredictable.

  Attempting to relax in his seat, he wondered what Clint had planned. He felt a tightness in his chest and his mind traveled to lands he couldn’t control. Needless to say, the possibilities were making him anxious.

  ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  The day was sunny, the temperature was hot, and the sweat was already dripping off of Ben’s bare and brawny chest. It was too warm to wear a shirt as he watered the plants and flowers that were planted in rows adjacent the sidewalk of his house. He always watered the plants every other day on his wife’s behest. Otherwise, he didn’t see the point of such things like flowers. His ball and chain loved things like that, but he maintained a practical approach and didn’t see the appeal of things that didn’t have purpose other than aesthetic value. Sure, he could break it down and admit things like that were good for the environment and produced carbon dioxide to help him breathe. But he hated to see things he cared about die. He lived with it in Afghanistan when many of his brothers in arms died in front of him. While he didn’t really care about the flowers, his wife did. They would eventually die, just like almost all of his close friends across the Pacific Ocean. Now, his brother was likely on his way to leaving this mortal coil, and in the end, just like his friends, he could do nothing about it.

  He did what he could, but Owen was dead set on what he wanted to do. His brother was the most adamant about putting bullets in every Grayson that existed, but he also seemed to be the one who most wanted a peaceful coexistence. Ben couldn’t comprehend such heavily contrasting ideals. It had to be his revived relationship with his daughter and his grandson, who was both Grayson and Tomkin
s. Owen was stubborn when he wanted something and would stonewall any attempts to change his mind. Now he and the rest of the family had to live with the consequences. Ben just prayed there would be no costs to Owen’s decision.

  It wasn’t even noon yet, and Ben was already contemplating cracking open a beer. He had taken the day off in advance, so there was no worry about the department missing his presence. Each officer on the payroll’s qualifications and backgrounds were thoroughly checked, and even then, he made damn sure he handpicked the best of the best. So whenever he decided to take a personal day like this one, the city and the surrounding areas were in good hands. Only on these personal days did he splurge with alcohol. But even still, he could sober up at a moment’s notice if an important distress call came to him. He was always physically and mentally prepared. It’s just how he was.

  Once done watering the white and red flowers, he stopped the faucet, then curled up the hose and put it away. Noticing his lawn was a bit higher than it needed to be, he figured he might as well mow. His wife would probably tell him to cut the grass once she saw its length. He didn’t mind taking orders from Taylor. She wasn’t the bossy type, but she would definitely speak her opinion once she saw something she didn’t like or if something needed to be done. She’d be the first to say outdoor work is for a man anyway. He wouldn’t dispute that. Ben would do anything for her. She was the angel he came back to from the hells of war. She was the one who kept him motivated and sane, when life reached its lowest depths. Taylor was also the one who would give him a drink on the house when he and the other trainees stopped by the bar after academy classes. She bore his children too. That woman was his living saint and he loved her.

  After retrieving his lawnmower from his backdoor shed and filling it with gas, he pushed it toward the front yard, figuring he would start from there. In his driveway, much to his alarm, was Clint Grayson’s truck. In front of it was two men Ben was familiar with, BJ and Bird Dog. While it startled him, he didn’t react physically. Years of combat had caused him to lose his ability to jump from surprises. He hated these two with a passion and here they were, right on his property. They had caused trouble in the township for years, and each stint in jail never seemed to deter them from getting back in trouble. He grit his teeth in repugnance and wished he was close enough to spit on their worthless faces.

  Loosening his grip on his lawnmower, Ben kept his perturbed emotions in check. “What the hell do you two want?”

  BJ and Bird Dog each produced handguns from behind their back. Bird Dog let loose a fat faced grin. “To kill your ass, bitch.”

  Ben’s survival instincts kicked in as adrenaline shot through his body. He spun around and sprinted toward the back of his house. He heard gunshots blaring and bullets whizzing by him. Before he could get to cover, he felt a stinging sensation in his right calf and around his left shoulder. He dove behind the house, but as soon as he did, the stinging became pulses of a burning pain shooting through his body. He surprisingly never really got hurt in Afghanistan, but to feel this pain here and now was a shock to him. Ben now knew what his brothers felt. He had watched too many men take shots or shrapnel from explosions and watched them all writhe and seethe in pain. This was something he didn’t know; true and unadulterated pain. In a way, he was glad he was experiencing the same agony that many of his brothers had. It just made the camaraderie that much stronger.

  He could hear the two miscreants hollering as they ran his direction. He knew this was no time to relish in his pain. Even though each step was in agony, he got up and ran toward the back door, closing and locking it as soon as he entered. Awaiting him was the frightened face of Taylor.

  “What’s going on, Ben? What is this? Is that…oh my god, is that blood!?”

  “Get down now!”

  He was glad he said that. Shots went through the back windows and in their direction. He tackled her, taking cover behind the island in the middle of the kitchen. It was definitely worth its price tag now, because it was what was shielding them from a swarm of bullets.

  Ben’s thoughts turned dark. “Where are the fucking kids!?”

  Taylor swallowed loudly. “They’re…outside. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”

  “Oh fuck.” Ben’s heart sank like a boulder in the ocean. Normally, the kids would be in school, but it was the last week, and attendance was somewhat optional.

  The gunshots stopped for a moment before BJ’s loud mouth spoke. “Hey, why don’t you make this easier on us, you fucker!?”

  Bird Dog chimed in. “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of your wife after you’re dead!”

  Ben felt a fury burning in his chest. He told his wife to stay put and limped toward the bedroom, taking advantage of their taunting and probable reloading. He went into his room, found his keys and unlocked his gun cabinet. To a gun nut, opening this specific cabinet would be like entry into the gates of heaven. He had two handguns, two 12 gauge shotguns, a hunting rifle and a gun he didn’t tell anyone about; a fully automatic Ruger rifle. That seemed like the right weapon to take down the hillbilly trash outside. Taking it, as well as two of his handguns, he raced back to the kitchen, where Taylor sat petrified.

  “I’m freakin’ out about the kids, Ben. I don’t know where they are.”

  “I’ll find them. I swear it. Here, take one of these.”

  Taylor visibly shivered when handed the firearm. “I-I don’t want this!” She was terrified of guns.

  Placing the other gun in the back waistline of his shorts, Ben calmly placed his right arm on her shoulder. “If they come in, you have to use it. Don’t ask any questions. You have to.”

  Ben unlocked the safety for her, then started to think of a strategy. A stray gunshot whizzed by their head. He peered around the side of the island and through the now broken back kitchen window. Bird Dog was very visible and could easily be in his line of sights, but BJ’s absence worried him. Added to his concerns was that he had no idea where his children were. A missed shot could hit one of them, so shooting with reckless abandon would not be a sound plan.

  Even worse, if they were found, they could be used as hostages. Ben wasn’t sure how far they would go to achieve their goals, though it seemed clear they came to kill him. If that was the case, he would gladly give up his life for his family. But he still didn’t trust anyone’s word, especially two trashy drug addicted vagrants. He had to take them out. That was the only clear way to resolve this shitty situation.

  But the pain was starting to get to him. He was aching and throbbing. Blood from his leg wound was dripping onto their tiled kitchen floor. Moving his left arm was becoming troublesome. While obviously hampered, he could still walk at a fairly normal pace. However, he refused to make excuses for any of his encumbrances. Many of his comrades in the war lost much more than he did. Some lost legs, some lost arms, some had their entire faces burnt off. Complaining about a couple of bullet holes was weak. He wasn’t going to do it.

  Ben told his wife he loved her and told her to call the police station before darting behind cover on the wall between the back door and a large window. Bird Dog was still loafing around, occasionally shooting a shot into the house. Either he was wildly inaccurate or he was doing this on purpose. His approach also seemed lackadaisical, like he didn’t care about finding cover. Ben looked for the location of BJ, but he didn’t find him. This worried him greatly. BJ was by far the weaker of the two, but due to his size, he was possibly way more resourceful.

  But there was a chance to rid himself of half of his problems. Once Bird Dog was down, taking out BJ would be a lot easier, wherever he was. Accuracy was key. Missing recklessly could be disastrous. He couldn’t see any of his children behind Bird Dog, but that didn’t mean they weren’t around. He was in the process of putting up an entire wooden fence to surround the front and back yards. Without it, the kids could wander off about anywhere, which is what Ben was praying for. For a half second, he allowed himself to be amused by the fact that he even if the ki
ds were around, they weren’t visible because Bird Dog was so fat. He prepped into position, ready to come out of cover to take a calculated shot at Bird Dog’s abdomen. That was the widest target, but as easily as he could make a headshot, he still couldn’t risk missing. There would be no way in hell he could forgive himself if he ever shot his own child. He’d probably turn his gun on himself if he knew he killed his own flesh and blood. There still remained the chance of the bullets going through him, but that was unlikely due to his weapon and the mass of his target. Before he could make his move, the fat man took a random shot that got dangerously close, whizzing by Ben’s nose. Taylor screamed, as she had with each loud shot. Reaffirming his convictions by realizing that another shot like that could find its way into his wife, he knew the time to end this was now. Still covered, he lined up his shot process. It wouldn’t be hard to put him down, thanks to his girth. But he needed to be quick and precise. Ben gritted his teeth, eager to fill Bird Dog’s fat ass full of lead.

  Glass breaking from the front window delayed Ben’s movements. A shadowy figure could be seen, from beyond the pane for a split second. Ben’s eyes widened, then almost burst out of his head when he saw a large flaming glass bottle flying toward the kitchen. While the living room was large and full of furniture, it seemed the throw was well calculated and defined, easily sailing over any obstacles. Nothing was stopping it.

  “FUCK!” screamed Ben. His face grew in horror.

  The molotov cocktail exploded a few feet in front of the unprotected Taylor. The blast was enough to have her screaming. Ben’s lips trembled, then he raced toward her, though the pain in his leg made him stumble. When he got around the island, he noticed the damage. Taylor’s light jacket and yoga pants were burning. She was doing her best in her flustered state to pat the flames out. Ben quickly found a dish towel that was thankfully damp from on top of the island, then smothered each and every flame, first putting the flames out on his dearest. More gunshots sounded out that combined with her incessant sobbing. Ben wanted to cry too. He couldn’t bear to see his wife in this much pain. He looked at her hands. They were red, like a horrible sunburn. Her arms and legs probably got the same treatment, if not worse.