“Yeah. Smells like money,” I said.
Carrying the shotgun, I got out with far less enthusiasm than Billy and walked around the front of the truck. I took a long look at the still. This was the last time Billy would help me make moonshine. The last time he’d make a delivery. The last time he’d do anything, really. That tugged at my heart a bit, but it had to be done.
“We just have them two deliveries tonight, right, Tom?” Billy asked as he prepared to fire up the pot. He walked over to the propane tanks, hidden under camouflage netting from any eyes that may be in the skies looking for stills.
“Yeah. Just the two.” I laid the gun on the hood of the truck, walked over to the still, which was nestled under a roof that was covered with leaves and supported by 2x4s. I stepped over to the pot and pulled the box of matches from my pocket. I squatted, lit the match, and laid it on the pipes that ran from underneath the pot back to the propane tanks where Billy stood, hand on the valve. Then I got the hell back.
Billy turned the valve on the propane tank and orange flames erupted from the pipes, heating the pot and cooking our mash. Now we were making shine.
“I’ll be glad when this night’s over,” Billy said as walked over to the pot and checked the cap.
I returned the matches to my pocket, and nodded in agreement. But poor Billy didn’t realize that when the night was over for him, it was over for good.
We spent the next while checking the cap and pipes, changing buckets, checking filters, unloading empty jugs from the truck, and just making sure all was going smoothly. Though I was going to kill Billy, this was still a two-man operation. I couldn’t let him do the work alone. This wasn’t just some little backyard still, though that’s how I started out. This was a monster, with the biggest pot I’d ever seen on a still. It took no less than two men to get everything done. And we were working ourselves stupid to do it with just two. We’d considered bringing in another guy, but then we’d have to split the money three ways. We were a couple of greedy bastards so we decided we could handle it alone.
We were handling it, though as Billy said earlier, it was kicking our asses. It was a lot of hard work. A lot of nights spent in the woods with the still. A lot of hauling heavy bags of corn and sugar. A lot of sneaking around. A lot of loading and unloading jugs. Just a lot of everything. It was exhausting. It was definitely a two man job. I needed him.
And that made me feel even worse for what I was going to do to him.
While I helped Billy make moonshine just like always, trying to pretend this was just another night, I tried to harden myself against any kind emotions I had for Billy. I tried to remember all the things I didn’t like about him and all the times he’d pissed me off. But it was hard to do, because there sure weren’t many of either. Billy was great. Which made this that much harder.
About the Author
Kimberly A. Bettes was born in Missouri on Thanksgiving Day, 1977. Kimberly is the author of several novels and short stories. She lives with her husband and son in the beautiful Ozark Mountains of southeast Missouri, where she terrorizes residents of a small town with her twisted tales. It’s there she likes to study serial killers and knit. Serial killers who knit are her favorites.
Connect with Kimberly Online:
Twitter: http://twitter.com/kimberlyabettes
Facebook: http://facebook.com/kimberlyabettes
Blog: http://kimberlyabettes.wordpress.com
Other Titles by the Author:
Novels
Before the Harvest
Held
RAGE
The Good Neighbor
Annie’s Revenge
Novellas
Shiners
Short Stories
His Ashes
The Home
Collections
Once Upon a Rhyme
Twisted
Minutes to Death Series
The Loneliest Road
Close to Home
The Last Resort
Shock Rock
The French Quarter
Anthologies Featuring Work by the Author
Carnage: After the End Volume 1
Legends of Urban Horror: A Friend of a Friend Told Me
HELD
Copyright © 2011 Kimberly A. Bettes
All rights reserved.
HELD is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors’ imaginations or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Kimberly A. Bettes.
Held Page 23