Our War with Molly Nayfack

by Chris Capps

  Jessica opened the small drawer at the right side of Sherriff Rind's desk, pulling out a folder labeled, 'Commissary,' and dropping it loudly on her desk with a thud. The folder was brown, wrapped in an old dust cached rubber band with a stamp that said, 'Secret.' With one finger, she then poked the top cover of the folder, jabbing it none too gently as the two brothers watched.

  "What's that?" Felix asked.

  "It's a bomb," Jessica said with the tone of a coroner, "It's a bomb we're going to disarm. This is the supply list in the warehouse just a couple blocks from here. The government's doom closet. It's our life-blood, what we've been living off of for the past ten years."

  "Food supplies are fine. We're growing crops," Felix said, no longer quite as sure of himself, "It's one of the few things both the Daily Finger and the Sentinel agree on. We're good for another ten years at least." Jessica pulled the rubber band from the folder, snapping it off into a tiny coil which she tossed onto the desk,

  "Not food," she said, "We're good on food for a few years still. It's everything else we're running out of. Light bulbs, bricks, chemicals, gasoline, salt, even medicine. That's why Rind was interested in unearthing this secret stockpile of Diazepam. If there's one thing we need there, it might tell us where we might find more."

  "And it wouldn't hurt to have people on a few mood stabilizers when you tell them we're living on borrowed time," Felix said.

  "Maybe he did feel that way," Jessica said, dropping the file in her desk drawer and slamming it shut, "I don't. Controlling people isn't in my job description. I just have to make sure they operate within the boundaries of the law. If we don't do something here, this will become a problem. A big problem. And what's more, I don't think there's anything we can do. If Molly Nayfack shows up tonight, she'd better be a goddamn angel or a wizard or else she's not going to be able to help us much. And that's the crazy part of me talking like it'll happen." She pinned the small partially melted star to her shirt, "I'm not Sherriff Rind. I'm not going to keep this secret and deal with it all alone. In a week I'm drafting a report of what we have left and giving it to the papers."

  ***

  By sunset, the clear fogless day that had set more than three annual records, had finally come to an end. With a sustained gentle gust of wind a tumbling white monster slowly flowed from between the trees, snaking in long curling tendrils across the fields.

  Ned Daffy, a cattle rancher who was rumored to eat every one of his meals at Scratchy's diner, stood at his property line overlooking the fields where twenty seven cattle had worked the grass into a fine dust. He leaned heavily on the fence, bowing it with a creak inward as the snaking tendrils grasped at his land, swallowing hills and cows alike. The cattle were spooked, six of them charging in a half-hearted stampede back to the barn where they joined ten more, cowering in the shadow of the building. He spit a craw full of tobacco juice on the ground, pulling a thin toothpick out of his mouth as he watched the fog roll in, trying to think of a metaphor to use for later. The cows easily outran the slow thick fog rolling across the plain, but soon ran out of fence and had to stop.

  The creatures jostled near each other, and he recognized the uncertain calls they made. They weren't the gentle grazing sounds of contented and well fed cattle. Instead it was the uncertain, nearly human sound - a scream the animals made in the slaughterhouse. The only other time they made sounds like that were when they were attacked by predators or in the crowning stages of a stillborn birth. It was the sound of pure distilled fear. He placed the toothpick once again in the cracked groove down the middle of one of his well worn molars, picking a cavity that had formed there long ago, reveling in the pain it sent shooting through his jaw.

  "Heading home for the night," Sal, one of Daffy's field hands said giving him a friendly slap on the back, "Wife needs me."

  "You take care of that old girl for me," Daffy said reaching over his shoulder and clasping Sal's hand, "Good day's work you put in."

  "Goodnight, Ned," two younger women said carrying a small pail of blackberries between them.

  "Goodnight, girls," Daffy said tipping his threadbare straw hat, grinning and revealing his shining bald head, "If you make up a pie with those blackberries, you'd best bring me a slice."

  They laughed, and he chuckled to himself. But when he looked back over the field at the fog rolling in, he heard the laughter die, felt the smile weaken. It had been a rare sort of day, the sort of day that made it easy to forget just how far from the plains of Arkansas he had come. Completely against his own will, he noticed the well of tears hidden deep within him had started to drain, to fog up his eyes and blur that beautiful field he owned. He quickly reached up and pressed his eyes dry with his fingers, taking in the last bits of grass before the fog rolled through and enveloped him too. Now he was in it. And if history served as any indicator, he wouldn't see another clear blue day for some time.

  "Ned Daffy," he heard behind him. It was a sullen voice, the kind he might have suspected of holding a loaded gun into his back if it hadn't been for the rattle of pills he heard, "It's Willard Nayfack."

  "Willard," Ned said turning to face the visitor, with the forced charm of a man who wants nothing more than to be left alone, "What an unexpected surprise. To what do I owe the delight of this most unexpected visit?"

  Willard smirked, rattling the small bottle of pills in his hand again,

  "Special delivery."

  He tossed the bottle of Diazepam over to Ned Daffy, who caught it in both hands. Ned nearly fumbled with it, and quickly pocketed the bottle, looking around at the white blanket all around them. After a quick scan of the twelve foot radius he could see, Ned spoke quietly,

  "You're a bit early."

  "I've got plenty to do tonight, unfortunately," Willard said, "I won't be able to talk much."

  "That heifer you brought me last spring. Dotty Two. She's up and had another retard baby."

  "I don't know anything about animal husbandry," Willard said, plunging his hands into the pockets of his coat and dismissively looking over the fence into that white veil that had dropped over Ned's field, "It's not my problem if she's incompatible with your stock. I thought these cows were for eating, not long division."

  "I didn't need another cow for eating. I needed cattle for breeding. You're not a farm man, so let me put it simply. If these cows don't breed right, if their genes are all muddled up, pretty soon we're going to have to find an alternative to eating real food. People don't want chicken feed. They want good calories and good protein. The kind of meal a man needs after the kind of work he's got to do."

  "Who were you breeding her with?"

  "Don't blame it on the steer. That steer was the same one that fathered Dotty. He's a good sport, and he's descended from a long line of show champions. Good genes. Very good genes."

  There was a break in the conversation, the kind of unrehearsed pause that the Greeks once associated with the death of a distant family member. In that pause, the two men heard something strange. It might have sounded exactly like a helicopter, rotors flapping in the distance. It was a sound Ned knew was impossible, so it was whisked away from his consciousness, filed instead in that deep grey space where dreams and nightmares come from. Willard Nayfack suddenly broke the silence,

  "You're going to the meeting tonight, aren't you?"

  "To what? See your sister?" Ned Daffy said, "No, I'm not going to that. And if she's got any brains at all she's not going to be there either. Sherriff Rind was found burned to death today, and that new lady Sherriff, Jessica, is going to want to ask Molly some questions."

  "That'll never happen," Willard said, "She's not obligated to answer any questions."

  "If the law says she is," Daffy said, snorting as he took one of the pills from the bottle he had been given, "Then she is. The law's the law, Willard."

  He held his breath and dropped the tablet down his throat, bypassing his tongue. When he opened up his airways again, he coughed unexpectedly, pulling a flask from
his hip and swilling down a mouthful of whiskey. With the coughing fit effectively bypassed, Willard noticed a pinkness spreading across the bald man's face. It was sweaty, uncertain. He didn't look good at all.

  "Ned," Willard said reaching out and touching Daffy on the shoulder, "Are you alright?"

  Ned nodded, eyes trailing back up and glaring at Willard's hand,

  "I'm fine. Rosario says my ticker isn't as hot as it should be."

  "You know," Willard said, his hand squeezing Ned Daffy's shoulder gently, "It might be a good idea to come with me some time, to see Molly. It's not even a full day's walk out there if you know where you're going. Come with me, head out there to see her. We could see if there's anything we could do to fix your problems-"

  Daffy interrupted him, his eyes alight with an untamed rage. He slapped Willard's hand off his shoulder, reached forward and nearly looked like he was going to throw a murderous punch into Willard Nayfack's face. Instead, he just poked his finger forward, zeroed it in on the nose of that small man,

  "You make me sick. If I die, fine. But I'm not going to go out to that monster sister of yours or that freak home she's had built. Not now, not never. Not in a million years," He pulled his hand back behind him and produced the pepperbox pistol he held concealed in his belt. It was a tiny weapon, nearly as likely to misfire and seriously injure the wielder as it was to kill its target. It had little accuracy, but it packed a punch with four 9mm bullets poised to all fire at the single pull of its trigger. And at this range, four 9mm bullets would do the trick. He continued, spittle flying from his lips as the pink hue of his face shook and swelled into a deep unhealthy red, "You understand me? Now get off my property before I change my mind about ventilating that empty pin-sized head of yours."

  Willard blinked, then backed away slowly, his hands held up in the air at shoulder height. He didn't dare challenge Daffy as he backed away, instead hoping to give him some small comfort,

  "I'm sorry, Ned. I didn't mean anything by it. If it's any consolation, I'm probably going to die before you do."

  And with that Willard Nayfack turned and walked away. It didn't matter that his ten year friendship with old Ned Daffy was falling apart quicker than a wet newspaper in a tumble dryer. All he needed was a couple more days. As the sun set somewhere unseen, and the fog all around him turned a deep shade of fire red, he grinned. He held his hands out at his sides as far as they could go, and started spinning like a top, like he had when he was young. He spun the way he had with Molly in the fields when he was a kid and she was his older sister, looking over him.

  Protecting him.

  Chapter 8

  With checkered blankets and wicker picnic baskets, a number of Cairo's more curious families headed out to the fields around the amphitheater in the grey fog of night. Old lady MacReady had brought her portable battery operated record player and dropped the needle on an old Andrews Sisters track. Her grandchildren, meanwhile, took to chasing one another through the dense mist, laughing and playing an impromptu game of Marco Polo.

  With the music from the unusually loud record player echoing against the concrete half-circle of the amphitheater stage, the Forbins set up a bottle of Champaign and a bowl of grapes on their own blanket and took advantage of their near seclusion by whispering in one another's ears and exchanging slow unapologetic kisses. Artie Wilcox, who had set up his own picnic blanket unknowingly a few feet from them, had to stop eating his sandwich as he realized once again with dismay that he was neighbor to the Forbins, hearing their ravenous sounds. With a sigh, he dragged his blanket away from the all too familiar groaning passing between the lovers and toward the eerie echoing of the upbeat Andrews Sisters.

  "Small sticks," Harry Tanhauser was calling out to his assistants, "Piles of small sticks. We want a row of hot, smokeless fires and we're not using up our accelerants. Small sticks. No wider than your pinky."

  Cherry Thorn was resting her head on her husband's shoulder, chuckling at Tanhauser's complaints echoing from the edge of the field,

  "What are they doing over there?"

  "I think he's setting up an improvised FIDO,' Jack said, leaning over to stare in the direction of the shouts. A torch was passing between workers, lighting still more torches which in turn were being used to light pillars of bundled sticks.

  "Oh, right," Cherry said slapping him on the chest, "Let's pretend I don't know what that is."

  "Fog, Intense Dispersal Of. FIDO. Invented in England during the Second World War. The idea is an intense flame helps dry out the air, and that disperses the fog. Unfortunately, it also requires a considerable amount of fuel. Tanhauser's using sticks, though - which we have an endless supply of. I guess the fires are to help us see the amphitheater."

  The row of fires at the edge of the field caught, slowly snaking in a trail up and down both sides of the amphitheater as the bundles of sticks crackled a flickering red. The fires glowed on either side of the stage, extending in two large fingers, creating a dim red haze in the fog that looked vaguely of sunset, but smelled of long summer cookouts. Over the course of the next ten minutes, the fog did noticeably thin out a bit, but not completely.

  The fires crackled and sparked, sending dancing shadows onto the back of the amphitheater, much to the delight of the assembly. Applause broke out from the ninety-or-so picnickers, arranged on checkered blankets in the cool night and the soft dewy grass.

  "Good, good," Tanhauser called out, slapping one of his boys on the back with a grin, "Still some kinks to work out, but I'd say we've just reinvented fog dispersal. Yeah I had the idea after seeing that helicopter crash. Shame we didn't think of it before."

  A spotlight from the back of the field lit up, sending a massive white beam out over the crowd up onto the stage. Small lanterns and improvised torches were being lit near the back of the congregation. Tanhauser and his work crew unloaded their three seat sofa from his milspec truck and a small coffee table, placing them near the truck along with a lounge chair and a small candelabra, which they lit on the coffee table before kicking their dirty boots onto it. Tanhauser tossed his boys beers from a cooler and sat in the middle, clinking his bottle together with theirs in congratulations,

  "Any idea what this is all about?" Harry asked one of his boys.

  "I think we're going to see a ghost," one of them chuckled.

  "No way," Harry said, raising a pair of binoculars to his eyes and peering through them at the stage, "When's that happening?"

  At the front of the field, sitting in a pair of lawn chairs just beneath the stage, the McCarthy boys sat and watched Jessica Myers and her assistant Frankie walk up to the amphitheater, overhearing Frankie's nervous reassurance to himself,

  "Shouldn't be too long."

  "Keep an eye on those fires," Jessica said, "I don't want them getting out of control."

  "They won't," Frankie said reassuringly, "This grass is pretty wet."

  "Hey Franklin," Mike said with a huge smile, "When did you join the force?"

  "Kids!" Old lady MacReady called out to her grandchildren, "Come on over here and sit down. I've got some sandwiches for you."

  Dr. Rosario and Pastor Ritzer arrived on the scene at approximately the same time, each walking up from the patched concrete road they both lived on. Ritzer called out to Rosario as he huffed and caught up,

  "Hey doctor!"

  Rosario stopped, turned to see the pastor quickly walking toward him, and waved.

  "Looks like they're pulling out all the stops on this meeting," the doctor said, shaking Ritzer's hand eagerly, "Do you know what any of this is about?"

  "I know what I heard on the radio," Ritzer said, "But I couldn't tell you more than that. Have you seen Willard Nayfack?"

  "Can't say that I have," Dr. Rosario said, shaking his hand as the two closed in on the twin rows of fire in the field, "But if I heard right, this meeting concerns his sister, Molly. Now why would we be having a meeting about her nearly ten years after she disappeared? Mighty strange if you ask
me. Are you using this opportunity to save old Willard's soul?"

  "Actually," Ritzer said, "It's something I was hoping he could do for me."

  "Alright," Jessica said, nudging Frankie, "here comes Sugarhill. Remember what I told you. He's a person of interest, but we're not to make any moves here tonight. Just make sure he doesn't draw a weapon."

  Mayor Clayton Sugarhill was at the back of the field, near the spotlight. Reaching into his inner coat pocket, he felt past the loaded 38 revolver he carried near his heart and produced his small steel pill box, taking one of the small tablets and swallowing it. Nearby, Harry Tanhauser was calling from his sofa over to the mayor,

  "Hey Clayton! Are we gonna see a ghost?"

  Clayton strolled past, ignoring their laughter. Further into the field, approaching the stage the audience was a bit more respectable. He felt as though he were riding a wave of silence that rendered conversations entirely mute as he passed by the citizenry of his small town. Every eye was soon watching him pass between them. He reached into his pocket for the notes he had stowed away.

  He had considered opening with a joke. It always worked on the short campaign trail he traveled unopposed every election year, but had decided against it. The people weren't here to laugh. At least they wouldn't be when he revealed what he knew. He would have to appeal to their emotions.

  Jessica stopped him at the stairwell leading up to the stage, with a gentle hand to his chest,

  "Mayor," she said, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

  "You don't even know what I'm about to do," he said. Ordinarily that would have been enough for her to cancel the meeting, have the mayor detained temporarily for observation by Dr. Rosario, but even as she made the decision, considering what she could do to protect those people assembled on the grass in front of the stage, she realized she couldn't make a move like that so soon after ascending to Sherriff. She was essentially powerless to stop Sugarhill from taking the stage. So many eyes were watching. So few understood the context of Sugarhill's strange behavior.