The Reapers

And if someone was stubborn enough, or foolish enough, to ignore those warnings, well…

Willis and Harding might almost have been related, because they looked a little alike. Both were tall and rangy, with straw-blond hair darkening to red, and pale skin dotted with the kinds of freckles that joined together in places to form dark patches on their faces like the shadows cast by clouds. Nobody had ever asked them if they were related, though. Nobody ever asked them much of anything. They had been employed precisely because they were the type of men whom it seemed unwise to question. They spoke rarely, and when they did it was in tones so quiet and unobtrusive that they seemed to belie the substance of what was being said, yet left the listener in no doubt about their sincerity. It was whispered that they were gay, but in fact they were omnisexual. Their intimacy with each other had never extended to the physical, yet each was otherwise happy to sate his appetites wherever the opportunity lay. They had shared men and women, sometimes together, sometimes apart, the objects of their attentions sometimes submitting willingly, and sometimes not.

As the sky grew lighter that morning, and the rain briefly ceased, they were both identically dressed in jeans, black work boots, and billowing blue denim shirts as they sat in the cab of the truck, Willis driving, Harding staring out of the window, idly blowing cigarette smoke into the air. Their primary role in the operation was to keep watch on the northern bridge and its surrounds, as well as patroling the outer ring road of Leehagen’s property in case, through some miracle, the two trapped men managed to break through the initial cordon.

Beside them were the guns they had used to kill Lynott and Marsh. Others had taken care of the second pair of men. Willis had felt a grim satisfaction that Benton, despite his protests, had been excluded. Willis didn’t like Benton: he was a local bully boy who would never graduate to the majors. Willis was of the opinion that he and Harding should have been sent to New York, not Benton and his retard buddies, but Benton was a friend of Michael Leehagen’s, and the old man’s son had decided to give him a chance to prove himself. Well, Benton had proved something, that was for sure, but only that he was an asshole.

Now that the men at the bridges were dead, Willis and Harding were no longer concerned about further incursions, although they pla

He was distracted from his meditations by a single word from Willis.

“Look.”

Harding looked. An enormous 4x4 was parked on the right-hand side of the road, facing in their direction. On either side of the road, pine trees stretched away into the distance. There was a man sitting on a log close to the truck. He was chewing on a candy bar, his legs stretched out in front of him. Beside him was a carton of milk. He did not appear to have a care in the world. Willis and Harding both simultaneously decided that this would have to change.

“The hell is he doing?” said Willis.

“Let’s ask him.”

They pulled up about ten feet from the monster truck and climbed out of the cab, shotguns now cradled loosely in their arms. The man nodded amiably at them.

“How you boys doin’?” he said. “It’s a fine morning in God’s country.”

Willis and Harding considered this.

“This isn’t God’s country,” said Willis. “It’s Mr. Leehagen’s. Even God doesn’t come here without asking.”

“Is that so? I didn’t see no signs.”

“You ought to have looked closer. They’re out there, ‘Private Property’ printed clear as day on every one. Maybe you just don’t read so good.”

The man took another bite of his candy bar. “Aw,” he said, his mouth full of peanuts and caramel, “maybe they were there and I just missed them. Too busy watching the sky, I guess. It is beautiful.”

And it was, a series of oranges and yellows fighting against the dark clouds. It was the kind of morning sky that inspired poetry in the hearts of even the most tongue-tied of men, Willis and Harding excepted.

“You’d better move your truck,” said Harding, in his quietest, most menacing voice.

“Can’t do that, boys,” said the man.

Harding’s head turned slightly to one side, the way a bird’s might at the sight of a worm struggling beneath its claws.

“I don’t think I heard you right,” he said.

“Oh, that’s okay, I didn’t think I heard you right either,” said the man. “You talk kind of soft. You ought to speak up. Hard for a man to get another man’s attention if he goes around whispering all the time.” He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again his voice rumbled up from deep in his chest. “You need to get some breath in your lungs, give the words something to float on.”

He finished his candy bar, then carefully tucked the wrapper into the pocket of his jacket. He reached for the carton of milk, but Harding kicked it over.

“Aw, I was looking forward to finishing that,” said the man. “I’d been saving it.”

“I said,” repeated Harding, “that you better move your truck.”

“And I told you that I can’t do it.”

Willis and Harding advanced. The man didn’t move. Willis swung the butt of his shotgun around and used it to break the right headlamp of the 4x4.

“Hey, now-” said the man.

Willis ignored him, proceeding to the left headlamp and shattering that, too.

“Move the truck,” said Harding.

“I’d love to, honest I would, but I really can’t oblige.”

Harding pumped a round into the chamber, placed the shotgun to his shoulder and fired. The windshield shattered, and the leather upholstery was pockmarked by shot and broken glass.

The man put his hands in the air. It wasn’t a gesture of surrender, merely one of disappointment and disbelief.

“Aw, fellas, fellas,” he said. “You know there was no need to do that, no need at all. That’s a nice truck. You don’t want to do things like that to a nice truck. It’s-” He struggled for the right words. “-a matter of aesthetics.”

“You’re not listening to us.”

“I am, but you’re not listening to me. I told you: I’d like to move it, but I can’t.”

Harding turned the shotgun on him. If anything, his voice grew softer as he spoke again.

“I’m telling you for the last time. Move. Your. Truck.”

“And I’m telling you for the last time that I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not my truck,” said the man, pointing behind Harding. “It’s their truck.”

Harding turned around. It was the second-last thing he ever did.

Dying was the last.

The Fulci brothers, Tony and Paulie, were not bad men. In fact, they had a very clearly developed, if simple, sense of right and wrong. Things that were definitely wrong included: hurting women and children; hurting any member of the Fulcis’ distinctly small circle of friends; hurting anyone who hadn’t done something to deserve it (which, admittedly, was open to differing interpretations, particularly on the part of those who had been on the receiving end of a pummeling from the Fulcis for what seemed, to the victims, like relatively minor infractions); and offending Louisa Fulci, their beloved mother, in any way whatsoever, which was a mortal sin and not open to discussion.

Things that were right included hurting anyone who broke the rules listed above and-well, that was about it. There were creatures swimming in ponds that had a more complicated moral outlook than the Fulcis.