The Reapers

“Did you find out anything useful from them before they started not doing so good?” he asked.

Tony shook his head and stared at the ground.

“We know how they’re staying in contact, though,” said Jackie Garner. “They got radios in their trucks.” He thought for a moment. “There’s some bad news there, too, though,” he continued.

“Yeah?” said the Detective wearily.

“I answered one of their calls.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I thought I could find stuff out.”

“And did you?”

“I found out that I’m not a mimic.”

“Fu

“Sorry, man. I wasn’t thinking.”

“So they know we’re here.”

“I guess so.”

The Detective turned away from the three men. Willie said nothing. It was like being back in Nam. This was another fuck-up, playing out right before his eyes. He was starting to feel weary now, and he was drenched. He also assumed that things were going to get worse before they got better.

Then they heard it, the noise breaking the awkward silence. There was a vehicle approaching. Instantly, the Detective began to move.

“Willie, get the Mustang out of sight,” he said. “Take it toward the bridge. Paulie, get in the cab of the truck. Head east, but slowly. Let them see you. Jackie, Tony, into the trees with me. If it looks like they’re on their way to church, don’t shoot.”

Nobody argued with him or questioned him. They did exactly as they were told. Willie got into the Mustang, turned it in a tight circle, and headed back the way he had come, pausing only when the intersection was out of sight. Then he killed the engine and waited. He was struggling to breathe, even though he hadn’t exerted himself physically. He wondered if he was having a heart attack. He flexed his left arm to make sure that it wasn’t going numb. He was sure that was one of the signs. The arm seemed to be moving okay. He adjusted the rearview mirror and kept his eyes on the road behind him. The Browning now lay on the passenger seat. He had one hand on the ignition key, the other hand on the stick. Anyone came around that corner that he didn’t recognize and he was out of there. He would make a run for it. There would be nothing else for it.

Then the shooting started.

The Detective had taken up a position to the west of the road, Tony Fulci and Jackie to the east. A Bronco came into view, and the three men aimed their weapons. At the sight of Paulie pulling away in the big truck, the driver of the Bronco increased his speed. There was a man beside him in the passenger seat, a shotgun held across his body. A third man stood in the bed of the truck, leaning on the roof of the cab with a rifle in his hands as he tried to draw a bead on Paulie’s rear window.

There was no warning. Two holes appeared almost simultaneously in the Bronco’s windshield and the driver slumped over the wheel, his head striking the glass and smearing the blood that had splashed upon it. Instantly the truck began to swerve to the right. The passenger leaned over to try to arrest the turn, while the shooter in the bed held on to the crash bar for dear life. More shots came, pockmarking the windshield, and the truck veered off the road and crashed down the eastern slope. It struck a pine tree, the bull bars on the front minimizing the damage even as the rifleman was flung from the bed and landed heavily on the grass. He lay there, unmoving.

The Detective emerged from the cover of the trees first. Already, Tony and Jackie were ru

The Detective walked to where Tony and Jackie were standing over the man on the ground. Jackie picked up the rifle and tossed it into the trees. The injured man was now moaning softly, and holding on to the top of his right leg. It was twisted at the knee, and his foot stood at a u

“Hey,” he said. “Can you hear me?”

The man nodded. His teeth were bared in agony.

“My leg-” he said.

“Your leg’s broken. There’s nothing we can do about it, not here.”

“Hurts.”

“I’ll bet.”

By now, Paulie had turned the truck around and was pulling up on the road above. The Detective indicated that he should stay where he was to watch the road, and Paulie acknowledged with a wave.

“You got anything in your truck you can give him for the pain?” the Detective asked Tony.

“There’s some Jacks,” said Tony. He thought for a moment. “And some pills and stuff. Doctors keep giving us so much, it’s hard to keep track of it all. I’ll go take a look in the glove compartment.”

He lumbered off. The Detective returned his attention to the injured man.

“What’s your name?”

“Fry.” The man managed to gasp the word out. “Eddie Fry.”

“Okay, Eddie, I want you to listen to me carefully. You’re going to tell me exactly what’s going on here, and then I’m going to give you something for the pain. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, then one of these big men is going to stand on your leg. Do you understand?”

Fry nodded.

“We’re looking for our friends. Two men, one black and one white. Where are they?”

Eddie Fry’s upper body rocked back and forward, as if by doing so he could pump some of the pain from his leg. “They’re in the woods,” he said. “Last we heard, they were west of the i

“They brought people with them. Two of them are dead at the bridge over there. What happened to the others?”

Fry was clearly reluctant to answer. The Detective turned to Jackie. “Jackie, step lightly on his foot.”

“No!” Eddie Fry’s hands were raised in supplication. “No, don’t. They’re dead. We didn’t do it, but they’re dead. I just work for Mr. Leehagen. I used to look after his cattle. I’m not a killer.”

“You’re trying to kill our friends, though.”

Fry shook his head.

“We were told to keep them from leaving, but we weren’t to hurt them. Please, my leg.”

“We’ll take care of it in a minute. Why weren’t you supposed to kill them?”

Fry started to drift. The Detective slapped him sharply on the cheek.

“Answer me.”

“Someone else.” Fry’s face was now contorted in agony, and sweat and rainwater mingled on his face. “It was someone else’s job to kill them. That was the agreement.”

“Whose job?”

“Bliss. Bliss is going to kill them.”

“Who is Bliss?”

“I don’t know! I swear to God I don’t. I never even met him. He’s in there, somewhere. He’s going to hunt them down. Please, please, my leg…”

Willie Brew had joined them. He stood to one side, listening to what was being said, his face very white. Tony Fulci returned, carrying two Ziploc bags jammed with pharmaceuticals. He put them on the ground and began going through the blister packs and plastic bottles, examining the generic names and tossing aside those that he deemed of no use in the current situation.

“Bupirone: antianxiety,” he said. “They never worked. Clozapine: antipsychotic. I don’t even remember us taking those. Trazodone: antidepressant. Ziprasidone: ’nother antipsychotic. Loxapine: antipsychotic. Man, it’s like you can see a pattern…”

“You know, we don’t have all day,” said the Detective.

“I don’t want to give him something that won’t work,” said Tony. He seemed, thought Willie, to be taking a certain amount of pride in his pharmaceutical knowledge.