Emmetsburg: Seventy-six

Silver. The rain picked up again, but the clouds had lightened polishing the world, redefining it in simple patterns of light and dark. The rain rustled like fine tinsel. It poured from eaves and weighted leaves. Everywhere the world seemed to shimmer and change with each passing moment.

John stopped at the top of the jailhouse steps. Louis was just ahead of him. John grabbed the back of his shirt, nearly pulling Louis off his feet. The pistol was tucked in the waist of John’s trousers. His injured hand covered it. He resolved to use it if need be, while praying to god it wouldn’t come to that. The soldiers at the corner were huddled around a single cigarette beneath a red and white striped shop awning. John spied them carefully then pushed Louis down the last steps and across to the truck. He opened the driver’s side door and motioned with a nod for Louis to get inside.

“No, John, I won’t go.”
“I ain’t asking you twice,” she said through gritted teeth, glancing over to the soldiers once more.

“What do you think you’ll accomplish?”

“Testing fate, my friend.”

Thunder rumbled distantly. It was low and hollow. Not as something apart from the world, but as if the whole earth, the trees and houses, the oceans, souls and creatures had joined together in a collective moan.

“John, this is madness!” Louis whined, crestfallen and confused.

A pistol shot exploded. A bullet slapped into the truck beside Louis’ head. Two more shots followed in quick succession. John wheeled and leveled the gun without thinking. Homer stood at the door to the jail, holding the pistol unsteadily in both hands. His face was pale, almost if he might be sick from the act of trying his damnedest to kill someone. He fired again and Louis slid to the ground with a gasp.

John fired twice. His aim was careful and calculated. He was back in the war again, and just as steady. As intended both bullets found their mark precisely. The wooden door frame to either side of Homer splintered and came apart in bits and pieces. An hour before he might have coward or fled. Instead, fearing the humiliation and shame he would face, Homer fell to one knee and took aim once more.

Hearing all this, the soldiers at the corner were already charging up the street, their rifles and bayonets at the ready. John turned to face them, scattering the men with two shots that went high. John knew he was outgunned. A sudden sinking feeling in his gut told him just how terrible a miscalculation he had made. The searing hot punch of a bullet to the side slammed him against the truck. Warm silk-red blood poured down his side. John knew instantly he probably would never see Anna again. Fighting for breath, John took aim and put a round neatly through Homer’s shooting arm. The boy spun backwards, the pistol skidding away from him.

The soldiers had taken up positions and unleashed a fusillade against the truck. Untested and inexperienced, their shots came in groups of three, each preceded by a pause as they worked the bolt of their Enfields and took fresh aim. One of the men stood, exposing himself as he moved to a better firing position. John put the last round at his feet, chasing the man back. Out of bullets John flung the pistol away and looked down at Louis.

A bullet had pierced Louis’ chest. John could tell right off it was a grievous wound. Blood soaked his shirt and spread across the pavement beneath him, spattering with the rain. With each hollow and excruciating breath the blood gurgled and bubbled from the wound. Louis’s eyes rolled back and the other-worldly expression returned to him. He gripped the leg of John’s trousers and coughed through a spray of blood.