Bigfoot Crank Stomp (2 page)

“Who are they?”

“Couple of high school drop outs thought it would be easier to get rich cooking meth than staying in school. Saw it on some TV show. It’s got to be easy if it’s on TV right? So they broke bad.”

“And we can’t scare them off?”

“Not these boys. We could beat them dreadful and they’d come back for more. Young and dumb, know what I mean?”

“Yeah. We used to be them.”

“True. But we got in the game when there was no competition up here. Now there is. Territory is vital to our survival. People staking claims all over NorCal. We don’t hold our ground, we done and dead. So you see we got to nip this in the butt now.”

Russell pulled his pipe from his jacket and loaded up a couple of rocks and sparked up. He closed his eyes and inhaled deep and let the meth make magic.

“Not smart,” Mickey said. “It fucks up your focus.”

“It helps my confidence.” Russell exhaled and opened his eyes, already feeling his nerves relax. “You want me to do this then I need to do
this
.”

“Just don’t shoot me in the fucking back.”

Russell offered him the pipe.

“Keep it to yourself. I need to stay sharp.”

Russell shrugged and took another hit. “How many people inside?” Smoke rode his words.

“Three. Maybe four, tops. Nothing too complicated.”

“That’s two more than us. Not good for hand guns.”

“I’ve got shotguns in the bed.”

Russell set the pipe on the dashboard. His head felt clearer. His vision sharpened. His muscles twitched. The adrenaline started to course down his hands and legs. Yeah, he was ready. As ready as he’d ever be.

He eyed Mickey’s .45. He could run. Maybe he’d be fast enough to get out of the truck before Mickey blew his brains out. Maybe.

But Russell didn’t like his chances. Not with Mickey this sure of what had to happen. They’d grown up together but that didn’t mean shit when Mickey was set on something. Nope, when he had his mind set he either got his way or went fucking crazy. Make a move the wrong way, and Russell’s ass would be in a shallow grave in a few hours. Better to get high and kill some people and go home.

“How we going in?”

Mickey lit up another Marlboro. “Through the front door.”

“Both of us?”

“I scouted it last night. The back door’s a sheet of plywood nailed to the frame. Probably thought it was better having one working door. Easier to defend if someone broke in.”

“Stupid. Only one way out, too.”

“Yeah but lucky us. So I go in and you hang back and take out any who jump out a window. Easy enough.”

“Sure.”

“Maybe I get them all and no one jumps out and you get to keep your hands clean. See, things already looking up.”

Mickey laughed. Russell didn’t.

“How much do you think they got in there?” Russell said.

“Glass or cash?”

“Either.”

“Well considering their product is shit, let’s not entertain the glass aspect. Cash wise, based on what I’ve seen and heard, maybe twenty large.”

“That’s it?”

“I told you they was just starting up. Gotta get them before they get big. They get big, they can afford protection.”

“I get half.”

“You dictating the percentage?”

Russell rubbed his neck, his throat dry. “I need to make some payments.”

“I thought you settled that.”

Russell bit his tongue and tried to clear his head and not think of his mom. “Nah. Still got a few. Radiation treatments ain’t cheap.”

“Right.” Mickey stubbed out his Marlboro in the overflowing ashtray. “Fifty makes you happy, fifty it is.”

“Well, let’s do this,” Russell said. “Before my high wears off.”

They got out and eased the doors shut until they heard a faint click. Mickey lifted a tarp in the bed. Underneath was a plastic bin holding two twelve-gauge pumps and a bunch of loose shells. He grabbed both guns and handed one to Russell.

Russell scooped up a handful of .00 buck shells and started loading. Mickey followed suit.

The air was cool and still. Smelled of a camp fire or two. Not tourist season so the smoke wasn’t thick. Good thing, too, or this whole operation would turn into a police shootout in no time.

Russell looked at the top of the trees. The Douglas Firs bent slightly. A small wind coming down into the valley but nothing low to the ground. Too bad. A lower wind would rustle branches enough to mask their movements. No such luck tonight.

“Got any water?” Russell said.

“No.”

Russell rubbed his throat. “Fucking cottonmouth.”

“Should have thought about that before sparking up.”

Russell let it go, trying to swallow what little saliva he could. “Only dudes up there right?”

“What?”

“Only dudes right?”

“Yeah as far as I know.”

“No women or children.”

“Are you fucking deaf? I said only dudes as far as I know.”

“What’s that mean?”

“That means I’m pretty sure they all guys but maybe one of them called a hooker or kidnapped a kid. It means I don’t fucking know everything.”

Russell held up his free hand. “All right, man. Don’t get all pissy. I just don’t want to be killing no women or kids.”

“Unless the money’s good, right?”

“Fuck you.”

“If there’s enough to pay your ma’s medical bills for a few months, you’d probably stomp an infant to death.”

Russell spat and raised the shotgun and pointed it at Mickey’s chest. “Shut the fuck up, man.”

Mickey grinned. “That piss you off, me talking that way about your ma?”

“Fucking A right it does.”

“Get the blood up? Make you want to kill me?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Now let’s direct that anger toward more productive pursuits.”

“Fuck you.” Russell lowered the shotgun and turned toward the house. “Lead the way, asshole.”

“There’s the Russell I went into business with.”

“And you still the ruthless prick I grew up with.”

Mickey chuckled as he started up the long winding driveway. Russell walked to his right. They didn’t speak, the only sound their breathing and footfalls on gravel and clay.

As they neared the log cabin, Russell heard laughter and conversation. Then applause. He froze in place and listened. Mickey kept walking. It took Russell another moment to realize it was a TV turned up. Way up. He shook his head, feeling dumb, and caught up to Mickey.

“Sounds like
Seinfeld
,” Mickey said. “At least we don’t gotta worry about them hearing us coming.”

“Yeah.”

“Remember that one where Kramer was using butter as tanning oil?” Mickey chuckled. “Fucking stupid ass Kramer.”

“The one where he got sun burnt.” Russell smiled despite himself. “Smelled like dinner.”

“And Newman started drooling and shit.”

They both chuckled some more as they neared the cabin.

It seemed like every light was on in the place. All the windows were shut and blinds drawn. No shadows passed. Smoke billowed from the chimney. Smelled like burning pine.

The TV audience applauded and the
Seinfeld
theme kicked in. It faded and an erectile dysfunction commercial blared down the driveway. If it lasts longer than four hours, call a doctor.

“Who the fuck listens to the TV that loud?” Russell said and rubbed his mouth with the back of his free hand.

“Maybe they’re in another room and couldn’t hear it.”

“Can hear it on the other side of the county.”

“Who the fuck cares? All that matters is they can’t hear us, right?”

“Sure.” But Russell didn’t like it. It didn’t sit right. Nobody listens to a TV that loud.

Mickey crouched down behind the front of a beat-up Jeep Wrangler. Russell followed suit, casting a glance down the driveway from where they’d come. Empty and black.

“Okay, young man,” Mickey said. “Let’s do this.”

Russell shifted in his squat. “What about after?”

“What you mean after?”

“We’re going to have to beat feet back down the driveway. Someone calls the cops, that’s the way they’re coming. Only one way in and out.”

“Ain’t no one calling no cops. Ain’t nobody up here this time of year other than cookers.”

“Maybe. Maybe some camper hears the gunshots and makes the call.”

“They won’t know the house. By the time the cops figure it out, we’ll be long gone.”

“Still, we should have parked closer. As it is now we got a lot of ground to cover just to get back to the truck.”

Mickey looked down the dark driveway. “Shit, you fucking right. Why the fuck didn’t you say something before we got all the way the fuck up here?”

Russell shrugged. “Just occurred to me.”

“Well your timing sucks.” Mickey spat. “Shit. Guess we gonna do this quick then. Not that we weren’t before but no lingering. We in, we out. And don’t touch nothing unless we taking it.”

“This ain’t my first rodeo, Mickey.”

“Go on over to the side of the cabin. You should be able to get a good shot on anyone jumping out the front or back.”

Russell nodded and rose from the squat to a semi-crouch. “Yell when you’re clear.”

He ran to the side of the house, staying in the semi-crouch, and took up station behind a tree. He could see most of the front and probably three quarters of the back. The more he looked, though, the more he felt sorry for anyone who chose to jump out the back. If they did, they’d be hitting a sheer hill which plummeted about thirty feet. There was a back porch and a bit of a yard bordered by a small berm and then down through trees and brush. Not fun terrain. If they didn’t die from the fall, they’d at least be broken in half.

Mickey snared his attention away from the hill. He shuffled toward the front door, moving like a lame dog, his right knee not quite flexing like it should. Leftover effects of a high school football injury. But he still had the quickness and grit. His face was a mask of determination. Lips tight, eyes narrow, left hand on the pump and right hand on the stock, finger on the guard vice the trigger.

When Mickey reached the front door he didn’t hesitate. He aimed the shotgun at the lower end of the door where the hinge would be and fired. Instead of .00 buck, a slug tore through the door and knocked the bottom half clear of the frame. Mickey shifted his aim up and hit the top hinge with the second slug.

Russell scanned the windows. Still no shadows moving. No yelling either. All he could hear was the damn TV. Maybe it had been loud enough to mask the shots.

Mickey kicked the door in and disappeared out of sight. A few seconds passed. Some bitch on TV talked about taking a morning after pill. But nothing else. No more shots. No screams. No glass breaking. Nothing.

Russell licked his lips. Sweat broke out on his forehead and the back of his neck. The cool air met the perspiration, sending chills down to his heels. He tapped the stock of the shotgun.

There was a break in commercials. Peaceful silence drifted from the house for a second before it was filled with the pop of a gun discharging. Not Mickey’s shotgun. Sounded more like a Glock.

The opening song of
Friends
started as Mickey answered the small shot with his own blast. Then another. There were no more pops after that. The band sang about being there for
you
.

Glass shattered to Russell’s left. He pivoted and raised the shotgun. A man plunged from the second floor toward the ground feet first, long black hair flowing behind him. The
Friends
theme song ended as the guy hit the ground. Bone snapped, echoing around the side of the house, filling the vacuum of sound the music had left.

The guy screamed as his left leg went perpendicular to his body just above the ankle. No time to flail and cry and grasp at it, though. His momentum carried him into the berm at full speed, nailing it with his hip. His torso tumbled over and his body followed, disappearing from view. Russell heard him as he bumped and rolled down the hill, screaming the whole way. On the TV the audience roared laughter.

Then there was a wet thud and the screams died. Russell edged to the berm and peeked over the top. About ten feet down, under the pale light of the moon, he found him. He’d broken his fall by ramming a huge tree trunk with his head. Blood gushed down the hill, looking like burnt oil leaking from a wrecked car. His left leg formed a backwards-L. His right twitched.

“Could use another hit,” Russell said, barely a mumble, wishing he’d brought his pipe with him.

Another shotgun blast snatched his attention back toward the cabin. At least two people dead inside. Another one now part of a tree. Had to be it. At least he hoped it was. He needed another fix and that meant getting the hell out of here. But first he needed to get his fifty percent of whatever was inside. He prayed it was more than ten large.