Chaingang

At precisely 0600, almost to the sweep of the second hand, Daniel Edward Flowers Bunkowski was up like a shot, charged with electrical energy, moving, quickly waddling through the Irby house doing his cleanup chores. The kitchen spotless, the empty mason jars cleaned and stored out of sight, the shelves re-dressed and rearranged, the house restored to its pristine state, his clothing cleaned and dried, he shaved meticulously, showered luxuriously, and—having made a last top-to-bottom sweep of the house—was out of there by 0800.

The dancing clown bear made its way across the road without incident and deposited his heavy gear in the same patch of wild honeysuckle where the baby mice once lived. He watched the road for a while, halfway hoping to see a vulnerable motorist chug by in a nondescript pickup. Watching the house where he'd taken such a pleasant R & R.

The Bunkowski one-man family picnic had stored fuel away the way a camel stores water for the desert: and it was all he could do to tear himself away from the basement. Mrs. Irby's boned chicken and dumplings, baked beans swimming in brown sugar, barbecued spare ribs in hot sauce, corned beef and cabbage—he didn't need a vehicle, he probably had enough gas to fart his way to his destination. What a feast!

By noon he was well around the long curve of Willow River Road, and nearing Waterton's city limits. The blue feature was marked “Jefferson Sandbar."

After the preceding day's heavy rains, the new day had turned bright, and although the weather was cool, the sun felt good. By midday the breeze had abated. He could see the sandbar now. The river was still as a flat desert of brown glass. Voices carried from around the curve.

He kept moving through the trees, parallel to the blue, taking his time, keeping the brown-colored blue to his right, the road to his left, walking softly and carrying a big stick.

The chain would not come out to play today. Today he had other needs. Other priorities.

There were three of them, and he could see them now. Their voices were clearly audible.

“—wanna go with John when we run ‘em?"

“I don't know. Where y'all a goin'?"

“Jes’ goin’ out to the levee. Nothing to it, ya know? Jes’ turn ‘em loose up there on the top of the levee."

“Mel goin’ with you?” a third voice asked.

“Yeah."

“Okay. I reckon so. When you wanna go?"

“Oh, I dunno—"

He had the SKS out of his duffel. Four magazines, each with about a three-quarter load. This wasn't the Swiss job, but a crude Chinese copy, and he'd had some trouble with the springs in the magazines. But the SKS was light, and he knew the piece. He knew precisely what the 7.62s would do and what the range was. He knew the trigger pull. The recoil. The way it had to be held a hair high and to the left.

Twisting the suppressor onto the threadings, tightening it down with a grip that liked to close the prison shower handles so tight, the washers would split in half. Closer now. Hearing the monkey men discuss their dogs.

“He goes off down the road and that's when Red got hit. I thought I was going to have to horsewhip the hardheaded sum'bitch."

“Elgin's got him two of them blue ticks. Man—they make a fine dog if you—” Easing the bolt back. A boltface that he'd personally baffled down with felt and milk-base glue first, then, when that didn't work, fixing it right with Iron Glue. One monkey-shooter up the spout now.

“—wouldn't have one of them gol-danged beagles. You couldn't give me—"

Trigger pressure now coming out of the woods. What did they think—whoever saw the beast first? This ... apparition stepping out of the woods holding a machine gun, the thing looking like a toy in its huge paws.

Only the terrain was changed. Only the color of the river dirt. There it was red and green, here it was brown and gold. The same sky, sometimes. Two hundred lightly oiled and wiped rounds for the pig, carried in X-crossed Pancho Villa-style bandoliers. Snake One to Mad Rover. Rough Trade to Magic Silo. Green Giant, this is Heavy Brother. Nitro One, what is my call sign? Quiet Cruiser, this is Jolly Roger Two, do you copy? Read you, Lima Charlie, Magic Silo. Fondly remembered kill zones.

Another magazine facing correctly, cartridges away, held in the left fist which cradles the SKS. He'd been here a hundred times.

Snake One, this is Mike Papa. Sitrep: LZ is hot.

BATBATBAT.

BATABATABATA.

BATBAT. Loud metal clatter against felt-covered boltface. Not wasting a round with the first mag. Dropping two of them in beautifully synched two- and three-round groupings. Taking the third bass-ackwards with the next magazine, in a long quick-trigger burst of semiauto fire. Three greased monkey men down.