The Front Porch Prophet

They walked until they entered a small depression not far from their destination, where they decided to take a break. A.J. passed a sandwich and a beer before securing his own. They could hear the rush of the stream in the distance. It was a pleasant scene, a moment of peace in a world of bother. A.J. reclined, intending to let the trout work up an appetite. The aroma of marijuana floated from Eugene’s side of the swale. He closed his eyes and drifted.

His eyes snapped open when he heard voices from beyond the ridge at his back. Then he heard a shrill scream followed by loud cracks of rifle fire. He bolted to his feet and looked at Eugene. Then he grabbed his bat and scrambled to the top of the small embankment with Eugene matching each step.

The scene in the clearing below burned into their corneas. They saw three hard-looking men in camouflage garb armed with automatic weapons. They were ranged around a young woman who sat on a log in front of a small tent. About ten feet away sprawled a motionless figure, the apparent recipient of the rifle shots. The woman was staring at the remains of her companion.

“Goddamn,” whispered A.J. “They shot him in cold blood.” It was unclear whether the man had been running or fighting, but it was a moot point since dead is dead, and he was certainly that. The largest of the scoundrels walked to the poor boy and nudged him with his toe, then laughed and rejoined his companions. They all three looked down at the girl. “Oh, shit,” A.J. breathed.

“What are we going to do?” Eugene hissed.

“I think we are going to die,” A.J. said.

“The next time I want to go to the titty bar, we’re going to the titty bar,” Eugene whispered fiercely. “Wait for me. I’ve got a gun.” He slid down toward their trappings.

A.J. knew good advice when he heard it and was going to wait, but delay was removed as an option when one of the men grabbed the girl’s long, black hair and dragged her to her feet. With his other hand he clawed her shirtfront, violently exposing her. She struggled and was backhanded to the ground. Then he dropped to his knees and held her wrists with one hand while fondling her with the other. The second man knelt and began to undo her jeans while the third unzipped his own.

A.J. knew the time for waiting was past. Live or die, Eugene or not, he couldn’t stand by and watch the scene unfolding below. With no conscious thought, he was up and moving toward the campsite. He ran fast and quiet and was among them before they were aware of his presence. Upon his arrival, their cognizance increased dramatically.

A.J. came in screaming and swinging. The man who had ripped the girl’s shirt turned just in time to receive all of the Louisville Slugger across the bridge of his nose. He was dead when he toppled over. A.J. then swung in the opposite direction and caught the second man in the temple. He was fueled by fear and rage, and he was a big man swinging hard ash. The smack of the bat echoed through the forest, and the man knelt lifeless for several seconds before gravity brought him low. The lone survivor started for his rifle, but at that moment Eugene began shooting his.22 pistol. The shots confused the brute, and he stopped. A.J. threw the bat at him and knocked him down. The man came up with a rifle, which he tried to aim at A.J., who grabbed one of the weapons no longer needed by the departed and beat his adversary to the draw by a whisper. Their eyes met and they froze, the other’s rifle partially raised and A.J.’s locked, loaded, and aimed at the black heart of his quarry. He had the drop, and to his right, Eugene also held a bead.

It was silent on the killing ground. The acrid smell of cordite lingered with a richer, coppery aroma. A.J. heard the pounding of his own heart.

“Give me a reason to shoot you,” he said through clenched teeth. “Any reason at all will do it.”

The reprobate lowered his rifle. A.J. saw in his eyes a soul of darkness. He beheld an animal that deserved to die, yet he hesitated to shoot lest he become what he destroyed. The villain mistook what he saw in A.J.’s expression for a lack of resolve and began to laugh. A.J. couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Without conscious thought, he shot. The M-16 was on full automatic, and the man was cut to pieces. When it was over, Eugene came to pry the rifle from A.J.’s hands. He still had the trigger depressed, although the magazine was empty.

“Easy,” Eugene said. “Let me have the gun.” He removed the M-16 from A.J.’s hands and threw it down. He was not a man who was easily jarred, but there was no mistaking the fact that they had a mess on their hands.

A.J. sank down next to the prone, inert woman. She was staring straight up with fear in her eyes. Her lips moved silently. He wiped spittle mixed with blood from her chin. Her mind seemed to have disengaged from harsh reality, and A.J. thought that this, at least, was a small mercy. He bent his head down between his knees and vomited.