Hunting Season (6 page)

He opened the front door as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake Bonita and pick-up the argument where they left off.  Easing in, he gently closed the door behind him.

It was dark in the hallway except for light creeping underneath the bedroom door at the other end.  Martin stared at it a moment, thinking maybe Bonita hadn't been able to sleep.  Then he heard moans.  Her moans.

And someone else's.

She's watching a DVD, he thought.

More moans.  And grunts.

He inched down the hallway, not wanting to believe it.

"Yes!" she yelled.  "Yes!"

The switch in Martin's head flicked.  He pulled the Glock from his holster and chambered a round.

When he reached the bedroom door, he didn't hesitate, grabbing the knob and throwing it open.  On the bed, Bonita was naked on her hands and knees.  Her back arched as some guy took her from behind.

Martin stood there, his eyes wide, doubting everything he saw.  How could she?  Why?

"Jesus!" the guy shouted.  He jumped up from behind Bonita and off the bed and against the far wall, hands extended.  "Don't do it."

Martin snapped from his trance and realized he'd forgotten about the gun.  He raised it a leveled it at-

"Tommy?" Martin said.  The neighbor's teenage son.

"Don't Martin, please."  Tommy's voice cracked.  "She begged me.  Said she wanted a baby.  I said no but she started...doing things."

Martin looked from Tommy to Bonita, his wife now sitting Indian style on the bed.  "He's a boy."

Bonita smirked and grabbed a glass of wine off the nightstand.  "Depends on what your definition of a boy is.  Didn't feel like a boy a few seconds ago.  Or earlier today after he mowed the yard."

Martin shifted the gun and pointed it at his wife.  "Because I can't get you pregnant you do this?"

"Yes."  Bonita set the glass down.  "I did this for us.  The rest of my family is dead, Martin.  And so is yours.  This baby will be real and it will be ours and we'll be a family."

"You think I want to have a baby with you now?"  Martin inched closer.  "And what about the next kid you want?  Maybe it'll be Tommy's younger brother.  Or that asshole across the street who's always ogling you."

Bonita didn't offer a response.  Her smirk melted and tears dripped off her jaw.  She'd acted tough but now the truth came out.  She was scared.  She was thirty-seven years old and afraid her time to have a baby was almost up.  Almost up in this forsaken world.  Seeing her this way, Martin could almost forgive her.

Almost.

"How long?"  Martin's hand was steady.

Bonita shrugged, wiping her eyes.  "Not long."

Martin turned the gun on Tommy.  "How long?"

Tommy stuttered before he said, "A week.  That's it."

He looked at Tommy leaning against his bedroom wall, semi-erection pointing at his floor.  His penis was shiny with Bonita's juices.

The image of him taking Bonita from behind flashed in his head.  Bonita he could forgive.  Maybe.  She was desperate.  But Tommy...

Martin leveled the gun at Tommy's head.  "You didn't finish."

Tommy's face slacked and Martin could see the fear swimming in the kid's eyes.  "Wait, wait.  This ain't cool, man."

"Martin, it's over," Bonita said.

"No it isn't."  Martin took a step toward Tommy.  "Get on the bed and finish."

"No."  Tommy's voice cracked.

"Stop it," Bonita said.

Martin took another step closer.  "But I thought he was man enough.  I want to see.  I want to see what it takes to make a baby."

"Jesus, you're crazy."  Tommy started to cry.

Bonita stood.  "Leave him alone."

Martin didn't listen.  "You think you can just come over here and fuck my wife.  My wife!"

Tommy's lips trembled.  Snot ran from his nose.

"Martin, please," Bonita begged, pawing at his arm.

Martin paid her no mind, pushing the barrel against Tommy's forehead.  "We live in a tiny society governed by laws and honor, Tommy.  And you've taken my honor."

"No, I didn't."  Tommy's whole body shook.  "I didn't mean to."

"Blame me, Martin," Bonita shouted.  "Me."

Martin turned to her, the gun still pressed against Tommy's forehead.  "Don't, worry.  I do."

Tommy moved.  Martin felt the sudden shift of the teenager against the barrel and saw arms and hips pivoting out of the corner of his eye.  It happened fast, as did his reaction.

Martin squeezed the trigger and the back of Tommy's throat exploded on the wall.  His body slumped to the ground, twitching and pumping blood.  It should have been a head shot but Tommy had moved quickly and Martin hadn't bothered to aim.

Bonita's scream rivaled the gunshot.  "What did you do?"

"He was attacking me."

"He was running away."

He was running away.  Martin knew it now, looking down at the twitching boy pumping blood out of his neck.  But it wasn't his fault.  And it wasn't Tommy's.

Martin turned to Bonita.  He felt the warmth of Tommy's blood on his chin.  "You did this."

Bonita backed away from him, her hand over her mouth.  "No, Martin.  No.  He was just a kid."

"I thought he was a man."  Martin leveled the Glock at her.  "To hell with you."

Bonita screamed again and for a moment, Martin thought it was because she knew he was going to kill her.  But she wasn't looking at him.

Martin spun around, the Glock already finding its target.  Tommy sprung from the floor, his hands outstretched, grasping Martin's left forearm.  The strength of the Muncher threw him off balance, screwing up his aim.  Before he could get a shot off, Tommy's teeth bit into the flesh above Martin's left wrist.

He screamed and kicked with his right leg, knocking Tommy backward long enough to aim the Glock.  Martin squeezed off three rounds in rapid succession, placing them all in Tommy's head.

The Muncher's face ripped apart and his left ear flew off.  He collapsed but still clawed across the floor toward Martin.

"I thought you could kill them," Bonita said.

"With fire."  Martin backed further away.  "Head shots only slow them down enough to put flame on them.  Get out of here now and get a fire unit."

Bonita fled.

Martin was in the bedroom doorway.  He shot two more rounds, one in the neck and the other in the chest.  It slowed Tommy enough to get the door shut.

Fuck, Martin thought as he looked at his wrist.  He'd lost a lot of blood.  Lightheaded and dizzy, Martin pulled on the door with all his strength and weight, trying to keep it shut until the fire unit showed up.

It took five more minutes before they came.

"Through here," he heard Bonita shout.

Martin looked down the hallway.  Bonita came running in the door wearing a firefighter's jacket over her naked frame.  Behind her two men entered.  One carried a water hose.  Another manned a flame thrower.

"He's in here," Martin said.

Tommy unleashed a fresh attack on the door.

"I'm going to count to three," flame thrower said.  "On three, let go of the door and sprint passed me.  I'll light him up once you're clear.  Got it?"

"Got it," Martin said.

"It bit him," Bonita said.

Martin smirked.  He wasn't surprised she'd said it and she was right to.  For the good of the community.  Martin knew the law as well as anyone.  But he also knew she hadn't said it for the good of the community.  She'd taken advantage of the situation.

"Is she telling the truth?" flame thrower said.  "Are you bit?"

Martin laughed.  "Yeah."

"You know the law," flame thrower said.

"Go on and do it."  His breaths were shorter and his vision blurred.  The change was spreading through him, he could feel it.  "Do it now before I turn."

"I'm going to count to three-"

"Just fucking do it!" Martin screamed, saliva pouring from his mouth.

"Water ready?" flame thrower said.

"Water ready," the hose man said

"Firing."

A slice of heaven, Martin thought.  And here comes hell.

Martin threw the door open and grabbed Tommy and embraced him as the flame engulfed them both.

GENERAL GORDO'S STRANGE REQUEST

"I have found a way to overcome my illness, Jose," General Gordo said.

Jose walked to the side of the bed and set the General's sandwich tray down on the night stand.  The salt air of the Caribbean enveloped and stuck to his skin, riding a gentle breeze through the open windows of the General's seaside villa.

Jose looked down with contempt at his dying dictator and wondered what new method of cheating death he had concocted now.  "General, we have been through this.  Your cancer is too advanced for treatment.  You must focus on your transfer of power."

And die already, Jose said in his thoughts.

General Gordo shook his head.  "No, I have it this time."

And you had it last time, Jose thought.  Just die, please.

First, the General had tried to purify himself in water blessed by a voodoo priestess.  Then he had attempted to defeat the cancer by undergoing a week of coffee enemas.  Jose could not imagine what silly cure the General had thought of now.  Perhaps he had heard bathing in the semen of twenty young men somehow killed cancer.

"General, you must put the affairs of state first."

Jose picked up the bread knife off the tray and sliced the sandwich in half.  He did not actually care if the General ever chose a successor.  But the controlling Party had pressured Jose through threats to his life to consistently remind the General of his need to name an heir.

"If you do not name a successor, the country will fall into chaos after your death."

General Gordo smirked.  "I have that all arranged.  I know full well who will take my place.  But it is a reality that will never come to pass.  I am not going to die from this disease."

Jose decided not to argue.  As the General's personal aide, he understood his role often included shutting up and pretending what the dictator said made sense.

"What is this new found way, General?"  Jose handed over half of the sandwich.

"Have you seen the cartoon
Futurama
, Jose?"  General Gordo took a small bite.

Jose shook his head.  "No, I have never seen it.  But I am not a fan of cartoons."

General Gordo chewed then swallowed.  "It is an American cartoon set in the future.  Very funny."

Jose shrugged.  "And this is where you found your solution?"

"Yes.  There are characters on it that are nothing but severed heads in jars.  No bodies.  Just heads.  And they are alive."

The image of cartoon heads in jars evaded Jose's imagination.  "Why do they not have bodies?"

The General ran his fingers through his long beard.  "I do not know.  But they seem to function well without them.  I imagine it would be quite easy to be a head in a jar."

"How does that apply to your solution?"

"Jose, that is my solution."

"What is?"

General Gordo smiled.  "I want you to cut off my head and put it in a jar.  No body, no cancer.  I will continue to live."

Jose realized the General's desperate desire to live had finally destroyed his rational mind.  "You cannot be serious."

General Gordo nodded.  "But I am."

"If I cut off your head, General, you will die."

"No, I will be a head in a jar.  What part of this do you not understand?"

A few moments of uncomfortable silence passed.  Jose thought of a way to convince the General his idea was not prudent without telling him how ludicrous it was.

"It would be hard to run the country, just being a head in a jar."

"No, it would not, Jose.  I could still give speeches and orders.  Besides, I would not have to worry about pissing the bed anymore.  On the show, Richard Nixon is one of the heads in jars.  If Nixon can do it, so can I."

The insanity of the request had not completely sunk in for Jose.  Something about its lunacy forced him to ask more questions.

"Does only the head go in the jar?"

"Water, perhaps?"

"Water will prune you."

General Gordo sat silent.  After a few seconds he said, "Pickle juice."

Jose almost laughed but managed to restrain himself.  "You want to float in pickle juice?"

"I like pickles, Jose.  And that way, no one would have to worry about feeding me.  The pickle juice will provide a constant source of nourishment."

Jose could not argue with the logic since none existed.  "General, I just do not see-"

"You do not have to see, Jose.  You will just do."  He reached to the nightstand and grabbed a piece of paper.  "Here is the successor named in writing and signed by myself.  It states if I die during this procedure the seat of power is to be transferred immediately.  Now you can perform the surgery without worry of the country falling into chaos."

Jose was about to tell the General no such operation would ever be possible when he saw his name listed.

"You have named me to replace you?  I am to be your successor?"

"You are the only man I trust.  After all these years, you have stood by my side while everyone else has schemed behind my back, plotting their own ways to take my power.  And through those years, you watched me run this country.  You know what it takes to be a successful leader.  In many ways, I see you as the son I never had."

Jose remembered his mother and father, beheaded by General Gordo as presumed Revolutionaries when he was twenty years old.  He thought about his brother, the brother General Gordo had put in prison to ensure Jose's loyalty.  Now the crazy dictator, the man that had destroyed his family to guarantee he gained a trustworthy aide, thought of Jose as his son?  Sometime between this morning and now, Jose thought God had turned the world upside down.

"But the operation will be a success," the General said.  "You do not need to worry yourself about the affairs of state.  It is only a precaution."

The only sounds Jose could muster consisted of vowels without consonants.  He watched General Gordo take another bite of the sandwich before looking back down at his name on the paper.