The Grim Reaper's Dance

A bird flew overhead, screeching, and Casey followed its path with her eyes as it flitted away, disappearing into the clear blue sky. Which way should she go?

“How about this way?” Death appeared in front of her, arm pointed to the west.

“Why?”

“I did a little scouting last night when I wasn’t waking you up and suffering your abusive language. I found a place.”

Having no reason not to, Casey turned west and followed. After a while the cornfields ended, and a wave of soybeans began, shimmering under the glaring light. In the distance, in the middle of the field, crouched an old shed, sides weather-beaten, red paint flaking off to reveal graying lumber. The tin roof reflected the sun’s rays, and the large sliding door hung crooked on its track, revealing the black of the interior. Again Casey looked up and down the road. She had neither seen nor heard any vehicles for miles, which meant there had been nothing and no one to see her.

“So what’s so great about that place?”

“It’s perfect,” Death said. “You’ll see.”

Casey looked around, her hands on her hips.

“You’re not going to get a better offer, you know. No money, no ID, no decent clothes—”

“All right.” Casey put her hands over her ears. “Fine. Just…stop talking.”

Death ran a finger across closed lips and gave a little bow, gesturing for Casey to continue. She walked past and arrived at the end of a long lane leading toward the shed. She examined the ground. The dirt was hard and gave no indication of recent activity. But then, it had rained only a day before. She looked around again, then headed down the lane.

The shed was larger than she had first thought, big enough to house a tractor or two, although there was nothing there at the moment. A few rusty and unidentifiable implements and tools hung from nails, along with some burlap sacks and a dusty oil lamp. Several five-gallon buckets were lined up against the wall, and a broom leaned crookedly on a wall slat. This broom probably wouldn’t make such a good weapon, its handle cracked almost in half. But it still had its straw tines, and she could see tracks in the dirt floor where it had been used to sweep.

Outside the shed were more rusty implements, large but outdated tractor attachments. Tall grass partially hid them, winding around the curves of the metal. On the far side of the shed an old pump stood beside the wall. Casey couldn’t tell just by looking if it was still usable, so she grabbed the handle and pulled up. It stuck at first, but she felt something give, and with a little more work she got the handle to its upright position, perpendicular to the pump itself.

Nothing happened.

“Nice,” Casey said.

Death held up a finger. “Wait for it.”

A quiet gurgle sounded from the depths of the pipes, and a trickle of water dripped from the spigot. The water was brown with rust, but after a minute or so ran clear. Casey splashed her face and drank her fill. She was going to push the handle back down, but hesitated, looking at her shirt. She spun her finger in the air. “Do you mind?”

Death laughed. “Like I haven’t seen—”

Casey frowned.

“Okay, okay. You don’t have to be so touchy.” Death turned around.

Casey pulled off the sweatshirt and held it under the water, rubbing the fabric against itself. She knew the bloodstains wouldn’t come out entirely, but at least she could get the nastiest crust off. She scrubbed as long as her hands could take the cold, then wrung out as much water as possible. She laid the shirt over one of the implements on the far side of the shed, figuring the hot sun would dry it in minutes.

Leaving Death outside, Casey checked out the inside of the shed. The shade was a relief, and she was surprised at the amount of open space. It had been a couple of days since she’d exercised, and she knew she would be able to concentrate on things much better if she could get in a good session. The area was enough for her needs. She pushed the buckets to the corners of the room, clearing even more space, and found a spot to begin, centering herself and her body.

“I’m leaving,” Death said, peeking in the door. “You’re too boring.”

“Good. This time don’t come back.”

Casey’s muscles were sore from sleeping on the ground, and in the truck before that. She began slowly, taking the time to stretch and perform some jumping jacks and sit-ups. Her bad shoulder complained at the fingertip push-ups, but overall her body seemed happy to be moving in the ways it was used to. When she was ready for the actual kata, the hapkido patterns she went through every day, she chose weapons forms, having been reminded that morning how useful it was to have her body ready for the Bo.

A half-hour later she’d had enough, considering that besides her lack of sleep she hadn’t had a decent meal in days. Sweat poured off of her body, and with another glance outside to make sure she was still alone, she removed her bra, running it under the water from the pump. She took off her shoes and rinsed her socks and pants, hanging them to dry in the sun, taking the chance to even wash and wring out her underwear.

Her underclothes dried in almost no time, so she put them on and got herself settled in the shed to go over the information she’d found in Evan’s truck. She piled the burlap sacks to create a semi-soft place to sit, and spread the bag’s contents in front of her on yet another sack.

Picking out the photos, she laid them in chronological order. The earliest ones showed mostly the men Casey had seen, but soon other faces began to appear, along with trucks. One picture showed the blond guy and the man who’d gotten away from Davey’s seated across a table from an older couple in a diner. Casey would guess they were in their upper sixties. The photo had been taken through the front window, and caught Gun Man leaning over, his finger in the couple’s faces, as if he were making a strong point. Blond Guy sat back, arms crossed, smirking. The man’s and woman’s expressions told different stories. The man’s mouth was open, his eyes wide, as if what he was being told surprised or frightened him. The woman didn’t look afraid. She looked pissed. Her eyes were narrow slits, and her lips were tight, her chin thrust out in what had to be defiance. Too bad Evan hadn’t been able to get audio.

Other photos weren’t as clear, and displayed a varying group of people. The woman at the table was the only female, the rest of the truckers being men ranging from young to what could have been considered past retirement age. Blond Guy—Dix, Gun Man had said—and Gun Man were present in most of the photos, with a supporting cast of others from the crash site, including the two Casey had laid out at Davey’s. In all of the situations the men were talking, often violating the truckers’ personal space. In one they stood at the open back of a semi trailer, Gun Man looking up at the load of boxes. In another, Dix was handing a trucker a small package. No chance of telling what it contained. Casey still couldn’t see a pattern, but hoped that would come with studying the rest of the notes.

Leaving the photos spread out in front of her, Casey picked up the stack of truck manifests. These seemed freshly copied and were held together by a large black clip. They listed drivers and their trucks, along with the trucks’ contents, mileage, fuel stops, and the dates they traveled. Casey could see nothing linking the loads or mentioning a trucking company. As Davey had pointed out, the shipments included a wide range of items, from food to computers to lumber. There didn’t seem to be any consistent inventory.

Finally, she picked up Evan’s spiral-bound notebook, in which he’d scribbled things, many of which were just about illegible. With patience and the return of her headache, Casey was able to work her way through them. For the most part, the notes were a companion to the other information—adding a list of names. Dix, aka Owen Dixon, featured prominently in Evan’s notes, just behind Gun Man, also known as Randy Westing. The two others at Davey’s were named as well, along with the rest of what Evan was calling The Team. A real team of winners, from everything Casey could see.

One page of the notebook featured names Casey figured were the truckers’. She was wrong. None of the names matched the names on the manifests. The names in the book, however, were the ones that matched the photos, if she could trust the squiggly writing on their backs. So she had two different groups of people: the people in the photos and notebook, and the people in the manifests. The notebook held more than just names, however. The last page was filled with personal information. Personal as pertaining to the other truckers, not to Evan himself. Casey read over part of the list, which named the people in the photos.

JOHN SIMONES: uk 2008

MICK AND WENDY HALVESTON: 04-09