A Little Brass Book of Full Metal Fiction by Douglas E. Winter

Author:Douglas E. Winter [Winter, Douglas E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, action
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2021-01-28T00:00:00+00:00

going south

[an excerpt from the novel Hide]

[1]

Gus Dulay leans in, unlit cigarette wagging from his lower lip. Says hey. Shakes out another smoke and offers it to Sarah Jane.

Uh uh.

“Take it,” he says. “One for you, one less for me.”

It’s Wednesday morning and we’re leaning our backsides into a Mercury Sable at Dulles International Airport. Alamo Rent-A-Car. Autopilot Drive. You’re thinking too hard about why it’s a rental, and why it’s a rental in Sarah’s name, on Sarah’s driver’s license and Sarah’s VISA card, when the only thing worth thinking about is the briefcase and what’s inside the briefcase and who and what is waiting for that briefcase down south in Waynesboro.

“You sure about this?” Gus checks his watch, checks Sarah’s eyes.

Like it was all Sarah’s idea.

“As sure as sugar is sweet,” she says.

His eyes move on, to another place, one more distant than Waynesboro. A memory. One that’s fond. One that’s not about answers or actions.

“Good luck,” he says, but Sarah’s right back at him: “There’s no such thing as luck, Gus. There’s only God’s will. If it’s God’s will, I’ll see you in the sunset.”

She winks, settles in behind the wheel of that Sable, and cooks the ignition.

The briefcase, flat on the passenger seat, shifts forward as the Sable rolls out and over the first speed bump. At the guard station, you move the briefcase to the floor. Show the guard the rental papers. Start thinking about the drive.

Faithland is behind you now. Dulles is behind you now. It’s all behind you now, and ahead is grey sky, grey highway. One hundred miles of curving and swerving the Blue Ridge Mountains, and by lunchtime Sarah Jane Jensen will be strolling the streets of Waynesboro, Virginia. Thanks be to John James Blair and Alamo Rent-A-Car.

In the last long minutes before you drove out, Gus Dulay talked about nothing. For a time it was the smallest of small talk: the morning news, the roadwork on 1-66, the traffic. Then he talked about the weather, talked about the weather some more, and finally he talked about the Jews.

“Fixing to snow.”

That’s how it started. Simple as that.

“Look at those clouds,” he said. “You don’t get that kind of grey without something brewing up there, fixing to fall. We’ll be throwing snowballs before the week is out.” Then Gus looked right at Sarah and said:

“It’s the Christ-killers, you know. The doctors. Those damned Jewish doctors.”

Sarah didn’t blink. She just paid out more rope. “Tell me about it.”

But Gus wasn’t telling. He was staring at his feet. Then back at Sarah.

“You, me, the white people of America. We’re God’s chosen few. And getting fewer.”

“You’re serious,” she said.

“No,” he told her. “But the boys down south, well, they’re another story, and it’s a long story, and wherever it starts, I gotta tell you, it always ends with the Jews.”

That’s when he patted himself down, searching for those cigarettes.

“One thing you got in the White Resistance, and that’s religion. Old time, new time, end time religion.

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