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Theodosia's Flock
by
Dennis Bryant
PROLOGUE
It was a quarter of an hour before closing time at the Homestead branch of
the Sunbridge County Bank. The morning’s leaden sky had given over to a
slow, soaking rain. Theirs was the only car remaining in the parking lot
and the two men inside waited nervously with the engine running.
“Deke, are you sure about this?” Cully asked. “’Cause I got a real
bad feeling.”
His partner rolled his angry blue eyes and shook his head. “For the
hundredth damn time, yes!” Deacon snapped. “We wouldn’t be here if I
wasn’t sure.”
Raindrops drummed on the roof. The rusty Pontiac’s wipers drubbed
back and forth. Cully cowered in the passenger seat picking at a rip
in the upholstery where the foam padding poked through.
Deacon draped an arm over the steering wheel and turned to face the
smaller man. “Everything will be fine if you don’t mess up. Have
you got the note?”
“Yeah, Deke, I got it right here in my pocket just like you said.”
“Good. Now, what are you going to do with it?”
“I’m going to give it to the teller.”
“And?” Deacon twirled a finger in the air, prodding him to continue.
Cully thought about this. At length he realized what his partner was
driving at. “I’m going to keep my mouth shut,” he said.
“That’s right. I’ll guard the entrance and make sure no one messes
with you.” Deacon swung out the cylinder on a nickel plated
revolver, made sure that all the chambers were filled with live
rounds and snapped it closed again.
Cully didn’t like the pallor of Deacon’s face or the way his hands
shook as he handled the weapon. “You don’t look so good,” he said.
“Maybe we oughta wait ‘til you feel better.”
Deacon shook his head. “I’ll be fine as soon as we get some money
and clear out of this little shit-splat of a town. Now, are you
finished pissing and moaning?”
Cully’s eyes dropped to the floorboard. “I’m ready,” he said.
“Alright, let’s do it! March across that lobby like you own the
place, look the pretty girl in the eye and hand her the note. If
there’s any trouble, let me handle it.”
* * *
The teller really was pretty, just like Deacon had said she would be. As
Cully approached the window, her girl-next-door smile momentarily
distracted him.
Leaning forward slightly on her stool, she said, “Can I help you
sir?” The name tag pinned to her blouse read Stacey.
“Uh . . . yeah,” Cully stammered as he fumbled in his wet shirt
pocket. He pushed a folded card across the counter toward her.
Stacy read the note. She looked at Cully and blinked as if she were
trying to decide if he were joking. She read the note again. “I’ll
give you the money,” she whispered. “Please, don’t hurt anyone.”
Cully kept his mouth shut, but nodded his agreement. He started
breathing again when she began moving bundles of bills from her cash
drawer to a moneybag. Stacy was efficient. In short order the
transfer was complete. She pushed the open bag across the counter.
Cully picked it up and looked inside. The smell of the crisp new
bills wafted up at him, filling his mind with images of what he might
do with it. He zipped the bag shut and was about to tuck it under
his arm when he had the eerie sensation that someone was watching
him.
Cully spun around and saw a woman in a charcoal gray business staring
at him from behind a massive desk.
“Take your money and go” she said. Her voice was calm and even.
“We won’t interfere with you.”
He could tell from the way she held her head that she was in charge.
She was strikingly attractive, he thought, perhaps in her fifties
with long, silver hair pinned behind her neck. He wondered how he
had failed to notice her when he came in.
Cully froze. The lobby grew silent save for the rhythmic ticking of
the Regulator clock.
“You heard her,” Deacon said. “Now move!” He had the revolver in
his hand now and waved it wildly in the air as he paced through the
lobby.
His heart racing, Cully headed for the door. He was no more than
halfway there when he heard the whoop and wail of a siren.
“You bitch!” Deacon screamed. “You called the police!” He pointed
the gun at the woman in charge.
“Take the money and go,” she said softly. “The sheriff won’t pursue
you as long as you don’t hurt anyone. He’ll leave that to the state
and federal authorities.”
The siren drew closer.
The woman behind the desk leaned forward and put both hands flat on
its glossy top. She looked directly into Deacons eye and said, “We
knew you were coming. Surely you can tell that the Sheriff’s car is
approaching slowly. He doesn’t want to corner you inside the bank.”
Deacon’s face turned red and twisted into a mask of rage. The stubby
revolver shook, even as he steadied his aim with both hands. His
knuckles were white when he pulled the trigger.
Cully saw the barrel of the gun whip upward an instant before the
blast ripped through the lobby of the small bank. Two more shots
followed in rapid succession.
Stacy screamed. Cully closed his eyes and wished that he would wake
up and find that it had all been a bad dream. When he opened them,
he saw the terrible result of Deacon’s shooting spree.
One shot had gone high and splintered the Regulator clock that hung
above and behind the woman’s desk. Another went wide and shattered a
glass paperweight. The third, probably from chance rather than
skill, had found its mark. The bullet had struck the woman in the
throat. She was sprawled backward in her swivel chair with her hand
pressed over the wound, but a crimson spray shot through her fingers
with every beat of her racing heart.
Cully jumped when the gun fell out of Deacon’s hand and clattered
loudly on the marble floor. Stacy’s terrified screams merged into a
steady wail. She came around the counter and ran past Cully to where
the wounded woman had collapsed in a spreading puddle of blood. The
siren now howled at ear-splitting volume.
Deacon and Cully turned and ran. Shoulder to shoulder they burst
through the door and sprinted across the parking lot in the rain.
* * *
The two men sped past the last gas station on the edge of town. The
had seen the Sheriff’s car pull up to the bank, so they knew, for the
moment at least, that they had not been pursued. Deacon gripped the
steering wheel tightly, his face flushed from exertion.
Cully huddled against the passenger door, staring sightlessly ahead.
Tears streamed down his cheeks. “Oh my God!” he whimpered. “What did
we just do?”
“Shut up!” Deacon growled. “I’m trying to drive.” He turned on the
air conditioner as high as it would go and pointed the vents toward
his face.
“You hurt her real bad, Deke,” Cully said. “You said nobody was
gonna get hurt.”
Deacon tugged at the collar of his shirt and the top button flew off.
“She wouldn’t have got hurt if she hadn’t called the cops,” he said.
Cully looked up at his partner and saw that his face had turned an
ugly shade of red. “Geeze, Deke, you look like you’ve got a
sunburn,” he said.
The Pontiac swerved across the centerline as Deacon cranked down the
window. “I’m burning up! What the hell?
I . . .”
Cully stared in disbelief as the skin on Deacon’s hands and face
began to blister and turn brown. The acrid smell of burnt flesh
filled the air.
Screaming in agony Deacon turned loose of the steering wheel and
pawed wildly at his face. The car veered across the centerline and
sailed across the ditch. Cully grabbed the wheel and fought for
control, but Deacon had the gas pedal pushed to the floor.
The Pontiac’s tires squalled as it shot back across the highway and
flew over an embankment. The last thing Cully saw before being
tossed through the passenger window like a rag-doll was his partner
erupting in flame.
END OF CHAPTER 1
You can contact Dennis to make comments, suggestions, or perhaps a
little praise, at
Dennis_Bryant@wildblue.net
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louturn@aol.com