#04 – Arkansas

Short story inspired by a news story from Little Rock, Arkansas.

“Haven’t ya never hearda treatin’ yer kin with respect?” the old man yelled from his bed. Tilting to his left, he could see his two sons wrestling through the half-open door.

Each over 200 pounds and in his fifties, Kevin and Greg were out of breath just from arguing. Greg pushed his brother hard, but Kevin merely rocked back and forth, the huge key ring hanging from his belt jingling.  Kevin swung his arm up, cupped the back of Greg’s head, but Greg backed out of the hold.  The floor shook as each man tried to bring the other down.

Grunts and heavy breathing were interrupted by Kevin spitting out, “You fuckin’ sonafabitch,” and “I’m gonna kill you.”

Greg’s jeans crept down his waist, but he couldn’t stop fighting. The fabric didn’t allow his leg to reach high enough to knee Kevin’s crotch. The third time he tried, Kevin grabbed the belt, now in the middle of Greg’s leg, and pulled it until his brother slammed to the floor. It sounded like an explosion in the small ranch style house.

Startled, their father flinched and yelled out, “You boys need to stop it, now, ya hear? Ya gonna break a hole right through the goddamn floor.”

Greg looked up at the ceiling, his chest heaving as he gasped. Kevin coughed a few times as he ran down the narrow hallway toward the kitchen. A framed photograph of his father in uniform crashed to the floor as Kevin used the walls to steady himself. The broken glass crunched under his boots as he rushed back to the front room.

He told himself, “Okay, Kev, stop shaking. This is it. Stop shaking!”

Still on the floor, Greg picked up his head to look between his knees at Kevin. At first he wondered why Kevin’s hands were clasped in front of him like a cheerleader until Kevin’s left eye closed. Before the first shot was fired, Greg moaned as though he felt the pain already.

Kevin’s hand steadied as the first shot tore into Greg’s left shin. He had aimed at his chest, so when Greg curled in pain Kevin thought he had hit his target.

Their father said nothing while looking around his bedroom confused. He slid his behind down the bed so he could lie flat and still.  Closing his eyes, he shook his head, tears collecting at the seams of his eyes.

The sounds of two more shots and Greg’s wailing numbed the old man. Covering his eyes with his forearm, he let out a quiet, high-pitched whine as he remembered losing his buddy, Louie, during the Battle of Osan. They were the only company not ordered to retreat. Outnumbered, they were too scared to fight. After closing Louie’s eyes, he stayed bent over the body, praying into his deceased ear. Bullets whizzed just above their heads. Running as fast as he could away from the gunfire, he left his super bazooka and rifle near a pile of rocks in the sand, and Louie.

His left leg shot twice, Greg scrambled away from Kevin, who was blocking the front door. After a bullet broke the window behind him, Greg managed to pull himself up to the sill and roll over it onto the ground outside. Kevin’s last three shots tore into the wall.

While Greg limped away from the house, Kevin shoved the empty revolver in his waistband and walked out the back door, taking off in his truck.

A few hours later, when the police asked the old man what happened, he said he was in the 2nd Platoon, Company B and dropped his head as if ashamed.

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REAL NEWS STORY used as inspiration for the story above

Man shot, runs down street in LR
By Gavin Lesnick/ Arkansas Democrat Gazette
Friday, January 15, 2010