FASCAM - Short Story Compilation

Touch

"The farm is over two-hundred thousand acres, right in the center of Nebraska. It's over fifteen miles wide and over twenty miles deep," The little man in the suit who went by the name of Mister Smith told Lewis. Lewis sighed, he'd paid attention to the briefing by the massive agricorp.

Just doing it on American soil made him feel dirty.

"Apparently the state won't grant us immanent domain because she's got veteran status," Mr. Smith complained. "It's been in their family since the 1800's," he snorted. "I hear its even got a graveyard out back."

Lewis felt even more dirty for what he was about to do.

He pulled up the farm gate, using the heavy brush guard on the civilian Hummer2 to push it open without bothering to unlock it. The hinges screeched and the gate fell forward in a plume of summer dust.

"Repairing that gate will cost money," Mister Smith said.

Always with the bean counting.

The road was long, nearly a mile, and the Hummer2 that Lewis was driving, as well as the four following him, all painted black like his, kicked up a lot of dust. One either side fresh green growing corn went by.

Finally the corn opened up into a short field, where Lewis could see cows grazing, and then to a packed dirt parking area in front of an old two story house. It looked old, like something you'd see out of Civil War pictures. Lewis automatically counted three battered pickup trucks and four cars of various make and models, the oldest being a 1960's Ford Mustang muscle car practically dripping in chrome.

Lewis pulled up in front, the other vehicles peeling off so it was two on a side, each slightly back from the other. As Lewis shut off the Hummer2 and got out he saw men stand up in the roof hatches, attaching light machineguns to the pintle mounts.

Lewis hoped the obvious firepower would convince the woman to sign.

Mister Smith got out, dusting off his suit, and started to walk forward.

The front door opened inward, then the screen door banged open to allow a woman in a flower print dress to walk onto the covered porch. She held a shotgun loosely in her hands as she stopped on the porch.

"That's far enough," She called out. "Ya'll get the hell offa muh prah-purtee!"

"I think not, Missus Taggart," Mr. Smith called out.

Lewis frowned. Taggart. Why did that twinge an old memory?

"Ah tol' ya before, I ain't sellin'!" She called out.

"Missus Taggart, look around. Nobody can show up to help you in time. You can do this the easy way..." Mister Smith let the threat hang in the hot Nebraska summer air.

Lewis was still trying to remember where he had heard that name, still trying to figure out why alarm bells were ringing in his head, when the screen door opened and more people came out.

The first one sparked all kind of memories for Lewis. All bad ones. From that eye patch to the heavy brace on his left leg to the scarred up left side of his face. That thump drag thump of his left leg made Lewis's skin prickle up in goosebumps despite the heat.

Then a Texan, right down to cowboy hat, big belt buckle, and cowboy boots. Followed by a lanky short guy with a scar under his left eye. Another short guy with a limp who exuded malevolence even at a twenty yard distance. Two massive women, one taller than the other, but both in wife-beater T-shirts that showed off just how big their biceps were. A tall Hispanic woman with a scar on the side of her face from jaw to hairline. Lastly, two smaller women, both petite, one blonde one redhead.