Curfew

Chapter Two: Freshmeat

When the Holiday's mother- Maureen, was still alive, and Jay was hardly six, he used to wonder why his mother would let their Border Collie inside their home when their father would have Curfew shift, on-the-job hours that took up eight at night to six in the morning.

He remembers hearing the scratchy claws of Trooper, the old collie, clacking over the floors in the night hours. He'd ask Maureen why she'd let him in, the mutt had fleas and he didn't smell the best- and his mother would tell him because she felt better, more protected with Trooper and his left blind eye in the home, watching over her daughter and son when she and their father could not.

The old collie was still alive; he slept underneath the porch every night and Jay would sneak him slivers of left-overs even when Marty would complain and sputter about how Trooper was growing too fat. This was his safety blanket. He had grown up knowing that if anything threatened the old mobile home, the collie would explode into a bark loud enough to shake his atrophying bones.

This is what Jay heard in his ears.

Trooper was a siren in the back of his mind as he heard the words of Cadmus curl around him, wrap around his throat and keep him deathly quiet as he felt his sister's trembling hands wrap around his own.

His hazel eyes were agape as Marty's were screwed shut, both of them waiting for another word- for something else than the deafening silence that followed the words of the man.

The truck was creaking, metal bending from the the top of the truck. Jay didn't know how much longer the Ford could go without collapsing, he didn't think that about that though, as he listened to the low hums of the man's breathing.

"I know you're in there," his voice was whiskey-deep. If a gun shot could be turned into a man's voice, Cadmus had clearly mastered the concept. It sent thrills of goosebumps up the back of Jay's spine- the same way Marty's police-issued Glock firing would.

His sister shook her head, her eyes didn't fly open like he had expected- instead they flinched from beneath her lids, an implosion of what-should-I-do, what-should-I-do became a constant loop beneath her eyelids.

Jay wanted to scream, he wanted to wrestle himself out of his seatbelt's binds and push his sister behind him as he would heave his chest and miraclously save the day with an old piece of metal swinging in his hand. But he knew this wouldn't work. One, he'd fall- face first- from his upside down suspension. Two, his hand and eye coordination never lined up with his long, willowy limbs- meaning the chances of him actually swinging a piece of anything and actually hitting something that was himself was infinitely minuscule. Finally, if Marty saw Jay taking a bullet for her, she'd push him to the nearest shield-from-danger and gladly take any casualities.

So, his mind was trapped into a frantic thought caught between 'what the hell should I do' and 'what the hell can I realistically do'?

He didn't have to think too long, though. Soon, the sound of metal peeling from where the truck's passenger door had been was echoing into a long, low whine in the hot Louisana air.

Now his mind was frantic. It was at the very pendulum of fear as he saw two hands, not covered in blood like his mind was satirizing it into.

They were clean hands, with ten, long tan fingers and a gold band that looked like a family crest on the man's right middle digit.

But were they really clean? Blood might not stain forever, but if Jay looked closely, would he find whispers of swollen knuckles from punching too hard and scars from slipped knives that had slit the man's palms before he dove it into a man's chest?!