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“Rain fell on the roofs of the just and the unjust, the saints and the sinners, those who knew peace and those in torment, and tomorrow began at a dark hour.”
- Robert R McCammon, "Mine"
August 6th, 1982 was a day in Duxbury that no one liked to talk about. No one who is still around who remembers it anyway. It had been a hot one. Hot, humid, and most of all, wet. It had been that way all summer.
“Unnatural.” The old timers were wont to say.
By mid-summer rainfall all along the East coast had hit records not seen since the 20's. The nearby swamps and rivers had deepened. Dark, murky water encroaching onto lands normally dry. The Duxbury Bogs, and the North Hill Marsh Sanctuary in particular had been cause for concern.
By mid-July (Courtesy of the Bogs) Pilgrim's Highway had been flooded over. Blocking Mayflower Street all the way down passed East Street. Island Creek Pond, and the North Hill Sanctuary had joined forces. Turning the lands that divided them into one giant wilderness of muck, and water.
And by the end of July it looked like Cranberry Bog, and Pine Lake were on the verge of rising up high enough to join the other two. And submerge the whole damn area. It had been an ugly business already.
Homes in and around Pettibush Lane, Maple Pond Lane, and Evergreen Street had already been lost to flooding. And there had even been talk last weekend during the Duxbury Town Hall Council Meeting of the possible necessary evacuation of Tinker's Ledge Road if the rains kept up.
That had gotten people buggin'. Markus McDuff had leapt up, and shouted with the vigor of a man half his age. Declaring that “They'd have to drag his dead body” off his Apple Farm if they came to evacuate him.
There had been a grasshopper boom as well. Everyone said it was because of all the rain. The population thickened as one got further from the busier streets. Certain sections of the Whiton Woods were so thick with the little green insects that it was hard to describe in words.
One had to “see it, to believe it”. On some of the trails every step one took would literally be accompanied by a multitude of tiny springy sounds. As the brainless bugs leapt away from whatever giant passed them by.
They hadn't been the only insects to flourish in the unusually wet weather. The Cicadas had come out in force for the season as well. And they sang their summer songs with an unprecedented fervor. Every evening around dusk, they'd alight in the branches of the trees and chirp up at the brilliant shifting purple, and orange canvas in the sky.
In the trees all along Island Creek the insects seemed to be especially prevalent. There were certain sections of the creek where one would have to practically shout to be heard over the buzzing cacophony. It was, needless to say, not a good season for insectophobes.
Despite all the climate issues the “tourist” season (small as it was) did not seem to really suffer. Which had been quite a relief to the local business owners. And ever since August started it hadn't rained. As a result the general mood around town was brighter than usual.
But on this early afternoon, one resident's mood was especially chipper. Deputy Robert Maxwell was walking down Harrison street with a particular “pep” in his step. That was because he had just scored a dyno date with the town Betty!
A bodacious babe by the name of Mary Barbadino. She'd been the morning waitress at Alice's Restaurant for going on three years now. Bob had grown up in Duxbury, and had always liked Alice's. But it had become his pre-shift breakfast spot pretty much every day since he'd first laid eyes on Mary in that tight-fitting waitress uniform. Even on his days off.
He still couldn't believe his luck! Bob, at the ripe old age of thirty seven, was not exactly known for being a lady's man. He wasn't some hoser or anything. But he was no primo stud either.
And she'd approached him! He’d known that Mary had broken up with her boyfriend Marcus Greene four months prior. But he had never had the cajones to do anything about it.
The situation between Mary and Marcus was like a badly written movie. Marcus and his posse were the local tough guys. He and his crew always seemed to be getting into trouble. Be it a fight at the local bar, or a “domestic dispute” at one of their biker parties.
If it was true that in life everyone had a role to play. Then it was Marcus's destiny to be an asshole. That's not what had stopped him from making a move on Mary however. Bob was a Roller after all. He'd just been too chicken.
So this morning when Mary had come over with a cup of coffee in hand and slid into the empty seat across the table from him, he'd been struck speechless for a few seconds. The conversation had been quick, and direct. Mary talking, and Bob mostly nodding, and trying to keep his mouth from hanging open.
She'd wanted to know if he was interested in catching a movie after her shift. Bob would have watched the bunkest movie in the world with Mary. He'd quickly agreed, and the two had made plans to meet when she got off at five.
The Deputy made it to the corner, and took a right onto Washington Street. He was headed to Barry's Meats. The local butcher shop. Barry was legendary in the region for his kielbasa. And tonight after whatever movie they ended up seeing, he was going to surprise Mary with a better meal than Alice's had ever put on a plate!
He walked briskly. Passing Beaver Brook Lane, and making a mental note to stop at Snug Harbor Wine on his way back home. It was nearly 12:30, which gave him approximately four and a half hours to get dinner made, get dressed, and be back at Alice's.
He’d originally been scheduled to be on duty until six. And had agreed to meet Mary without giving it a second thought. After realizing his error, he'd been worried that the “boss man” wouldn't be accommodating to his sudden plans. But after he made it back to the Station, Sheriff Copper had been all to happy to give him the night off.
In truth Copper at first been as incredulous as Bob had initially been. But the Sheriff was a good (if not gruff) man. And with a hearty laugh had granted his request. Giving him a hard pat on the back, and leaving him with the wise words – “Happy hunting son!”, as he had walked out through the Station doors.
He swiftly passed by a group of children playing in Washington Park. Off in the distance a baseball game was going on. He vaguely remembered seeing a flyer earlier in the week stating that the Duxbury Dragons would be playing their first game of the season today.
Across the street loomed the Saint John's Evangelist Church. The ancient stone structure cast a long shadow across the street. Bob only gave it a cursory glance as he passed it by.
He was not a religious man. Though his Mother regularly attended. In truth the place had always kind of creeped him out.
He looked around. He didn't see the local Pastor, Father John anywhere. Which he ironically thanked God for. The short fat man was always lurking about somewhere in town. Always looking to “add to the flock” as he put it.
“Lurking.” No. That wasn't the right word for it. For all their brief encounters, and by all accounts Father John was a pleasant man. Known for his charity work, and volunteering at the local soup kitchen in fact. He felt like a dick for having the thought in the first place, and quickly pushed it out of his mind.
By the time he had crossed Freeman Place, and was walking alongside the monolithic structure of the Hudson Bank; His thoughts had once again returned to Mary, and what exactly he'd done to make this morning so different than all the countless others. He glanced to the left. Looking at his wavy reflection as he passed by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the massive building.
Well, he had started working out. In fact in the last two months he'd lost almost twenty pounds! A big part of that was the change up in his diet.
Egg whites and coffee for breakfast, instead of pancakes. Salad for lunch instead of a burger. Come to think of it. Hadn't Mary been the one to first suggest his change up in breakfast?
Or maybe it was his fresh new 'stache. At first he'd been hesitant to try and grow one. Stylized facial hair had never been his thing. But he quickly realized that it was totally choice. His mom said he looked like Tom Selleck...
Bob was enwrapped in these thoughts as he reached the corner. He wasn't looking in any particular direction. And only half heard the quick, panicked steps. Just before someone came sprinting around the other side of the building, and collided straight into him.
The Deputy was knocked off his feet. Landing hard on his back. He managed to keep his head from bouncing off the pavement. But for a few seconds he saw stars anyway.
“Bab!” He recognized Boston George's voice. He sat up, and attempted to bring the man into focus.
“Oh Babby thank Gad it's you!”
Bob began to slowly climb to his feet. But the skinny forty-something man was faster. He practically leapt up, and dashed over to the Deputy. Offering him a hand, and helping him to stand.
“We got a real situation here Babby!” The man was saying. His eyes darting around frantically. In that moment he looked like a rabbit that had just escaped a wolf.
Georgey McCabe, or “Boston George” as he was known by the locals, had gotten his name because of his heavy accent. And because well... He was from Boston. Which could be quite a big deal in some circles within such a small town.
He was a “born, and bread Irishmen of the Big City on a Hill”, as he was wont to say. Bob had never been, but he imagined that Georgey was a pretty accurate representation of the average Bostonian.
Boston George had moved to Duxbury from Beantown three years prior. He always seemed to have a lot of money. Though no one knew exactly what it was that he did.
He drove a candy apple red BMW M1. Almost always with the top down. Even in winter. Anywhere he went with it he drove like a man on his way to save the world.
Georgey had accumulated quite an impressive pile of tickets and citations since coming to Duxbury. But he always had the money to pay off his fines, and so had remained on the road.
“For now.” Sheriff Copper had said to Bob one night at the station.
Copper didn't like Boston George. Though Georgey seemed oblivious to the fact. He kept speeding. And the Duxbury Police Department kept profiting off his “stunt man” antics.
Bob had never ticketed Georgey personally however. He and the Irishmen had become some-time poker buddies shortly after his arrival. The Deputy liked to gamble once in a while. Georgey loved it. And the man had one hell of a poker face.
Over the last two years he'd taken far more of Bob's money than Bob had his. That was for sure. The man also liked to sometimes go out “day drinking” as he put it. And as he took in George's disheveled appearance, he began to suspect that was exactly what the man's afternoon activities had consisted of thus far.
The thinning hair on his head stuck out in tufts pointing in all directions. His Aloha shirt was only half tucked into his shorts. Bob realized that the man was also missing one of his flip-flops.
But there was a distinct panic in Georgey's eyes. A sort of wild terror that gave him pause. The man was talking he realized. Thickly accented words flowing out of his mouth a mile a minute. Though he had no idea what he'd been saying.
“Take a red Georgey!” Bob shouted, raising his hand in a silencing gesture as he did.
George fell quiet. For a few seconds all that could be heard was the chirping birds, and George's ragged breathing.
“What. Is the problem?” He didn't have time for this.
“There's-...” George gulped in a lungful of air. Trying to steady his voice. “There's some kind of manstah in the dampsta behind Bahn’s Maket. And I think it got Old Man Pete!”
“What?” Bob asked. Truly at a loss.
“Oh for Gad's sake Bab! I'm tellin' you that there's something in the damn dampsta behind Bahn's Maket! And I think it got Pete!” The man was quickly becoming hysterical.
“Okay. Okay.” Bob said. Raising his hand once again in a placating gesture. “So tell me what happened.”
“I was sittin' outside Lux Cafe. Out in one of the chairs on the patio. Just having a drink ya'know?”
At this Bob quirked an eyebrow. Georgey didn't seem to notice.
“Anyways, so I'm sittin' there out on the patio when I see Old Man Pete come out of his store, and go around to the back alley with a bag full of trash.”
Peter Barne's was the elderly owner of Barne's Market. The local Grocery Co-op. Pete was in his seventies, but had moved like a man half is age up until his wife Edna had passed last winter.
Since then Pete had developed a noticeable stoop in his stance. Now he walked with slow, pained movements. These days he seemed to look at the ground more than anything else.
In truth it pained the Deputy to see the old man slowly fall apart. Bob had known Pete since he'd been just a boy. He'd been known as “Old Man Pete” even back then. But in those days he’d sported a full head of gray hair.
“-So like after five minutes go by.” Boston George was saying. “I notice that Petey hasn't come back out from the alleyway yet. So I stat worrying that the poor old bugger's hurt himself or something ya'know? So I get up, and I go across the street to go check on him.”
Bob knew the area George was referring to well. It was called East Cove Plaza, and was consequently the only spot on Surplus Road that had any businesses on it. Four to be exact.
All located around one square block. Barnes Market, and the Red Herring Diner on one side of the street. East Bay Salon, and Lux Lounge on the other.
Up until a year, and a half ago there had only been three businesses. But Lux had opened up next to East Bay. It was this “new age” hippie cafe/bar. It was owned by this unbelievably sexy red-headed fox named Gretta Thompson.
She'd moved to Duxbury about two years ago. And after about six months had opened up shop. That was all he really knew about her. He'd never been in the bar. Though it had simultaneously become a hit with the younger locals, and an endless source of gossip for the elders.
“So what did you find when you went to go check on him?” Bob asked. Feeling a faint sense of apprehension as he did so.
“That's the thing Bab.” George said in a hushed tone. “There wasn't no one back there when I got up there. Just an empty alleyway with the dampstah in the back.”
“But I got this real weird feelin' Bab. This real weird feelin' that Old Man Pete was in that dampstah.” Georgey continued.
Bob already did not like where this was headed. Though admittedly he had absolutely no freaking idea where this was headed.
“So I get to like about ten feet away from the dampstah, and somethin's telling me. Somethin's telling me not to get any closer. So I call out Pete's name. Feeling a bit silly as I do, mind you.”
Bob smirked despite himself. Yes. Silly was one word for it.
“And just as I say his name there comes the sound of trash slammin' around. And I mean a loud sound! And the dampstah...” George trailed off as he gave a shudder. “The dampstah Bab... It jerked towards me!”
Bob raised an eyebrow.
“The dumpster jerked towards you?” The words just didn't sound right.
“Yeah Bab. And I mean like three *freakin*' feet!”
“So what did you do?”
At this George looked incredulous.
“What did I do?! I fackin' ran for my damn life! That's what I did Bab!”
“Okay. Okay.” Bob said. Raising his hands once again. “Let's go.”
“Go where?”
“Back to Barnes Market.”
“Back?”
“Yes.” He said. Pinching his nose. “Back to the Market.”
“But-.”
“Common Georgey.” Bob cut him off, and started walking...
Five minutes later they were moving down Surplus Road. Almost halfway to their destination. Up ahead loomed the wooden bridge that went over Bluefish River. The raging waters echoing off the surrounding trees that bordered the street on both sides.
Bob had kept up a brisk pace. Partly because he was worried for Old Man Pete. And partly because of his rapidly shrinking timetable. George to his credit, had kept up.
“Are you sure you don't want to call for backup Babby?” He half shouted over the thundering river, just as their feet met weather worn wood.
Bob glanced down at the rushing waters of the Bluefish as they clunked along. The river was normally more than a dozen feet below the bridge. On this day however was half that. If it got any higher, the city would have to close off the bridge.
“Not quite yet George.” He shouted back. “I think I'd like to check things out for myself before I go and do that.”
After another moment they were across the river and back on asphalt. With each step the thundering of the Bluefish faded.
Bob looked up at the looming trees on either side of them. The White Pines had grown more full, and lush than ever before. Bob gazed off into the shadows of the surrounding forest.
There was pretty much nothing for about the next quarter mile. Nothing but trees, and encroaching swamp water that is. Pretty much everything West of Tremont Street was flooded.
But thankfully the four businesses that made up East Cove Plaza had thus far been spared from the weather. Being located about a half mile East of Tremont, on the corner where Reynolds Way crossed Surplus.
As they walked, Bob reflected on the dumpster in question. It was a fifteen yarder if he recalled correctly. Situated between Barne's Market, and the Red Herring for the convenience of both businesses. With all the flooding it really wouldn't be too outlandish if a bear, or some other critter had made it's way down and jumped in looking for food.
They came to a flooded part in the road just as they hit the intersection of South Station Street. The water stretching all the way to the woods on both the right, and left. They wordlessly walked to the right.
Entering the edge of the woods, they used the rocks, and roots to keep their feet as dry as possible, as they made their way. The water stretched on down the street for a good twenty feet before relinquishing it's hold on the road.
Soon the surrounding forest gave way once again to a suburban sprawl. Up ahead in the distance stood East Cove Plaza. He felt an inexplicable twinge of apprehension at the sight of the buildings. And for about a second, he really did want to call for back up.
But what would he tell dispatch? Boston George thinks that there's a monster in the dumpster behind Barne's Market? Yeah. That would go over well.
After another moment of walking they had reached the front entrance of Barne's. The “now open” sign still hung in the window. Bob opened the door, and stepped inside. They were greeted by the refreshing coolness of the air-conditioned store.
“Mister Barnes?” Bob called out.
No answer. Save for the soft hum of the air-conditioning unit. Bob walked deeper into the store. Swiveling his head this way, and that, as he continued moving down one of the aisles.
“Pete?”
Again no answer. This wasn't good. Something was up.
“I'm tellin' ya he's not in here Babby.” Boston George said in a hushed tone from behind.
“Officer Maxwell?” Came a voice from the back of the store.
Both men turned to see Pete's nephew Doug Jenkins emerge from the back storage room. Doug was in his forties. He seemed to possess an endless supply of plaid shirts, and blue jeans that he wore no matter how high the temperature was. A nice guy. Though a bit slow.
“Hey Doug.” Bob said, with a wave. “I was just looking for Pete. Have you seen him?”
At this Doug shook his head.
“I was supposed to meet him here. We're going down to the dinner at Saint John's tonight. But I can't find him Bob.”
That last part carried with it a tone of worry.
“Don't worry Duggy.” Bob managed a smile. “We'll find him. I'm going to take a look around outside. Why don't you stay here in case he shows back up?”
Duggy nodded.
“Okay.” He said.
“Cool beans. Alright, me and Georgey here are gonna take a look around back. We'll meet you back here in ten minutes if we don't find him.”
And with that George, and Bob turned and walked back out. The sticky summer heat practically slammed into them as they stepped through the doorway. Together they walked in silence to the entrance of the alleyway.
They rounded the corner, and just stood there for a moment. The area was empty, save for the hulking form of the dumpster that stood in the back. It was a big, ugly thing. Standing about six feet high. And yeah. It was a fifteen yarder.
“There's no way Pete fell in there.” Bob thought to himself as he scrutinized the hunk of metal.
There was something off about it though. But he couldn't quite put his finger on what. At first glance it appeared the same as it always had.
It was just as rusty, and weather worn as ever. Still the same dirty green color, with the words "Patterson Waste Disposal" written in big white letters on it's beat up exterior. He was pretty sure that Boston George was right though. The Dumpster seemed like it was farther from the back wall than normal.
Maybe George had been partially correct. Perhaps some bear or something had wondered down and climbed in looking for food. Again considering the flooding it wasn't outside of the realm of possibility. After all the wildlife was known to wander into town from time, to time.
Bob moved cautiously forward and then stopped when he was about fifteen feet away. Some vague, primal instinct warning him not to get any closer.
He stood there in silence for a moment. Listening for any sign of movement from within the rusty metal structure. Nothing. Not a sound. He straightened, and let out a sigh. Jesus. He was being ridiculous.
Boston George was just buzzed. Pete Barnes had just gone out on some sudden errand, and forgotten to lock up. Yeah, that was it. He started to turn back to George when he noticed the shoe.
It was just lying there about three feet in front of the dumpster. It was black. That was about all he could tell from this distance.
But he knew. He just knew that it was a black Penny Loafer. And there was only one guy around here who sported those kind of kicks.
“Mister Barnes?” Bob called out toward the dumpster. Knowing full well how ridiculous he would look to his peers in that moment. He received no reply.
He took a few more cautious steps forward. Calling out again. Once again being answered with silence.
God what if he had fallen in?! As impossible as it seemed. What if Barnes had fallen in, and was lying broken and bleeding, right now, as he stood there like an idiot?!
“What's goin' on fellas?”
A voice suddenly asked from behind, causing both men to jump. Bob turned around only to see Christie Villarmarin's Pug like face. Christie was the “owner” of East Bay Salon.
What that really meant was that her husband, District Circuit Court Judge Troy Villarmarin; Had bought his incredibly unpleasant wife a business. So as to keep her out of his hair. And quite literally in someone else's.
“Everything alright Officer Maxwell?” She asked innocently.
Bob didn't really dislike people as a rule of thumb. It was not in his nature. But *God Damn* if Christie just didn't naturally piss him off.
She was one of the town gossip “ring leader's”. As his mother always put it. Christie had an affinity for other people's business. Her Salon only amplified her powers. Bob noticed a few of Christie's customers/cronies had gathered on the sidewalk in front of the Salon, and were watching their conversation with rapt attention.
And God Dammit if he didn't have time for this! It was going on 1:15 and he hadn't even made it down to Barry's yet! Christie was a shark, circling a piece of meat on a hook. But he wasn't going to give her one bite.
“Yes ma’am.” Bob said. Beaming. “We're just looking for Old Ma- Mister Barnes. I think he may have stepped out and forgotten to lock up.”
“Oh.” Was all Christie said. Mirroring the Deputy's smile right back at him.
For a moment the two just stood there, beaming their smiles at one another. Boston George looked back and forth between the two of them. Lifting an eyebrow in confusion at their “smile duel”.
“Why good afternoon everyone!”
The three turned to see Father John, standing with Sheriff Copper and Deputy David Quimby. The Priest was dressed in his usual black underwrap. He was carrying a cake with pink frosting in a big tupperware. The short, balding , round man wore his usual warm toothy grin.
“Bobby!” The Sheriff said in greeting, and began walking up.
“Great.” Bob thought.
Copper nodded at Christie.
“Ma’am.”
“Sheriff.” Christie smiled. This time the expression was genuine though.
Copper reached Bob and gave him a clap on the back.
“Don't tell me you got stood up?!” He said. Letting out a great bellowing laugh as he did.
“No Sheriff I-.”
“I'm just teasin' you Bobby.” Copper cut him off. “Ol' Duggy told me about Mister Barnes.”
Bob noticed Doug poking his head around the corner.
“I told the Sheriff you was looking for Pete.” He said.
“Thanks Doug.” Bob replied.
“Me and the boys here were just on our way down to get ready for the Church Cookout tonight.” Copper said with a grin.
He turned to face the others.
“Now this right here is a shining example of an outstanding Officer of the Law. Even off duty, right before a big date no less, we find Bobby here still ensuring the safety of our citizens.” He laughed once again. His big belly bouncing up, and down.
“A date?” Christie quirked an eyebrow at this.
“Shit.” Bob thought.
“Yes Deputy Maxwell.” Father John cut. Smiling up at Bob, who stood a full head taller than the man.
“You truly are a good man, aren't you? You know you are always welcome in God's house my son. Perhaps tonight you, and you're lady friend might stop by, and partake in the festivities?”
“Th- Thank you Father. We just might do that.” Bob lied.
“Tell ya' what Bobby.” Copper said. “Why don't you go run along, and let me handle finding Mister Barnes?”
Bob let out a sigh of relief.
“Thanks Sheriff. I owe you one.”
The Sheriff waved this off with a grin.
“Don't mention it Bobby. But before you go, do you have any leads?”
“Leads?” Bob asked, not understanding.
Copper laughed.
“Yeah ya'know?! Like any idea where Barnes might have got off to?”
Just then there came a brief, faint echo of shifting trash from within the big green dumpster behind them. Everyone turned.
“I don't know. But I noticed a shoe that looks like one of his beside the dumpster.”
“Um. So did you take a look?” Quimby asked.
Deputy David Quimby could have passed for Larry Wilcox's twin. He acted like it to. The all American high school football hero, turned cop. Every day on the job you'd think that Quimby was acting out an episode of Chip's Patrol.
The man was wearing his pump-action Mossberg 590 strapped to his back. Though of course he didn't need it. The Deputy almost always had the weapon on him. He thought in made him look tough. And in truth it really did help him get laid.
“I actually just got here a minute before you did.” He answered. “I was about to look. But George said that he thought there was some kind of animal in the dumpster. So I was... Assessing the situation before approaching.”
“Hah!” Quimby exclaimed in a clearly fake laugh. Slapping a hand across one knee. “Ya'll are scared of a racoon in a dumpster?!”
“It ain't no racoon Officer Quimby.” Boston George replied in a foreboding tone.
Christie Ackerman huffed.
Bob just ground his teeth. Partly because he couldn't think of an adequate retort. But mostly because the answer might very well be “yes”.
That's when Bob realized how quiet in had gotten. The near constant chirping of chickadees was suddenly absent. He tried to remember if he'd heard any birds when he'd first gotten to the neighborhood.
“Don't none of ya'll worry you're pretty little head's off.” Sheriff Copper said as he began walking down the alleyway. “The Sheriff's on the jo– Oh what in the Hell?”
The Sheriff looked over the other's shoulders. Bob turned. The small group of onlookers from the salon had been joined by a few curious younger folks from the cafe. They were now gathered in the middle of the road watching them.
“Alright!” The Sheriff shouted toward the street. “There ain't nothin' to see here people! We're just havin' a conversation, and ya'll are wastin' your time if you're hoping for some action.”
“And since ya'll are grown up's I don't think that I have to lecture you on how dangerous it is to be standing in the middle of the road. Now I suggest that ya'll git!”
A couple people shuffled their feet. But no one really moved. The Sheriff huffed, and turned back around to face the dumpster.
“Fine.” He said. And began walking.
“Sheriff.” Father John said. And Copper paused. “I'd be careful. The woods, and swamps are not far away. And there's no telling what may have crawled out of the bogs this time of year.”
The Sheriff smiled.
“Awe Father, you're concern for my well being is truly touching. But I'm a big strong man, and think I can handle some little woodland critter.” He winked, and continued moving forward.
Copper walked up to the dumpster while the others watched with trepidation. Everyone except Quimby. He was standing there with his hands on his hips. Smiling ear to ear. No doubt thinking about how he was going to tell everyone at the Station about Bob's newfound dumpster phobia.
The Sheriff made it to within a foot of the dumpster and looked in. Nothing happened. He turned around to face the others. A big shit-eating "I'm better than you grin" plastered on his face.
"Ya'see fellas." he said. "There ain't nothing to be afraid of."
"Are ya' sure sheriff?" Boston George asked hesitantly.
Copper shrugged, and turned back around. Stepping up to the lip of the dumpster, he stood on his tip-toes to get a better look.
"Whatever animal it was prob-." The Sheriff's words caught in his throat and his body froze up like a dear in headlights.
"Jesus, Mary, and Jose-!" Copper's words were cut short as the two hundred and thirty pound man was violently ripped off his feet. Simultaneously there came a small explosion of trash. Garbage whizzed by, and Copper's uniform billowed as if caught in a strong gust of wind.
The big man went up, and over the edge. Disappearing in a blur. He didn't even have time to scream. Everyone instinctively back-pedaled.
The group of onlookers that had gathered in the street quickly herded themselves back across to the sidewalk on the other side of the road. The smaller group that had been near the dumpster practically leapt backward to the lip of the alleyway.
Deputy Quimby shouted in surprise. Christie screamed, and Bob joined her. To the passerby it might have sounded like the two were having a "damsel in distress " screaming contest. If they had been Deputy Maxwell, to his credit, would have won.
"Oh my Gaaad! Oh my Gaaad!" Boston George was shrieking over, and over as he back-pedaled into the street. His hysterics were abruptly cut short as he was suddenly struck by Henry McDuff's truck.
Marcus's son hadn't even noticed Boston George until the man was rolling up onto his hood. The farmer panicked as George smashed into his windshield. Simultaneously jerking the wheel hard to the left, while slamming on the breaks.
A split second later the rusty, red pickup smashed into a car parked in front of East Bay Salon. George went rolling off and over the hood of the other vehicle. Falling over the other side, and disappearing from McDuff's view almost as quickly as he'd appeared.
The open bed of the truck had been literally overflowing with freshly harvested apples. Upon impact, the fruit erupted out of the bed like a volcano. Creating a small apple tsunami that rolled across the street.
The screeching of tires forced Bob's horrified gaze from the the spot where Sheriff Copper had recently occupied, to the street behind him. But only for a moment. Once he realized that it was just a car accident he quickly snapped his gaze back down the alleyway. Pulling out his service revolver as he did so. Carnivorous dumpsters taking precedence over car accidents.
For a moment everybody just stood there in silence. Then there came a great rumble from within the Dumpster that to Bob, sounded like a giant burping. At the same time several pieces of trash shot up high into the air.
The crowd took another collective step backward as the assorted debris came raining down. Clattering, and clanking to the ground between themselves and the alleyway. Glass shattered. Empty metal cans went bouncing across the pavement.
The smaller group at the edge of the alley raised their hands over their heads protectively as garbage came falling to the ground all around them. A big aluminum can bounced off Bob's shoulder. It didn't really hurt, but it did make him jump.
The last thing to land was the Sheriff's hat. The brim had a jagged tear that looked like a shark had taken a bite out of it. The sight of the hat was apparently Quimby's breaking point.
For a second later the man let out a howl that was one part terror, and one part war cry. He raised the Pump Action (which Bob only now realized the Deputy had unslung from his back) and the weapon “BOOMED!” deafeningly. It happened so fast that Bob hadn't even had time to shout at him to stop, or he could hit the Sheriff.
The buckshot struck the side of the Dumpster. Sending out a shower of sparks. But as far as Bob could tell it failed to penetrate the thick metal.
Quimby continued moving forward. Pumping his shotgun and firing over, and over. Howling like a madman all the while.
**AUTHOR'S NOTE*\*
Hi! To anyone who might be familiar with my writing style, you'll already know that I don't know how to write a "proper" short story. It's a character flaw.;)
Anyway if you made it this far and would like to read the rest. I'm going to have the remainder posted in the comments section below. Labelled as (PT A, B, C, ect) Anyway. hope you enjoy the rest!