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Once he began sawing the barrel off his pump-action 20 gauge, Cody was committed. With a final stroke, the barrel clattered onto the kitchen floor. He hacked off the wooden stock as well, leaving only a fist-sized nub for a grip.
He considered extracting the sportsman’s plug that limited the number of cartridges he could load to three, but shook his head and reached for his coffee mug. His plan was to scare them with noise, like a roaring silverback gorilla, not to kill anybody. Anyway, the last time he’d fussed with the hunter’s dowel, the spring inside the chamber had shot out like a cheap snake-in-a-can gag and he’d spent an hour hunting for it. He winced at the coffee he’d made from re-using grounds a third time and regretted not stealing the Folger’s from the breakroom at Lowe’s on his way out. He hadn’t worked in seven days. He hadn’t requested leave or called in sick. He just came home one night with wobbly ankles screaming from another eight-hour shift walking the concrete floors, took four ibuprofen, and knew he was done. Everybody who worked there walked with a limp, some near the end of their shifts, some all the time. He swept a stack of bills he couldn’t pay off the counter, sending them tumbling to the floor. If laboring forty hours a week couldn’t buy a man food and shelter, it was time to try something new. He hazarded another sip of coffee before dumping it. The mug featured a picture of him and Dana taken at Rye Beach two summers ago. He wasn’t sure why he’d kept it, but he rinsed it out and carefully laid it in the drying rack before leaving. He wore a surgical mask and black hoodie under a long coat to hide the gun. He left his Civic in the Target parking lot and walked to the adjacent Lowe’s. He used the side entrance through the garden center, scattering sparrows and gold finches trapped inside. The cavernous store was always filled with birds, more so after cold snaps like today. He penetrated the swinging doors into the main building and headed for the contractor cash register. Nobody was there. Panicked, he adjusted his mask and doubled his pace toward the returns desk. “That you, Cody?” He turned and saw Jim grinning at him. Jim was a retired contractor who’d lost too many fingers to a bandsaw and come to run Lowes’ lumberyard. “Where you been, man?” Jim slapped him on the back, jostling him enough to expose the shotgun for a moment. Jim stepped back with his palms out. “Whoa, son…” Cody found himself encircled by rough-looking customers in Carhartts and boots. “Back! Up! Now!” he boomed, racking the shotgun with a menacing schlotch! He spun toward a sudden movement and pumped it again. This time, he caught a flash of yellow and figured he’d spooked a bird. The sound of the shotgun pumping did its job and the ring of men took a collective step back. Beyond them, Cody saw a supervisor glance over his shoulder as he fled, a phone already to his ear. Someone moved to his left, and Cody turned in time to catch a man gingerly lifting a 2x4 from his cart. “Nope,” Cody scolded and pumped the 20 once more. The man backed away as another bird swooped by in Cody’s peripheral vision. “Cody, stop this,” Jim said, holding out his three-fingered hand for the gun. With a sneer, Cody pointed his shotgun at the rafters and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He stared at it for the second it took Jim to strip it from his hands. He snatched for it, but Jim had already wound up and the little nub of a stock spun him around when it slammed into Cody’s temple. Lying prone as men leapt on his back, Cody looked toward the contractor register where Jeanine was hustling back, apparently from a bathroom break as she rubbed wet hands on her apron. Between him and the register lay a line of three yellow shotgun shells. The Man hadn’t had to do anything to take him down; Cody had emptied his gun for them, just like he’d done in every fight before. © 2025 Zakariah Johnson About the author: Zakariah Johnson plucks banjos and pens horror, thrillers, and crime fiction on the banks of the Piscataqua.
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Tyree told everyone the “boat” was the best thing he ever bought himself. He said it to friends, family, and customers at the auto shop. He said it often to his parole officer, and she was glad to hear it because a man his age needed hobbies.
Whenever he had a spare moment on a warm day, Tyree drove down to the Robin River Marina and pulled that heavy kayak off his truck. He’d slip into the water next to the rusted old johnboats tied at the docks and start paddling up against the current. He liked Robin River more than any other water in the state because it was still wilderness along the western bank. The eastern bank was mostly bluffs, with vacation cabins or mansions sitting up on the hills, their big living room windows facing the river. There were some docks along the eastern shore where rich people parked their yachts under security floodlights. But the western side was flat and marshy. After a good rain, Tyree could navigate his way in there, chasing carp or catfish, maybe a gar if he was lucky. But Tyree didn’t always go out fishing. Often as not, he left his rod and tackle in the truck and went out with just a big, black trash bag. He’d spend hours collecting litter out of the western marshes, trying to do some good in the world. One evening in late July, Tyree was out paddling through the marshes, between sunken tree stumps and fallen timbers, pulling litter from the water, packing it in his bag. He lost all track of time out there, until eventually he happened to spot an orphaned black bag, similar to his own, leaning against a stump. He encountered bags like this frequently, stuffed with trash, probably carried and lost by other do-gooders cleaning up the river. He paddled over to the bag and reached out, clasping the red ribbon tied around its top. The bag rolled over and the body that was hidden beneath it floated to the surface. Tyree sat stunned while the bag floated on, deeper into the marsh. It looked to be a man’s body, shirtless but still wearing jeans, floating facedown. The skin was mottled and bloated and hung loosely. Must be recently dead, thought Tyree. It was hot, and he should’ve decomposed more if he was dead a long while. Worst of all, the man had little slits in his flesh all up and down his back, all of them the same size. Tyree didn’t try to count them. His first instinct was to paddle as fast as he could back to the marina, grab his phone out of the truck and call the police. But something nagged at him, made him pause. Something the public defender said all those years back, right before he took the plea deal. No, he wasn’t the one who shot the attendant at that check cashing place—that was one of the other guys in his crew. But Tyree got caught. That was the difference, the lawyer said. Prosecutors don’t want the right answer; they want the quick answer. An old ex-con, out paddling at dusk, next to a body stabbed all to hell—what’s a prosecutor gonna think is the quick answer here? Didn’t even matter if it all came out right in the end—he’d still probably get arrested, and the shop wouldn’t keep him on after that. No, he wouldn’t call the police himself. But he also couldn’t let the guy float there. Nobody ever came to that side of the river. If the poor guy was ever gonna get some justice, someone needed to find him on the eastern bank. Tyree pulled off his life vest and strapped it onto the corpse. It was slow going out in the middle of the river, towing the deceased with a braided dock line. The vest kept the body from sinking and dragging too much, but it didn’t make the dead man any lighter. Tyree’s only bit of luck was that he was headed downstream and could let the current help him tow the body. Tyree tried to reassure himself as he hauled his morbid cargo. Someone was bound to find the corpse on the eastern bank, probably the very next morning. Once he pulled that vest off, no one would have any reason to think Tyree was anywhere near the body. Only he would know, and he would know that he’d done the right thing, saving a murdered man from anonymity. After a long, tough paddle, Tyree reached the eastern bank, beneath one of the big houses on the bluffs. He slid his kayak against the mud until it came to a firm stop, turned and watched the body bumped gently against the shore. All Tyree needed was to collect the vest and he’d be gone. He climbed from the kayak, boots squelching in the mud, and hadn’t even stood fully erect when the floodlights flashed on. The white lights were aimed right at the riverbank—right at him—from the big house, where lamps flared on and voices shouted to one another. It was bright as noon and only now could Tyree see he’d landed close to a private dock with a small river yacht—the sort of thing rich people protect with motion sensors and floodlights. Sirens, too, apparently. Lots of sirens blaring out over the water. © 2025 Jesse Bethea About the author: Jesse Bethea is an award-winning journalist, author and videographer living in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and three cats. |
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