Scene 2 -- One Day by the River

A moment or two later there was another report which, this time, was preceded by a thud in the dirt just before the truck, an instantly formed, small cloud of dust, and a rattling crack followed by a downward, high-pressure stream of brake fluid that began forming a dark, oily spot on the ground below the truck’s frame. Zach watched it grow in dismay, then duck-walked backwards, away from his protective rear wheel and the truck he must now abandon. 

Still crouching, he retreated inelegantly until far enough down the side that he felt safe enough to stand and turn and walk down the rest of the way. He headed south through a field of neat rows of soy bean toward a small faraway cluster of white buildings. He would skirt around those and head for the nearby town of Sibley another mile or so beyond it, he knew. With no brakes, the truck was no help now, but at least the Missouri Highway 291 bridge was 20 miles up river, giving Zach at least a little time before the shooter could get over here, if that was his intention. 

As high noon approached, the day proved to be a hot one, and the sun beat down unimpeded by a clear, stark blue sky.  Zach was glad when he happened across a gravel county road lined on one side with hedge trees. He walked along the shady side and was starting to feel pretty good when he heard high-pitched barking just beyond a curve in the gravel roadway. 

Zach slowed and was able to peer just past the trees. He saw a small, short haired yellow dog confronting a mangy coyote. The coyote was circling the dog, keeping it's eyes on it as he did so. The dog barked sporadically as it spun, ever wary and keeping himself pointed at the lanky predator.  As Zach watched, the coyote grew bolder and was running in close to the dog before backing away, still circling. 

Well that's somebody's pet, Zach thought, and he assigned the role of bad-guy to the coyote and bent over and picked up a big rock. He walked quickly three or four long strides toward the two animals and threw the rock at the coyote as hard as he could. It struck the ground at the coyote's feet and bounced up and hit his midsection. Unhurt, the coyote abruptly turned and eyed Zach and then scurried off into the brush in the treeline. The little yellow dog barked at the retreating figure and then turned and watched Zach as he approached. His tail wagged.

"Well, who are you?" Zach asked. He bent down and patted the dogs head.  From the leather collar around his neck a small metal tag dangled. Zach leaned down and in closer to read it. It was just a series of numbers. It read: 18436572.

Zach smiled. That was the spark plug firing order for Chevrolet's small V8 engines manufactured from 1954 to 2003, referred to affectionately by its fans as the "small-block engine." 

"Is your name Small Block?" 

Small Block's tail wagged enthusiastically and a short, polite bark escaped his panting smile. 

"C'mon, Small Block. You wanna go to town?" Zach started walking and Small Block followed, only once turning to check if the coyote was still gone.  It was. 

Scene 1: One Day by the River

The pharmacologically induced epiphany Zach Hays hoped for never materialized. Instead, he woke up sharply conscious, lying diagonally across the bed of his old '52 Dodge pickup. Overhead, the sky was a hazy, metallic blue, the sun a hot spotlight. Sweat ran down the sides of  Zach's face, and his T-shirt and blue jeans were soaked.

Some of it was spilled beer. Empty cans were scattered around Zach. A pool of warm beer was just beneath the small of his back, as a matter of fact. A light breeze brought momentary relief from the noon sun as boughs of locust trees moved gracefully with a soft sigh. Zach remembered he had parked his truck on the levee near Sibley last night. He knew without looking that to his left the Missouri River oozed slowly eastward between tree-choked banks a quarter mile apart. He sat up and his head hurt.

Before he woke he was dreaming about the dead child again. And the river--wider than his own Missouri River: slower, wilder. A dream River. There the sun was also hot, and a steamy mist rose from the slow water. The toes of Zach's boots touched the water. The child lay on its back, no longer floating except for one arm that dangled slightly away from its torso, moving ever so slightly with the tiny, lapping waves. There was gunfire. One, two shots.

Now, no longer asleep and dreaming, Zach heard a third sound. It was a sharp metallic click. A "tink," that however brief, Zach knew to be the sound of a bullet piercing sheet metal. A second later the little sound was followed by the distant, muffled crack of a gunshot. Zach rolled on the truck bed, righting himself before he vaulted over the side rail facing the river. He saw the fresh bullet hole through the lower corner of the driver's door, cursed under his breath, and ran around the truck to the other side, opposite the shooter.

"What the fuck," he said out loud.

He crouched by the rear wheel and took a moment to gather his thoughts.