The compass stopped its frenzied pulsing and began to bleed from its seams. Will stopped the car. Originally a pristine pearl white, the Buick was now a beaten up and weary warhorse that was always eager for rest.
He was here. Wherever here was.
A field of golden wheat stretched from the highway. A man, shadowed against the deepening reds of dusk, was finishing his work. Will tensed. This must be Chainer. The compass always led to Chainer. He entered the field. The air was heavy with dust.
Chainer looked up. “Lo, stranger. Help you with sumthin?” Always that same stupid look. Always that same twisted sneer.
“Yeah,” Will said. “I’m here for stories.”
“Stories? Heh! You in the wrong place.”
“I’m always in the wrong place. But you’re the right guy. You’re gonna tell the right stories.”
“What stories you think I know?”
“Tell me about rape and murder.”
Chainer’s face straightened. “Look, I don’t know what you think this is . . .”
“We both know what this is. It ain’t just wheat you’ve been sowing, farmer. I’m gonna kill you, there ain’t no getting around that. So now you can either tell me the story before you die or you can keep pretending that we ain’t speaking the same language.”
Will had been giving this deal for a while now. Most of the time Chainer would keep trying to pretend amnesia. Sometimes he would make some shit up. Every once in a blue moon, he’d come clean.
This Chainer bolted.James Beamon writes stories because he doesn't have the operational budget to make the movie version. He currently lives in Virginia with his wife, son and attack cat but he's been all over the world, including Iraq and Afghanistan, for job and country. James invites you to hang out with him at fictigristle.wordpress.com.
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