Squinting his eyes against the setting sun, Jake stubbed his cigarette out against the corrigated metal of the train's roof and stood up. He twisted his torso enough to cause his spine to pop, slung his bolt-action rifle over his shoulder, and keyed in on his two-way radio.
"Sun down in twenty, time to come home."
The radio crackled briefly and its operator spoke up.
"Roger that. How's Spike? Anything?"
Jake looked down at the dog laying next to him. He squatted down and lovingly scratched around the collar on its neck. Spike raised his head slightly and lazily leaned into the boy's affections.
"Negative. But I don't have a good gut about this. Come home straight, don't fuck around."
"Language kid," the radio intoned.
Jake frowned and pressed the tiny red button on the cheap and grunged up radio in his hand. "Just come home. Now." He pleaded.
He hooked the radio into his belt, brushed the sandy blonde hair out of his eye, and shouldered his rifle. Looking through the scope he had a pretty unobstructed view between the railyard and the general store at the end of the road. He swept the rifle from side to side, once quickly, and then once again slowly, looking for movement.
Startled by the loud bang of metal against metal, the young man spun around to face the hatch that was just thrown open by a tomboyish redhead.
"Fuck! Jo, what I tell you about throwing doors open," he admonished her.
"I dunno Jake, what they say about your language?" she shot back, as she pulled herself up onto the roof, and brushed down the hem of her polka-dotted sun dress. She dropped to her knee, suddenly very focused on the undoing of one of her boot laces.
Jake turned back to the direction of the setting son and looked back into the scope. "Remind me again why everyone's on my case about my cursing?" he grumbled.
"Oh, you don't remember how you almost got all of us ran out of New Orleans by the King himself for that expletive laden tirade of yours?"( Read more... )