The Box by Jeremy Brown (ebook reader play store txt) 📕

That wasn’t going to be possible with Connelly running his mouth, so he made himself be patient.

Connelly said, “Now Bruder here, he’s a drummer all the way. As long as every song we play has war drums. BOOM-boom-BOOM-boom-BOOM-boom. Ever onward, into the breach, keep going lads, that kind of thing. A couple months of practice and we’d be onto something.”

“We don’t have a couple months,” Bruder said.

“Well fuck me then, forget I mentioned it.”

Connelly kicked his feet up and gave a sigh of perfect contentment.

“But I’ll still go in as a solo act. Stop in at the bar for a burger and beer, I’m wandering the countryside with just my wits and guitar to get me by, hey, do you guys need an opening act? Or just somebody to play something besides the four songs on the jukebox getting worn out?”

“What if they tell you to go to hell?” Bruder said.

Connelly flashed a smile.

“Well, that’s when the conversation actually gets interesting.”

Chapter Four

Present

When Connelly heard the engine coming down the road, he moved just enough to check his watch. His ass was sore and his foot kept falling asleep no matter which way he put the leg, and it turned out he’d been sitting next to the deadfall for just over two hours.

He keyed his radio.

“I got a vehicle coming from the south.”

That meant it was coming from the direction of town, the same way they’d come in the truck.

He let go of the radio and made himself become still.

The engine was the only man-made sound. He still had the shooting earbuds in, and everything else was amplified, birds flitting around and snow plopping off branches and leaves rustling when something small rooted through them. At one point a doe had wandered within fifteen yards before hearing or smelling him, then bolting away like he’d goosed her.

Connelly waited and slid his eyes to the right.

As the car, a beat-up blue Honda Accord with one person in it, came into his peripheral vision he heard the engine sound change.

The driver had taken their foot off the gas and was letting it coast.

The driver’s face was turned toward the chain across the two-track and Connelly could see it was a man with a reddish-brown beard.

Connelly watched without staring—he didn’t want the man to feel his eyes.

His heart started bumping a bit, getting ready for whatever might happen next.

This could be some random neighbor, or whoever delivered mail along this rural route, or the land owner—though that was unlikely—or the Romanians scouring the countryside.

The engine continued to coast with the man looking out at the entrance to the two-track, then the sound picked up again and the Honda jumped forward.

Then the brake lights flared and the Honda skidded to a stop just beyond the chained driveway.

Connelly risked a more focused look.

The man’s face was pressed against the glass so he could look back. Then the window came down and he stuck his head out and said something Connelly didn’t hear clearly.

The door popped open and the man stepped out. He was a little taller than vehicle’s roof and had the beard and a receding hairline. He wore an unzipped hooded sweatshirt with a faded Metallica shirt underneath. The shirt was too tight, and Connelly caught a glimpse of his pale belly drooping over his pants.

The man shuffled over, muttering to himself, and bent over with his hands on his knees to stare at the ground where the road turned into the track. His head swung around, looking at everything, then he stood up and went to the end of the chain closest to Connelly.

He bent over again and peered at the wire holding the chain to the post.

He reached out and almost touched it, then shot upright and turned to look at the other end of the chain.

His head tilted to the side and his eyes moved to the two-track, scanning.

Then his hand went to his pocket and he pulled out a cell phone.

Connelly stood up, faltering a bit because of his damn sleepy foot, and got the rifle out from under the poncho and pointed it in the man’s general direction.

“Stop right there.”

The man jumped and almost dropped the phone, then stared at Connelly with his mouth open like he was a wraith risen from the ground.

“Drop the phone,” Connelly said.

The man looked down at the phone like he’d forgotten it was there.

Then his face turned sly, just for a moment, and Connelly pointed the rifle directly at his chest.

“I already have the slack out, buddy.”

The man’s face twisted in disgust. He dropped the phone into the snow and let his arms hang at his sides.

“Open that sweatshirt for me.”

He pulled it open from the bottom corners.

Connelly saw the butt of a pistol sticking out of his front pocket.

“The pocket, huh? Keep your hands out like that.”

Connelly kept the rifle on him and hit the radio again.

“This is the man at the road.”

Kershaw’s voice came back: “Go ahead.”

“I got one. Bring the truck.”

“On my way.”

Connelly let the radio go and worked his way forward through the brush until he was on the edge of the track.

The man had his head tilted back and was watching him with a small grin, like he was the one in charge and Connelly hadn’t figured it out yet.

Connelly said, “You speak English?”

“Of course.”

He had a deep voice for his size, a little scratchy, and his teeth were white and straight.

“But you’re Romanian, yeah?”

“Unfortunately for you, yes.”

Connelly pointed at his shirt.

“I saw them at Madison Square Garden. Amazing show.”

The man looked down at the shirt and shrugged.

“I don’t care about them. I picked this shirt because I don’t care if I get your blood on it.”

That was the end of the small talk, so Connelly just pointed the rifle at him and waited for the truck.

Bruder was in the passenger seat of the truck with Kershaw driving.

They didn’t know what they were going to find when they got to