Early Justice by Kevin Van Den Berg

Early Justice by Kevin Van Den Berg

 My name is Ross Ferguson. Today I have volunteered to do something I have not done before, but since I will most likely be doing it more frequently in the future, today is as good as any other day to throw myself in the deep end and see what transpires. The location is somewhere in Arizona. That’s all I am permitted to indulge at the moment. The media will have a field day afterwards, but for now the situation is on a knife-edge and yet to occur so it is natural that my nerves are sprung as tight as a Victorian lady’s bodice and my senses as sharp as my ex-wife’s tongue.

I take a seat inside a roadside diner on a deserted stretch of road and sit alongside a dusty window. An unpleasant wind outside lifts and blows the sandy surface surrounding the diner with relentless regularity. Comments on the state of the windows are never raised. Anyone can determine that they are simply impossible to keep clean. Even the most compulsive cleaners, I reckon, will hold their tongues and resist the urge to take a cloth to the unsightly glass panes. The interior of the diner, however, shines and reeks of disinfectants, as if the owner of the establishment is determined to prove to the uncontrollable conditions outside, indoors is his territory and he will match the chaos with control.

 The windows are of no concern to me. I merely need to have the slightest of visibility for now. There is an olive-green van on the way. Inside of it are five highly dangerous men. I open a travel bag; remove a pair of dark shades and a collapsible walking stick, which I extracted to its full length. I place the cane between my legs and cover my eyes with the dark shades. Now I am simply an eighty-eight-year-old blind man sipping on a cup of coffee, harmless to the reign of terror expected shortly. I breathe in deeply, exhale slowly, and then glance one more time at my surroundings.

 A mother sits in the booth alongside me, holding a toddler and gently rocking a pram with a baby inside. She appears calm, slim, attractive, juggling her little ones nicely while sipping on a cola and feeding the toddler with a spoon from a bowl of chocolate flavoured ice-cream. Her name is Louise, the youngster on her lap Candice and the baby’s name is Benny. Louise is waiting for an eighteen-wheeler truck transporting frozen chickens to arrive. Behind the wheel is her husband John-Boy. He has just cashed in his pay check. Louise is waiting for the envelope and for John-Boy to give his children a brief hug and a kiss, before climbing back in the cab and heading back on the road to deliver his precious cargo.

 Unfortunately, John-Boy would not see them alive again.

At another booth close to the entrance, sits a retired couple – Frank Jackson and his wife Olivia. They own a drug store. Their eldest son now puts in the hours of the family-owned business, so that the parents could take well-deserved breaks, such as the one they are taking today. Frank is seventy- three, Olivia seventy-one. This is their third road trip and also their last. They prefer keeping away from the fast pace of the freeways. Quiet back roads are much safer. The chances of a burst tyre or failing brakes creating havoc on the backroads they travelled were far less of a risk. They never considered green vans with trigger happy occupants inside.

 My attention is drawn to a touring group of young, church choir singers in the two booths behind my back. Ten minutes ago, the bus transporting them pulled into the parking area with a leaking radiator pipe. Twenty minutes previously the children were singing their hearts out on the leather seats. Fifteen minutes from now, according to the special watch strapped on my arm, instead of hearing an impromptu sample of the choir’s talent, I am going to listen to their screams of terror. Bill Picket, the driver, is waiting at the side of the road for a roadside mechanic, tasting the dust in the windswept air. His lonesome figure, out there where few were encouraged to spend more time than required, is an eerie spectacle, because the man is facing the direction in which help is on the way, not knowing in the opposite direction, hell is on its way as well.

 The last client to this establishment of pending death is Eric Forster, a biker from Michigan. He is sitting at the counter. His helmet, black with red thunderbolts, is lying next to a plate of fries and a double-decker cheeseburger. Eric considers himself a freelance construction worker. Free being the driving force behind his ambitions in life. After borrowing five hundred dollars from his wealthy but tight-fisted brother-in-law, Eric promised to keep the man’s affair with the nanny a secret from his sister, if no deadline for repayment was set on the loan. There is enough cash in Eric’s pocket to keep him going until the next job falls into his lap, or…. if the money is removed from his dead body.

 I remove two more items from my bag – a grey raincoat and a roll of bandage. Nobody pays much attention when I stand and slide my arms into the garment. Unless you have three eyeballs or a tail growing out of your backside, nothing is considered strange in an isolated diner which caters to all types of clientele, from all walks of life. Lifting the one sleeve, I roll the bandage across my watch, trying to ensure the bulge it creates is less visible. So far, I believe, I am going to survive the carnage due to take place, but there is always the possible something can go wrong. Having my watch taken from me is another outcome I cannot foresee. I have to prevent it at all costs. It is a matter of life or death.

 As I am preparing for the known and unknown, I glance at the circular battery-operated clock on the wall above the soda bottle fridge. Thirteen minutes to D-Day.

 Why aren’t these people prepared? Danger is always lurking. Be observant at all times. A raincoat in a place that hasn’t seen rain in four years should raise suspicion. So, they don’t have to know I am wearing one to prevent splattered blood from staining my clothing. They just have to be aware of something that does not seem quite right, instead of regarding the abnormal as normal. Perhaps then will they observe the masked gunmen, when they arrive, clambering out of the van, with vision temporary obstructed by the wind shifting red dust in the exposed slits of their masks. Their progress to the entrance will be delayed by at least forty seconds. Where life and death are concerned, forty seconds is a whole lot of time.

 Ten minutes to go.

 I make my way to the restroom. The choir kids are talking. A stranded bus does not concern them as it appears to be part of the adventure. One or two move their feet away from the line of my cane scraping the tiles. Through the dark glasses, I take a peep at each face. Billy Ryder, age 9. Sandy Wilkinson 10. Jeff Dawson 10 and so I identify each one, including the choir master and two adults for supervision purposes – to ensure the comfort and safety of the young ones. Unless they have an arsenal of firepower hidden beneath the tables or seats, they aren’t going to perform the same role anytime soon in the future.

 Inside the restroom, in front of a mirror, I insert a pair of special milky white contact lens. Now I appear blinder than before and until the lenses are removed, temporary, I will have no sight as well, which in a manner of perception is a good thing since I know what is to come. Although, having no vision of the terror about to unfold, does not make the impact less disheartening. Catering to the influx of a busload of kids, the single waitress, Bernice, on the threshold of a third divorce and a constant migraine from five, undisciplined children of her own, barely looked at me when she filled my cup on arrival Not that it matters anymore. Blind or not blind, time for inquisitiveness is now a thing of the past. By the time I make it back to my booth, the nightmare is due to begin.

 I breathe in and breathe out then leave the restroom.

In the short passage, above the chatter of the choir kids, I hear Russell Owens bark out orders to his wife Candice, as the burger patties sizzling on the grill in front of him demand all of his undivided attention. This I cannot see. I only credit it to the fact that Russell’s body is later discovered on the floor with a semi cooked beef patty covering his left eye. He will be the first victim inside the diner. Behind the frontline is not always the safest place to be. Who knows what kitchen utensils can be used as weapons? Obviously, the gunmen aren’t willing to find out.

 I stop counting my steps. They are the same amount I counted on my way to the restroom. Moving to the side, I knock my thigh against the corner of the table, misjudging the steps by a foot and a half. I retreat slightly, grope for the luggage case and shoved it under the seat. An empty case will raise suspicion, even for a five-year-old. Then I sit, placing both my hands at the sides of the cold, quarter filled cup. I almost forgot about the watch. Lifting my right hand, I slide it under the sleeve of the raincoat and search for the knob alongside the three o’clock position. The bandage is not too tight. It shouldn’t be a hindrance if I have to reach the button. What is it with the shakes now? I have to hold it together. It is my damn age – I am too old for this crap.

 Then the clattering of cutlery, of chatter, of everything falls away into a deep silence. The Death Wagon is estimated to be less than a mile away. I hear nothing around me. My senses are all focused on what is arriving. Then I hear the tick, tick, tick of the wall clock. It is consistent with my heartbeat and somehow, on a higher awareness, the ticking and beats of my heart are also in alignment with the rotating tyres beneath the van. Time, life and death; each element is invited to a party no sane person will want to attend. What in God’s name am I doing here?

 There it is – the grumble of an engine similar to the faint sound of a lion roaring in the bush. It is drawing closer, shifting gears, slowing down and turning into the parking lot. Engine switched off. Now there are doors opening. Bill Picket, still out there, has seen the shotguns. He thinks of running, then hiding on the bus and then changes his mind and tries to hide under it. The first deafening, death-producing shot rings out as the others step into the diner. Everyone forgets their burgers, their coffee, sodas and milkshakes, and finally take note of the bad dreams, disguised as masked humans, entering the joint.

 “I want everyone to sit quietly. Don’t even blink or you will be kissing the dust the same as your friend outside. Do we understand each other!?”

I hear some of the youngsters behind me start to snivel. It is just a question of seconds before some crying starts and a few screams. I wince as they begin.

 “Shut the fuck up!”

I hear heavy footsteps heading down the short passage and feel the presence of a body very close-by.

 “Who wants to be silenced first? What about you, the little blonde girl with the pretty face?”

 More sobbing. More screaming.

 “Leave them be. They are just kids for Christ sakes!” It is Russel’s voice. Now I know why Russell is the first victim, as shots blasts across the counter and into the open kitchen beyond. More threats, more screaming follows. Another shot which causes me to recoil in my seat. This time I have no idea who takes the next dive, but whoever does, it brings back the silence. Why the hell did I agree to this? You know why Ross. To lead from the front. To prove you have the balls.

 “That’s better. Now we can take our time and get to know each other. Frank and Olivia Jackson, we have met before. Not such pleasant memories of our previous get-together but that’s why we are here today – to balance the scales slightly.”

It sounds like the same voice. Leader of the delinquents, I suppose. Now it doesn’t seem to be a random killing spree. My hunch and decision to be present while it takes place, appears to have some benefits. There is a purpose to the madness after-all.

 Some shuffling takes place. Otherwise, I can hear a pin drop. Then old Frank speaks up. The fear has a solid grip on his throat.

 “What do you want with us? We are just two old people who mean no harm.”

 There is a bout of sneering laughter. “No harm. How do you justify five years in a correctional facility then?”

 “Are you the men…?”

 “It was just me old man. I didn’t enjoy the accommodation, so I checked out early. The others are still rotting in prison, and these are just mates along for the ride. Just when we thought you were co-operating so nicely, you had to be a smartass. Locked us up in your storeroom when all we were doing was just helping ourselves to a few pills here and there to make us enjoy life more. But you had to show the old missus here how brave you were. But calling the cops was a bad move.”

“They were schedule 4…5 drugs. In the wrong hands they are lethal. I…I apologize for what I did, but you must understand it is something any upstanding citizen would have done. Please show some mercy…”

There is a loud thud, a fist or the butt of a shotgun, on a table.

 “So, it is mercy you want? It did cross my mind, on one or two occasions but then I thought about my sister, the one who I protected from the scum of this life. You see old man, I couldn’t do anything for her the night she got raped and half beaten to death, the same night she took an overdose and called it quits. Why? Because I was behind bars because you put me and some of my mates there. Got any idea of the pain I went through old man…no…then feel some of it…right now!”

Another blast rattles the diner. I cringe once again and hear Frank’s bellows of anguish. It is not difficult to determine who has been slain. Olivia Jackson. Chaos erupts once more. More fire-power bursts out amidst the hollering. My finger hovers by the button. I am sure that I have captured enough footage through the concealed lenses in the dark glasses and everything else that was said on the advanced microphone chips in the watch. Nobody will hold it against me if I decide to bail out now. Still, I hesitate. Something is holding me back against my will. I feel trapped in the claws of this terror, sucked into the abyss of something tangible and clinging. Snap out of it, Ross. It will only be over if you are dead as well. Blind old men are not going to receive any compassion in this reign of terror today.

 I push the button on the wristwatch. A fraction of a second later a slug rips through the seat where I was sitting, but I am gone, leaving behind a mess of bloodied bodies.

“Welcome back Agent Ferguson. Paul will be there in a minute to help you with the contact lenses and to remove your raincoat. Your vital signs are hovering just under red, but otherwise you handled it pretty well.” Special Agent Holt Cummins says to me through a speaker, where he sits behind a flexi-glass wall, in the Arrival and Departure Hub at Future Crimes Prevention Unit HQ.

 I remain motionless in the designated booth. “To be honest I had doubts whether this old heart would have survived. Only reason I pulled through is because I knew my death wouldn’t have been permanent. I must admit this new law takes some adjustments to get a grip on, but in the long run much more effective.”

 “I agree. Wasn’t as close to the action as you were, but from the feedback we were monitoring that you sent us, it was pretty grim. Twenty-three causalities, if I am not mistaken. Janine is just confirming the figures now. Now we have a motive as well and a clearer indication of the perps. Before the whole nasty business is supposed to go down, in a month’s time, we will have them all behind lock and key and hopefully this time there will be no opportunity to escape.” Holt replies.

 “Well, they will make history, if it is the only positive aspect for them. First perps to be convicted of murder even if the victims came through it unharmed. We have the evidence on visual, on recordings, an established motive and the blood samples on the raincoat. Only thing left to do is to send out a team to obtain some personal data on the ‘victims’ for the prosecution’s case.” I state.

 “Wonder how they are going to deal with the knowledge that they were killed, yet still alive to see their murderers convicted?”

 “Should be interesting but for now I just need to get out of this booth and into the aging chamber, so that I can return to my proper age.”

 “Hang in there, Agent Ferguson. By the way Mary asked if you and Cynthia will join us for a meal Saturday evening.”

 “It shouldn’t be a problem as long as it is not by a diner,” I reply.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Kevin Van Den Berg 2026

Image Source: Valentin Salja fom Unsplash.com