Chapter 31- Dark Skies

Book 4

Regime Change

Chapter 31

Dark Skies

Cavill, Virginia

A nothing, nowhere town in the south, Cavill had a population of around two thousand.  Most of these people were either farmers or out of work after the last decent business in the town, the old toothpaste  plant, was moved overseas.

The people of Cavill considered themselves to be “proper Southern”, there was a thriving Baptist community with its attendant churches.  There was also a church run radio station.  God was surely a visitor, if not a resident, in Cavill.

Real South, proper Virginia, Cavill was a patch work of small detached houses and barns.  There were horses here still, as well as cows and sheep, hens and roosters.  And pigs, there was Mister Cregg’s pig farm on the edge of the little town.

There was no town hall, the town tended to have some informal political discussions at church every now and again.  The local pastor, Rainer McCloy, was also a prominent Republican fund-raiser in the county.

The people who lived in Cavill probably praised themselves on knowing each other very well, on having a keen sense of community.  But a lot of what went on locally was known and not spoken of.  For example Jason Ruth’s tendency to get drunk and smash up his house, broken furnishings dropped into the county skip.  Or DeAnna Morrow’s obvious depression and misery.  Or the mental state of the “war hero”, Thomas Avery.

People in Cavill would gossip about each other and pass a friendly comment; they were content with their hypocrisy.  They were good ole boys who knew a lot but did little.  It was a small town like so many other small towns across America, quiet except at the weekends, dull except over Thanksgiving and New Years, welcoming except when it wasn’t.

But something strange was going on, the normal atmosphere was broken and the night air was cool and sharp, clawing at the faces of the elderly couple walking their dog or the teenagers waiting around the corner from the 7/11. Night was falling on Cavill.

Sheriff Henderson, a former Mayor of Cavill and as well to-do as it was possible to find, was taking his flag down.  Dennis Henderson had been in the US infantry for nine years before an honorable discharge and then he had become a Charlotte police officer before moving out to Cavill.  He was known for his friendly manner, his hard line on teenage trouble makers (especially when intoxicated) and his patriotism.  He was a proper American patriot.  He made sure that old Glory came down from the flag pole and he tired it up and took it indoors.  The flag never once touched the ground.

Dennis Henderson, as he was inside his house, put the flag back inside its case.  The polished wood shone in the light and Henderson closed the case with a click.  He walked over to the fridge and took out a can of beer.  He flicked the lid and took a swill of it.  Beer, he supposed it would do in a pinch.

He sat down at the kitchen table and looked at the frozen food in its containers.  It was quite a thing, when a man of his age and experience was forced to defrost his own food rather than have a proper meal.  His wife had her weekly bridge game over at the Clancy’s and there was no interrupting it.  Dennis supposed that was just the price of doing business with her.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered to himself, taking another swig of beer.  He looked around the kitchen, he’d finally gotten it how it liked it.  Wood paneling had cost a fortune to put in and the polish set the room of nicely so it shone.  He guessed the next thing would be to move house again and start the whole project off from scratch.

“Son of a bitch,” he repeated.  He got to his feet and stretched.  Somewhere out in Cavill, a dog was howling and barking.  It was one seriously unhappy pooch.  Dennis shook his head.  “Stupid dawg” he muttered to no one in particular.

Dennis wondered over the phone, black metal polished, and took it off the handle.  If the wife wasn’t home, there was no one to stop him from ordering a pizza from Michael’s place.  It would still be open now.  He wasn’t supposed to eat pizza anymore but she wasn’t around to stop him.

Dennis fingers touched the buttons for a moment when he heard a yelp and the dog’s barking had ended.  Dennis shook his head and then finished dialing.

“Mikey’s place,” came the tired voice.

“Michael, this is Sheriff Henderson here,” he said into the telephone.

“Hey sheriff.  How can I help you?”

“The wife aint home so I want to get a pizza delivered.  Is Shaun still with you?”

“Yeah of course.  What do you want?  Pepperoni?”

“Yeah I think so,” said Dennis.  There was a click from the door and Dennis turned slightly.  Home, she was home early.

“Hang on Mike,” muttered Dennis and turned around.  His wife was a stately woman of around fifty years, her usual salon perfect hair was wild and loose, her face was calm but there was blood on her hands.  Dennis looked at her and started.  The phone dropped from his hands.

“Jesus, Shirl?  What the hell happened?” he asked her.

“I fell down the nook, I just tripped and fell,” she said, her voice flat and dead.

Shock, she must have been in shock, thought Dennis.  The nook was the informal name of the drop before the towns river.

“Hang on, I’ll get you first aid,”

“Is deputy Andy here?” she asked.

“No, of course not. I sent him home hours ago,”

“Oh,” she said.

Dennis Henderson got to his feet but suddenly there was a vice like pressure on his arm.  He looked down and couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing.  His wife, his fifty year old stately wife Shirley was holding onto his arm with her hands.  Both hands.

“Shirl, you need to…” he never finished the sentence because she reached up with one hand and grabbed him by the jaw.  Her strength was incredible.  Dennis Henderson had fought with three hundred pound drunks, wiry infantry drill instructors and a meth head who seemed impervious to pain.  But she was stronger than any of them right now.

She pulled him to her as if to kiss him.  Her mouth clamped onto his.  Somewhere in his mind, he remembered the last time they had kissed; it was more than four years ago, back before Deputy Kelly.  Pain suddenly flared through his mouth, his throat and his head.

He tried to scream as someone who looked a lot like Shirley Henderson got to her feet, blood leaking down her lips.  Long claws were growing from her fingers.  She walked slowly towards him.  Dennis Henderson, bleeding and unable to speak, crawled towards the overturned chair.  His gun was holstered in his bandolier which hung from the back.

But she reached him long before that.