The Sacrifice

Honorable Mention: 2008 Short Story Fiction Competitioin.

THE SACRIFICE

Molly turned the Subaru off the blacktop onto a red dirt road. It was their third wedding anniversary and first new car; a drive to some obscure, backwoods saloon was how she wanted to begin her weekend celebration. These impulsive decisions made her husband, Patrick, extremely nervous. Having been bullied as a child, he now took every precaution to avoid conflict. He knew his tender heart, ill suited for confrontation, was the only point of contention in their marriage.

"It's a scorcher. Think it's much farther?" asked Molly, flipping her hair.

"Don't know," answered Patrick, resisting a smile. "One thing's for certain, they'll see us coming." Her thick lips and green eyes couldn't hold back the laugh. This was Molly's first year at the University of Florida; the Gator's orange and blue colors she chose for the car stood out like a Yankee tourist.

Palmetto bushes encroached upon the road and the ruts deepened. Patrick's eyes darted back and forth to movement in the thicket. The Spanish moss drooped from gloomy, cypress trees like a warning from on high. We're getting too far out in the boonies, he thought, beginning to perspire. "Molly, there hasn't been a house in miles, maybe we should turn back."

"Go to the next crossroad," pressed Molly. "This is supposed to be an adventure; don't spoil it by worrying." She loved Patrick, yet harbored one disheartening reservation--the question of his manhood.

Patrick saw disaster around every bend, although this wasn't entirely without reason. His twin sister Pam had been brutally raped and murdered five years earlier. Their father insisted that Patrick's failure to protect Pam, from the schoolyard bullies, resulted in her wild and rebellious nature as an adult and eventually contributed to her demise. This condemnation loomed heavy in Patrick's consciousness, like the steamy hot sun on a Florida afternoon.

Molly laughed and rolled her eyes. "See! There it is. And you were ready to give up." A liquor store separated two taverns set back off the road amidst a grove of tall pine. She pulled the car into the gravel parking lot. A tall, husky man approached them wearing camouflaged overalls.

"Go on in," he said. "We always have a good ol' time at Bobby Ray's."

"Thanks. Honey, let's buy this gentleman a drink."

The huge room had a plank floor and wooden tables and chairs; rustic odds and ends covered the walls. The decor gave the impression that the building had once housed a bait and tackle shop.

"What will ya have, partner?" Patrick asked the man, raising his voice above the blaring jukebox.

"Budweiser."

Two men, in clothes suited for hard labor, rudely bumped Patrick as he approached the bar. The smell of cheap cologne reeked from a trucker flirting with the barmaid, and Patrick noticed a biker at the end of the bar getting impatient. He wore a spiked vest and multiple earrings. Patrick pulled his shirttail out before returning to the table.

"Thanks for the beer," said the big fellow, now sitting by Molly. "People call me Big Boy. You all from 'round here?"

"We're from Newberry," said Patrick. "It's our anniversary."

"Just out for a little fun," added Molly.

"You surely do have a looker on your hands," Big Boy said, eyeballing Molly as if she were a slab of barbecue ribs. "Have all the fun ya want, honey. Just stay on this side, hear?"

"Why is that?"

Big Boy spit tobacco juice on the floor and cocked his head sideways. "You don't want anything to do with that mess over there."

"What do you mean?" questioned Molly.

"That's the colored side."

Molly gave him a stupid look.

"It's simple, lady. We drink on this side and the darkies drink on the other."

Patrick nudged Molly under the table, but it was too late.

"Come on," she blurted out. "We don't have to drink with this bigot."

Big Boy slammed his beer on the table; Patrick quickly stood up. "We don't want any trouble."

Big Boy growled and pushed Patrick back down in the chair. "If you think you're too good to drink with me--you ain't seen trouble."

Molly raised her voice. "You can't get away with . . . "

"Shut the hell up!" Tobacco juice seeped from the corners of Big Boy's mouth.

"Listen," pleaded Patrick. "We'll finish our beers, and then go."

"Like hell, yuppie boy. You shoulda never drove that piece of Jap junk in here." A crowd gathered around the table. A man with rotten teeth, wearing a confederate T-shirt, grabbed Molly's breast.

"Leave her alone!" Patrick demanded.

The man's breathing labored, "Ya gonna love what I got for you, baby." Molly screamed as the man attempted to unbutton her blouse. Patrick jerked her away.

"Lock it down, boys!" someone shouted. In the confusion, a blow from behind knocked Patrick to the floor. He made it to his feet only to be hit with Big Boy's solid, right hand. The force of the blow made Patrick vomit; the crowd circled like wolves waiting for their share. Blows and kicks from every direction blurred Patrick's vision, but he could hear Molly's high-pitched screams. The pack had her pinned against the far wall, pawing at her clothes. In desperation and stumbling in the direction of the howling, Patrick grabbed a barstool and started swinging. Bolting like a horse saddled for the first time, he kicked and slammed against all that would hold him from Molly.

Molly's eyes were glazed over, her long auburn hair in disarray from repeated backhanded blows. Patrick tackled the man that was holding Molly and ripped out a handful of earrings. The gladiator, clad in spiked leather, shrieked in pain and released his grip. Sensing a small window of opportunity, Patrick fought for all he was worth. Suddenly, a pool stick snapped Patrick's jaw. Big Boy stared down at the motionless body; the hungry pack pressed forward with crazed excitement.

Big Boy shouted, "I'm first," pushing Molly down on the pool table. The hysterical screams brought Patrick to his senses. Rising off the floor, he broke a bottle and slashed Big Boy's shoulder; then yanked Molly from the table. The pair slowly backed toward the door. The crowd resembled hyenas preparing to strike, snarling and showing their teeth. Patrick saw the prospect of danger tempered their boldness and realized the truth: bullies were cowards when confronted with the threat of real danger.

"Who's next?" bellowed Patrick, swinging the jagged bottle from side to side. The shouts and jeers softened. Suddenly a ringing blast abruptly stopped the jukebox. A short, wiry fella emerged with a handgun. His fingernails were covered with grease and cigarette stains, the kind of man that never had any luck with women unless they were in a drunken stupor.

"L-listen mister, I don't w-w-want to shoot you," he stammered. Patrick sensed the man's desperation and speculated this was a ploy to increase his stature with the pack. Sweat beaded on the gunman's brow as he anxiously glanced around the room. "Ya gonna g-give us the woman or m-meet your maker."

Patrick and Molly edged closer to the door. It was locked. Out of options, Patrick rushed the smaller man and wrestled the weapon away from him. Body odor and cigarette smoke permeated Patrick's nostrils; his head throbbed with pain and he almost fainted.

Patrick waved the pistol at the frenzied pack. "Open the door!"

Big Boy shouted, "Rodney, get the shotgun--take this punk!"

"Stop or Big Boy gets it," Patrick demanded.

"He's bluffing," screamed Big Boy. "Go on!" Rodney made his move. The next sound was a gun blast. The bullet ripped through Big Boy's kneecap; he clutched his leg and dropped to the floor. Rodney froze.

"I'm going to keep shooting until the door is opened," said Patrick, with an eerie calm. A stout bartender stepped forward with a key.

"Take it easy, mister. Don't shoot. I'll open the door."

"Be careful," warned Molly, finally regaining her composure. Patrick hugged the wall, allowing the barkeep access to the lock. The barkeep suddenly turned and lunged with a knife. Patrick felt a piercing sting, but managed to crack the brute over the head with the pistol.

"Run Molly," screamed Patrick. "Start the car!" Patrick fired two warning shots and hobbled after her. A moment later Molly fishtailed out of the parking lot, leaving the pack screaming in the dust.

"We're going to be all right," Molly said. "You stood up to those heathens. You saved me. I knew you weren't afraid. I knew it!" Patrick's lap was filling up with blood. Her voice sounded like the wings of a blue heron flapping during lift off. "I--knew--you--weren't--afraid."

The sun's descent had cooled the air, slightly, and the gloomy cypress trees seemed less threatening to Patrick. For a brief moment, he saw his sister, Pam, in Molly's face. Patrick wasn't sure if Pam heard, or if his words echoed in the darkness. "I'm sorry, sis. I was afraid."

The End

1,500 words