The Battle for Jericho
Copyright
Published by
Harmony Ink Press
5032 Capital Circle SW
Ste 2, PMB# 279
Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886
USA
http://www.harmonyinkpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Battle for Jericho
Copyright © 2013 by Gene Gant
Cover Art by Anne Cain
annecain.art@gmail.com
Interior Art by Tommy Williams
BassmanDuke@gmail.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Harmony Ink Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.
http://www.harmonyinkpress.com/
ISBN: 978-1-62380-273-8
Library Edition ISBN: 978-1-62380-917-1
Digital Edition ISBN: 978-1-62380-274-5
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
January 2013
For Sherri, who believes bigotry is a human failing, not a heavenly one.
And for Tommy, who helped bring Jericho, Hutch, and Lissandra to life.
Chapter 1
WHEN you make a commitment, when you believe in something with all your heart and soul, you stick with it no matter what. Right?
Doing the right thing can be hard. Sometimes, figuring out what the right thing is can be damn near impossible. And that’s how I got into the worst trouble of my life.
I guess I should start with a little background info. My name is Jericho Jiles. I’m not crazy about the first name, which my mom took from one of her favorite Bible stories, so most of my friends go with Jerry. Call me JJ only if you want to make a mortal enemy. I turn seventeen come July 14 (can’t wait), I’m six feet tall (which is okay, but I wish I were taller), and I’m sort of skinny. Last time I went to my doctor—a pediatrician by specialty but “doctor” sounds better to me for some reason—I pushed the scale up to 151 pounds. That was wearing baggy jeans, three shirts, flannel boxers, and a pair of size twelve Nikes. I eat lots of carbs and protein, I lift weights, I do push-ups and squats, but my body just refuses to bulk up. Of course, that makes me fast and agile, which means I’m pretty good at hoops, soccer, and figure skating (which I’ve actually done a few times, but that’s strictly between you and me). Not scholarship good and definitely not professional-level good in any of those sports, but I get my respect out there.
My folks, London and Teresa Jiles, own a two-story brick house in Webster’s Glen, a little town about fifty miles east of Nashville. I’ve lived there since I was born. When I was four, my folks brought home my brother, James Caleb. One morning, three weeks after the baby’s homecoming, my mom woke up and found him dead in his crib. I barely remember him, but my dad sure does. To this day, you can sometimes catch him staring at pictures of James Caleb. Not crying, not smiling, and not frowning in anger or pain or regret. Just staring. When I see him like that, I feel sorry for the man. I guess it’s hard to let some things go.
From first grade, I’ve done well in school. Even with the distraction of my friends (and I have lots of friends), I study, do my homework, and get my assignments turned in on time. I’m polite and respectful with adults and dogs and occasionally so with other kids. For years I went to church every Sunday with my folks, and when I turned twelve, I dutifully presented myself to the pastor for baptism in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. It’s what you do when you’re a kid in Webster’s Glen.
Like everyone else, I do dumb things from time to time. Maclin “Mac” Travis is (no, maybe I should make that was) my best friend. He lives next door. He was always bigger than me, but as we got older, the size difference became outrageous. Now he has three inches and thirty-five pounds on me. I was usually the instigator, however, blithely leading the way into trouble. Making parachutes out of bed sheets, tying them to our shoulders with shoelaces, and throwing our twelve-year-old selves off the roof of the Travis home’s back porch? That was my idea.
Mac came out of that one with a broken arm. Unscathed, I watched as his folks whisked him off, howling, to the emergency room.
I didn’t sleep well that night.
The next day, I went to see him. Mrs. Travis looked at me as if I were a slimy hairball one of her cats had hacked up on her spotless living room carpet, but she let me in anyway. Mac lay on his bed, watching television. His right arm, frozen in a thick, white cast, was propped across his chest in a sling. He was still in pain. Or maybe he was just constipated. I couldn’t quite read the scowl on his face.
“Hit me,” I said, offering him my chin.
He frowned at me, annoyed. “What for?”
“You need revenge.” I slapped my belly. “Punch me.”
“Fool….” He pointed with his left hand at his immobile right arm.
“Use the left one. It’s still good.”
“Forget it.”
“Come on. Do it. You’ll feel better.”
I bugged him that way for the better part of two days. There was this weight on my head, and I needed him to knock it off. (The weight, that is, not my head.) I eventually got pissed that he wouldn’t take a shot at me. This happened on a Monday after school, in my front yard. Carefully, so as not to hurt him anew, I gave him a shove in the back after he refused my offer yet again. Oh, and I called him a big, broke-arm faggot.
Ah, persistence. Mac spun around and kicked me right between the legs.
I doubled over and went down in my mom’s newly planted begonia bed, where I wallowed for a good five minutes, leaving a nice, Jericho-sized hole in the middle of everything. Mom was hoping to take the neighborhood’s yard-of-the-month award. Alas, winning that month was not in the cards for her. The pain shot straight up into my chest. I felt choked. I was sure that was because my gonads had lodged in my throat.
Guilt problem solved. Yes, indeed.
Another bright idea out of my head was taking a five-foot freshman, on the first day of Mac’s and my sophomore year, and stuffing him headfirst into a four-foot locker. The freshie got a broken nose. Mac and I got suspended for a week. And grounded for two. We escaped an assault charge only because Mac’s grampy just happened to be in some kind of hunting club with the freshie’s grampy. The old killers managed to convince the freshie’s parents that our breaking their son’s face was just boys being boys. In truth, it was. My only intent was a bit of time-honored, ritualistic humiliation. Fun stuff for all.
In the hallways, Mac passed the freshman and his heavily bandaged snout as if the boy were a drifting void. He seemed to adopt a “been there, done that” attitude. I wouldn’t look at the freshie either, but for an entirely different reason. The injured nose bothered me. Guys had already dubbed the little dude “gay boy,” so I could hardly have him smack me one, not in public. The few times I managed to catch freshie alone, however, he freaked and bolted, screaming like a police siren. You’d have thought I was a contract killer and he was the contract. Go figure.
Mac is neither stupid nor easily manipulated. He participated in those schemes of mine that he liked and stayed out of the ones that he didn’t. He also came up with a few of his own, which I sometimes went along with because that’s what friends do for each other.
It was Mac’s idea to attack Dylan Cussler.
THERE are a lot of ordinances in Webster’s Glen, all of them strictly enforced. Lawns must be neatly trimmed in the summer and free of dead leaves in the winter. Fail to comply and the town will do the job for you, adding the cost onto your property taxes. No inoperable vehicle may be parked on the street or even in your driveway; any do-it-yourself auto repair must take place in your garage, discreetly away from your neighbors’ view. A first citation for littering carries a hefty fine. A second tacks forty hours of community service on top of a heftier fine. A third lands you in jail, do not pass Go or collect two hundred bucks, thank you very much. Business signs are kept to a uniform size, and no flashing neon is allowed. Liquor stores must close by 11:00 p.m. on Saturday and cannot reopen before 9:00 a.m. on Monday.
Most households have a least one gun (my folks own two, his and hers), and the owners get in plenty of practice at the Calico Reserve shooting range. Churches are packed for worship every Sunday, not to mention Bible study on Wednesday. For the ultra-devotees, the rest of the week is taken up with choir practice, various organizational meetings, and door-to-door canvassing to save benighted secularists, Satanists, and other ne’er-do-wells from themselves.
Apparently, Dylan Cussler didn’t understand the nature of his hometown. He’s this older guy, late twenties, who lives in a gray, stucco bungalow down the street from my high school. Everybody at the school knew him because he’d made himself a pariah. He openly declared his fagdom by moving another man into his home. That sort of stuff flies free in New York and San Fran. You might even get away with it in Nashville. But in Webster’s Glen, it could very well get you burned out of your house.
To make matters worse, they tried to adopt a kid. The state legislature quickly passed a law banning gays from adopting. In response, Dylan and his boyfriend filed suit, claiming the adoption ban was discrimination on the part of the state. News crews from around the country camped out at their house, interviewing anyone in the area who was willing to talk. And there was lots of talk, both pro and con, on the issue of gay rights. A stream of picketers began circling in front of Dylan’s house with homemade “God hates fags” signs. Commentary flowed from the country’s “liberal-leaning intelligentsia” (a phrase the local paper uses a lot) about the rabid homophobia of redneck Tennesseans in general, and the hick residents of Webster’s Glen in particular.
Needless to say, there was a backlash. Stung with embarrassment, most of the folk in town grew even more pissed. My dad kept saying that the whole “sick, sorry affair” could have been avoided if the “Godless homos” had just kept their mouths and their drapes closed. When the subject came up at school—in the locker room after gym class, of all places—Mac became livid.
“Freaking faggots,” he snapped, his mouth twisted with disgust as he slipped into his jeans. “Always stirring up trouble.” He’d been pumping iron in his bedroom for months now, and it showed. Damn it.
“Why can’t they just keep their freak in the closet?” wondered Hutch, a guy who’d transferred to Gordon Browning High a little over a year ago after getting kicked out of the Holy Madonna Academy. He’d been caught smoking marijuana on academy grounds. For the third time. The old three-strikes thing.
“Maybe somebody oughta help them keep their freak in the closet,” Mac said slowly. From the gleam in his eyes, it was clear his intentions were not especially charitable.
Hutch had disappeared into the showers by the time Mac got around to laying out his plan for dealing with the happy couple. And that was probably a good thing. Hutch’s dad had threatened to box him up and FedEx him to an Alaskan boot camp if he got so much as a detention. I didn’t have anything in particular against gays. For the most part, I avoided thinking about them, because the thought of guys being attracted to each other made me feel scared and sort of guilty, and I hated feeling that way. If those two news-making queer dudes blew out of town, I could go back to ignoring homosexuality again. Mac was my boy, and if he needed my help getting a message through to Dylan and his boyfriend, I was more than game.
“What you got in mind?” I asked.
Mac explained it to me. At the time, it sounded reasonable. Hell, I thought of it as a matter of civic responsibility, like voting and jury duty.
Chapter 2
MAC and I made it a point to get our homework done during study period that Tuesday afternoon. (Hey, there’s a radical concept. Most times I use that period for texting Lissandra, my girlfriend, while she goofs off in her craft and design class.) After school, we stuffed our books in our hall lockers, and as other kids made a dash for the exits, I followed Mac back to the gym.
The football team was slowly drifting in, congregating around a blackboard that Coach Gabe had set up outside his office at the south end of the building. Apparently, they were going to study new plays. Most of the team knew us, and many of the guys waved as Mac and I headed for the locker room. We were on the basketball team, and while the start of basketball drills was more than a month off, our presence was hardly unusual. All team players are assigned a locker in the gym year-round.
The locker room was empty when we walked in. We stopped at Steve Barrow’s locker. Steve played goalie on the hockey team. I had three classes with him this year, and we sometimes hung out bowling or playing miniature golf on weekends. I also happened to know the combination to his locker. I popped that sucker open and dug through the pile of junk at the bottom until I came up with two of the old Jason Voorhees hockey masks Steve had ordered off eBay last year for him and some of his buddies to wear around school on Halloween. The masks fit neatly in my empty backpack. Mac and I strolled out of the gym, cut across the football field, and headed down Juniper Street.
The second part of Mac’s plan posed a bit of a problem. The news crews had disappeared days ago, but twelve men and four women—all done up in black suits and dresses (respectively, of course)—were still marching up and down on the sidewalk in front of the fag house like a line of ants caught in a loop. They were, according to news reports, from the Church of the Most Holy, and they dressed in black to symbolize their mourning for the souls soon to bake eternally in hell. Their “God hates fags” signs, I noticed, had gone from being crudely handwritten to professionally printed. I guess it’s true: God don’t like ugly.
Mac and I stopped on the corner, staring at the picketers half a block away. “Damn,” said Mac. “Why don’t they give it a rest and go home?”
“They probably wouldn’t rat us out, man,” I suggested. “If we told them what we’re gonna do, they’d go ‘Hallelujah!’ and kick the door in for us.”
Neither of us was willing to risk being seen, however, so we trotted ourselves over to Whispering Valley Street and casually strolled until we reached the house directly behind Dylan’s. It was barely three thirty, and most folk weren’t home yet. There was no fence at this house. We crossed to the backyard as though we were the rightful owners.
There was a fence bordering Dylan’s property, a six-and-a-half-foot tall wood privacy job with boards so close together I doubted air molecules could squeeze between them. The supporting crossbeams, which made wonderful hand- and footholds for climbing, were on the other side.
Damn it.
Mac didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the top of the fence, planted a foot halfway up the board in front of him, and hoisted himself up and over in a single, smooth motion. Those newly minted muscles came in handy. It took two attempts on my part before I finally made it, hauling my skinny self slowly over the top of the fence. I perched there for a moment, draped like a rug that had been hung up to dry, negotiating a way to get my legs over and under me so I could jump down. Irritated, Mac reached up, grabbed the front of my shirt, and yanked. I dropped headfirst, did a tuck and roll, and found myself sitting on a neatly mown lawn next to a stone bench.
“Man, you are so weak,” Mac said with surliness I felt was entirely uncalled for. He reached over my shoulder, unzipped m
y backpack, and pulled out a hockey mask. Slipping the mask over his face, he headed for the house. I got up, put on the second mask, and followed.
The landscaping was impressive, just what you’d expect from fags with nothing better to do. There were sculpted dense shrubs, winding brick-paved paths, dogwood trees, life-sized ceramic fauna—rabbits, turtles, squirrels, and such—and a pond filled with bright orange koi big enough to swallow mice in a gulp. At the center of the pond, water spiraled gently up in a fountain, sparking in the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the treetops. For a yard like this, my mom would trade me off in a heartbeat.
We knew Dylan had security cameras monitoring the front and sides of his house. We could see them when we walked past on our way to and from school. It was no surprise when we spotted a camera above the patio. That was the reason for the masks. We skirted the patio and went to the rear door.
Mac wrapped the tail of his shirt around his fist and punched through the glass. It never occurred to either of us that, along with the cameras, Dylan might have installed a sophisticated alarm system. I’d learn later that there was indeed such a system in place. Fortunately, it wasn’t activated at the moment. Mac carefully reached through and unlocked the door, and then we were in the kitchen.
“Okay, you start in here,” Mac said, whispering. “I’m gonna find their bedroom.”
“Cool,” I whispered back. Neither fag was home, but something about the moment seemed to require hushed tones. Maybe it was a rule in the breaking and entering handbook.
Mac disappeared into the deeper regions of the house, and I started opening cabinet doors. The plan was to vandalize the place, then scrawl “Get out!” and similar go-to-hell phrases on the walls with the black markers we carried in our pockets. Instead, I found myself taking inventory. The stuff in their cabinets was fairly standard—cans of soup and green beans, boxes of noodles, a jar of red plum jelly, white dishes trimmed in gold. How disappointing. I’d expected something different. Like purple plates and pink cups.