Empty Chambers
A split second after Jake fired, he felt a sharp sting on his left shoulder. He dropped his 9-millimeter to touch the warm spot. “What the fuck?” he said, looking at the blood stain on his white T-shirt. “You hit me.”
Twenty paces away Kellogg stood gawking.
“You call yourself a marksman?” Jake said, facing him. “You were supposed to scare me, not hit me.”
Kellogg approached, pointing his Beretta at Jake’s face. “Scared now?”
Jake’s eyes opened wide under a wrinkled forehead. “Easy,” he said. He watched Kellogg withdraw and took a breath.
Kellogg set his weapon back in its holster. “Looks like a surface wound, or there would be more blood. I was aiming just above your shoulder.”
“Well, you fucking missed.”
“Barely a grazing,” Kellogg replied, then continued, “But your shot was on the mark. I swear I heard that bullet zip right past my ear.” He grinned. “Not sure if it scared me or threw off my aim. Next time that won’t happen.” Jake heard him mumble something to himself about the goddamn clumsy holster, pulling the belt from the waist of his beige fatigues. “Go sit in the shade under that tree,” Kellogg said. “I’ll get you some water.” He picked up Jake’s piece and walked toward the Jeep parked at the edge of the field.
“Any chance you have a first aid kit?” Jake asked.
Kellogg just walked away. He returned with two water bottles and a pint of whiskey. “Here’s your first aid.”
They sat in the shade and drank.
“The idea was to jolt each other,” Jake said.
“Or finish each other.” Kellogg took a long pull and passed the whiskey back to Jake.
“That wasn’t my proposal. We reignite the spark—and the fear.”
“Why did we come way out here, in the middle of nowhere?” Kellogg asked. “In case we botched it,” he answered his own question.
Jake considered that before he responded. “I thought we were both deadeyes.”
“I guess you’re right there—we both survived.”
“Still, this mission was not a success.” Jake took another swig and offered the whiskey to Kellogg.
“It was better than Suicide Prevention Group,” Kellogg said, lying back in the grass.
“How so?”
“Because for the first time since Afghanistan, I’m more worried about someone else.”
“You? Worried?”
Kellogg looked over at Jake.
“What’s your worry?” Jake asked.
Eyeing the scarlet bloom on Jake’s T-shirt, Kellogg said, “You need a medic.” Then he returned his gaze to the blue sky filtered by the green, leafy tree limbs above. “Maybe splash a bit of whiskey on that—to avoid infection.”
Jake mulled for a moment, then sipped again, as a breeze swept over the meadow.
When the pint was finished, they left. On the drive to town, Jake said, “So, this was a hunting accident, right?”
“What would we be hunting this time of year? We were doing target practice . . . and maybe some drinking.”
Jake nodded. “And we’re not going to talk about this at the group.”
“No way,” Kellogg agreed. “This is between us.” Following a silent moment he added, “Maybe we can try it again, after your wound has healed.”
Feeling no pain, Jake quipped, “You call this a wound?”
* * *
Twelve days later Jake went back to Bullseye Shooting Range. He took the lane next to Kellogg. After an hour’s practice, Kellogg invited him for a beer at The Scuttlebutt, as they’d done before.
Kellogg brought two Yuenglings to the back corner booth Jake had chosen. “So, you’re back in the saddle,” he said, settling in across from Jake. “You shot well today, comrade.”
“Yeah, my right arm’s fine.”
“I’ve been thinking about our mission.”
“What about it?”
Jake noticed Kellogg’s sudden glance toward the sunlight that burst in and rubbernecked to see for himself: a long-haired man held the door open for a fat woman with a cane. When Jake looked back, Kellogg answered, “That old west duel thing was bullshit. We can do better than that.”
“You seemed to get a boost from it.”
“Sure, but it could’ve been more realistic, more this century.”
“A twenty-first century duel?” Jake asked, raising his glass to his lips.
“A hunt.” Kellogg stopped short to gauge interest.
Jake took a drink that bordered on a gulp. He swallowed hard and sputtered, “Each other?”
Kellogg continued, “No 9-mils, no fucking holsters. No standing in a fucking field. I’m talking rifles in the woods.”
“You’re twisted,” Jake said, still holding his beer.
“Just the same as you.” Kellogg raised his glass. “Reignite the spark, right? That was your idea.” He tipped his beer toward his comrade, then took a drink. Across Jake sat still, poker-faced, then set his glass down.
Jake caught another signal from Kellogg and turned to match his glare at the long-haired man guiding the fat woman to the adjacent booth. The woman stopped short on approach, pointed her cane to the front corner table, and chose that instead.
“Here’s how I picture it,” Kellogg resumed. “Out in the woods, we go off in separate directions, and a half hour later the hunt begins, combat style. Same terms, shoot to scare. But the stalking, the hunt, being hunted—now that’s a spark.”
They downed the remainder of their beers. Jake took the empty glasses to the bar for another round.
“So,” Jake said when he returned. “You want to hunt.”
“Ryan Taggart’s got two hundred wooded acres in Rockbridge County.”
“Taggart? The mute? What’s he got to do with this?”
“Taggart doesn’t say much in the group, but I’ve talked with him.”
“You told him what we did?”
“No way,” Kellogg assured.
“Then how’s he involved?”
“His family has two hundred wooded acres.”
Jake took a long drink, then wiped the white suds from his dark moustache, while waiting for Kellogg to explain.
“Taggart goes hunting there, even off season. To get behind a rifle, you know?”
“I’ve never seen him at the range.”
“He shoots at Chambers, in Gainsboro. I go there sometimes.”
Jake leaned in. “So, this manhunt of yours, it includes Taggart?”
“He’s looking for the spark too.”
“How do you know?”
Kellogg nudged his khaki cap upward. “Same way we saw it in each other.”
Jake remembered when, sitting in the same booth weeks ago, he told Kellogg he was bored with shooting at the range. There was no danger, no purpose—just holes in paper bullseyes. And how Kellogg’s face lit when Jake suggested that a worthy opponent might fix that and reignite the spark.
“Taggart seems to be lost to me—kind of vacant,” Jake replied.
“There was this one time,” Kellogg offered, “at Chambers. Taggart told me about how he had recklessly shot wildlife in his woods, like they were targets, and how unfair that was because they couldn’t shoot back. He had that thousand-yard stare in his eyes as he told me this.”
As he took a swallow, Jake watched Kellogg pan the room but saw no alarm in his face, no sign of intruders, just the watchful gaze he knew too well. Always on the lookout. Wiping the suds again, Jake’s left shoulder twinged. “So, is Taggart’s aim better than yours?”
Kellogg delivered a scowl, then straightened his face. “I’m not going to answer that.” He pulled the brim back down and said, “Why don’t we shoot at Chambers next week? If Taggart’s there you can see for yourself.”
Jake finished his beer. “I’ll let you know after the group tomorrow.”
* * *
“My name is Sharon,” she began. “I’m here because Narcan saved me, but my doctor—my pro bono doctor—suggests it spoiled my ending . . . I think maybe he’s right.” She shared her story of garden-variety parental oppression and low self-esteem, which led her to drugs and prostitution. As dull as it sounded, Jake welcomed a change from the regular veteran misfits in the group. Kellogg looked bored.
Ryan Taggart sat in his usual seat, set back from the circle. His short, muscular legs, protruding from his khaki shorts, straddled the folding chair, and full biceps bulged under his tight Planet Fitness T-shirt. Jake noticed an unsettled look in Taggart, like he was fidgeting without moving, while Sharon confided between whimpers.
Big Nick spoke next. His problem this week was bulldozers in the old strip mall down the block from his apartment, and heavy trucks passing by all day. Too much like tanks and caravans in Kandahar; they made him edgy.
“What can you do to make that seem normal?” Fred, the group leader, asked.
Big Nick paused. “They’re not on my side, and I’m against them. That feels normal . . . but it doesn’t feel good.”
Taggart responded—he did not speak, but in his eyes, Jake saw a glow pierce through his shaggy face, resonating the familiar discord.
“I get that, Big Nick,” Kellogg chimed in. “You want to stop their invasion.”
Fred intervened, “But it’s not an invasion, it’s just construction.”
Big Nick spoke softly, “The charge, the rumble—it’s the same.”
Jake watched Taggart nod once.
Fred responded, “Well, Nick, there may be reminders, but try to consider the different circumstances. This is just construction, and when it’s done, it’s over.”
Big Nick nodded, then looked down and rubbed his knees.
Fred panned the circle of attendees. “Marty, do you have anything to share today?” he asked the middle-aged widower who lost both his daughters in a car accident last winter.
Jake shifted in his chair toward Marty, while Taggart and Kellogg leaned back in theirs.
“Eleven pebbles on each of my girl’s headstones,” Marty said. “Same count for weeks. I guess I’m the only one visiting nowadays.”
When the meeting ended, Ryan Taggart promptly returned his folding chair to the stack and left, as usual. Jake approached Big Nick. “Those caravans on your street—think of them as reinforcements. Maybe you’ll sleep better.”
“Thanks, Jake,” Big Nick said. “But even so, it’s like an invasion.” He looked into Jake’s tired eyes. “You look like shit.”
“Yeah, it took me hours to fall asleep last night, then my phone rang this morning. I didn’t answer, but sleep was over. You know the drill—I’m hardly awake but still alert.”
From behind, Kellogg patted Big Nick’s shoulder and said, “Take it easy, brother.”
Big Nick flinched, then as Kellogg headed to the door, he remarked to Jake, “Easier said than done.”
“Right,” Jake agreed. Slowly he reached to the same shoulder Kellogg had patted and gave a gentle grip. “But maybe we make it harder on ourselves.”
Outside, Jake met Kellogg by his Jeep. Kellogg began to explain, “Taggart was gone by the time I—”
“Okay, let’s shoot at Chambers next week,” Jake said. “I wanna see what Taggart’s got.”
* * *
After two hours of practice at Chambers on Tuesday, they hadn’t seen Taggart. In the parking lot, Kellogg asked Jake to go for a beer. “Nah, not today,” Jake said, opening the door to his pickup. “I’m taking a shift for another security guard tonight, and I need the extra pay. I’m not on a local family business payroll like you.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Kellogg said.
“Just that you’ve got more time to—” Jake’s phone was ringing, and he reached for it on the shift console. He saw his sister’s name on the screen and let the call go to voicemail. Jake forgot what he was saying.
Kellogg didn’t want an answer. “You want to shoot here again tomorrow?”
“Thursday works better for me.”
“Around three or four is the best time to find Taggart,” Kellogg said, loading his rifle bag into the back of his Jeep.
Back at his one-room apartment, Jake grabbed a Rolling Rock from the dented refrigerator and sat in the worn, greenish Naugahyde recliner the previous evicted tenant left behind. He gazed at the water stain on the opposite wall as if it was abstract art and pondered Kellogg’s plan as he drank. When it was nearly time to head to work, he called his sister. She had left two messages.
“I was worried,” Brenda said. “The VA called me. You missed your weekly appointment again with Dr. Nelson?”
“I had a job interview today,” Jake lied, “so I didn’t have time to drive into Roanoke. Why are they calling you?”
“Maybe because you’re not answering your phone,” she answered sharply, then softened her tone to ask, “How did the interview go?”
“Hard to say. I guess I’ll just wait to hear while I keep looking,” he lied again. “And honestly, I’m not sure I want that job.”
“What is it?”
“Speaking of jobs,” Jake said, “I have a guard shift tonight, so I gotta get going.”
“Call Mom and Dad back when you get a chance.”
“Later,” Jake said and disconnected.
* * *
Jake met Kellogg at Chambers on Thursday afternoon. Again, Taggart never showed.
“You going to the meeting tonight?” Jake asked, as they packed their rifles.
“I was going to skip it, but maybe I’ll go to find Taggart there.” Kellogg glanced at his military wristwatch. “We’ve got a couple of hours yet. Want to grab a beer?”
“How about a burger somewhere?”
“Okay. Swell Fed is about three klicks back down Shenandoah, on the right. Meet you there.”
Inside the homey café, Jake browsed the whiteboard menu mounted over the jukebox. The smells of bacon and fryer grease from the kitchen perfumed the small dining area.
“Fried chicken is good here,” Kellogg said.
“Cheeseburger is what I want. Bacon cheeseburger sounds even better.”
Jake’s phone vibrated. He anxiously pulled it from his pocket and saw it was a call from home in Dallas. He let it go to voicemail.
The waitress brought iced water in translucent red plastic glasses to their booth and took their orders. After she left, Kellogg said, “We’ll get this manhunt worked out. I’ll see to it—I know Taggart’s gonna go for it. So keep up with rifle practice.”
Jake was distracted, thinking what to text to his parents. “I’m still alive. Leave me alone,” came to mind. Instead, he sent, “Busy. I’ll call later.” Later was conveniently fuzzy—could be days.
Kellogg was watching him, and then Jake remembered what he’d said. “We can’t talk to Taggart about this at the meeting,” Jake responded.
“Yeah, you’re right about that. But maybe I can set up a rendezvous at Chambers. Just gotta catch him at the right time—in private.”
* * *
That night Sharon was not tearful, but she looked sad, twirling her hair as she rambled about how she missed prostitution, how it gave her a sense of self apart from herself. Marty had not been to the cemetery for over a week, and although he thought it was time to let that go, he felt guilty. Big Nick reported waking in cold sweats. He couldn’t clearly recall his dreams, but he was certain they featured caravans. Ryan Taggart wasn’t there.
“Calvin, we haven’t heard from you in a while,” Fred turned to Kellogg. “How are you doing?”
It bugged Kellogg to be called Calvin, but Fred always did that. Now it was just part of the game.
“Better, Alfred, I guess,” Kellogg said. “Five weeks into my taper off paroxetine.”
“And that’s going well?”
“I guess so. I seem to be thinking more clearly. My doctors say they might suggest another medication next month.”
“After paroxetine, you’ll get fluoxetine,” Big Nick said.
Jake chuckled. “Or Valium.”
“Let me finish,” Kellogg said. “I’m thinking clearly now, and maybe I don’t need any of that shit.” He turned to his friend, “Right, Jake?”
Jake thought about the many refills of his meds sitting unused, stuffed away in a cabinet. He tipped his head toward Kellogg and shrugged one shoulder.
“Talk to your doctors,” Fred advised. “And listen. See what they recommend.”
* * *
Sitting in his Naugahyde chair with a beer, Jake listened to the message Kellogg had left. “Hey Jake, I’m going to Bullseye tomorrow instead of Chambers. You want to meet for lunch first, say around 12:30 at The Scuttlebutt?”
The next day Kellogg was sitting at the bar with a near-empty glass when Jake walked in. “Two more Yuenglings, Nance,” he said to the tattooed barmaid.
“Before we go shooting?” Jake asked.
“Have a beer,” Kellogg said. He added a five to the dollar bills in front of him, downed the last swallow, and stood. “I gotta piss. Get us a booth,” he said then walked to the restrooms.
Two fresh brews arrived. “Has he been waiting long?” Jake asked Nance.
“Just one beer,” she said, clearing the empty glass away.
Jake took the beers over to the back booth. When Kellogg joined him, Jake asked, “What happened to shooting at Chambers today?”
Kellogg took a slug. “Taggart’s dead.”
“What?”
“He’d been missing over a week. My cousin at the VA told me the sheriff’s hounds found him out in the middle of the woods in Rockbridge County.”
Jake shook his head. There was no need to ask. He raised his glass and said, “Godspeed, Taggart.” They both drank. In the somber moment that followed, Jake thought of Taggart the Mute, stoic and silent in his seat on the perimeter.
Kellogg broke the lull, clearing his throat. “Meanwhile, what do we do with our manhunt plan?”
At first Jake was nonplussed by Kellogg’s question, then he pictured Taggart dressed in camouflage, rifle in hand, ready for the manhunt, but laying in a coffin. “Your plan. Fuck that.”
“Fuck it? Then what else you got? Another fucking duel?”
“I guess I’ll keep going back to the group.”
Kellogg scowled. “You think that helps?”
“Maybe . . . or maybe I can help someone there—Big Nick, maybe Marty.”
“Or the heroin hooker?” Kellogg sneered.
“Yeah, maybe even Sharon.”
A clang of something dropped clamored from the kitchen. Startled, they both immediately turned and watched Nance peer into the kitchen. Jake sat back first, while Kellogg continued to stare even though there was no obvious threat.
A moment later Kellogg asked, “You want to eat, or head over to the range?”
“Maybe we should cut back on trigger time for a while.”
“But what about the spark?”
“Ryan Taggart killed himself. Isn’t that jolt enough, Kellogg?”
Kellogg didn’t answer. Jake finished his beer. “I’m not hungry now,” he said. He stood. “See you tomorrow night.”
“Maybe,” Kellogg answered, as Jake turned away.
Jake turned back. “Be there. For me, for Big Nick, for Sharon.”
* * *
After a clumsy opening, Fred eventually shared the news for those in the group who hadn’t heard. The elephant in the room was the empty chair Jake had set at the perimeter. “We’ve lost Ryan Taggart,” Fred said. “He was a quiet man. Bottled up, you might say?” Fred scanned the group circle and paused at Jake.
“Silence speaks volumes.” Jake stopped there and looked around. “Hey—where’s Big Nick?” he asked, sitting upright.
Just then Big Nick arrived, and Jake felt a flood of relief.
Marty wanted to know if Ryan had any family, or was he all alone? Sharon had nothing to say when Fred gave her a turn to speak. Big Nick looked like he hadn’t slept but offered no account of dreams or night sweats; instead, he talked about fishing once with Taggart.
At the end of the meeting, Kellogg was chatting with Big Nick. Jake approached Sharon and asked, “How are you doing? You didn’t say much tonight.”
Sharon shrugged and said, “I don’t know if it helps to talk here.”
“Yeah, it’s not easy sometimes. But then Fred reminds us—don’t bottle things up.”
“I appreciate that, Jake . . . but after you let it all out, what’s left?”
J.P.J. FOX
J.P.J. Fox writes to appease ideas cluttering his alter ego’s mind. Raised in New England, he then moved to Westchester County, New York, but writes from imaginary places. As an introverted Scorpio, he knows he’s not easy to live with, so writing alone suits him fine. He finds people to be far more fascinating than their social media.