Horns

PART ONE

August 8th, 2013

9:00 A.M.

Arthur, Nebraska

The crowd was larger than projected. The increased capacity of unexpected townsfolk was cause for a change of plans. The Court House was too small and too hot to peacefully accommodate those attending the town hall meeting. About an hour ago, Quinn Foster, Nebraska’s beloved Governor for the past seven years, shuffled everyone across the scorching pavement - leading them into the pork scented First Baptist Church. The old pews filled quickly, as aggravated residents of Arthur County crammed their way inside. Sweaty hands were soon raised in the air, casting out waves of horrid body odor. The two wooden doors of the doomsday structured church were both open, allowing the smoke from the priming BBQ pit next door to waft in - combating the armpit aroma. Four chairs sat in a staggered row at the front of the church. Each seat was filled with a concerned, sweating citizen - waiting to debate their positions.

Cooper Meyer, a sixty-five year old fattened soybean farmer from Arthur county, who was vigorously wiping sweat from the crevices on his wrinkled face - sat in the seat farthest to the left. Next to him was the state's largest and most ruthless Soybean tycoon, Eleanor Wagner. At sixty-two, she could still make a man twist his neck in a knot. A lit cigarette dangled from her red lips as she rifled through a modest stack of manilla folders and creased papers. Beside her, sat Rowan Sorenson. A bearded, dark-skinned man with holes in both his jeans and plaid, long-sleeve shirt. He was fidgeting with his waistband, trying to conceal a whiskey filled flask from the onlooking townsfolk. Successfully tucking and hiding the booze beneath his shirt, the proprietor of Cattle Lake campground unsheathed his Bowie knife, and began to dig out hardened chunks of manure from his leather boots. Next to him was the beloved Governor of Nebraska, Quinn Foster - or as the punk kids liked to call him, “Skinny Quinny”. Yesterday was Skinny’s seventy-second birthday, which meant he was still dressed in his best - a fitted, coal-grey suit with a bleach white shirt and thick red tie. His thinning, black hair was slicked back and his sun-burnt face was freshly shaved. He sat proud, watching as the hot church quickly filled with anxious faces.

With a population of a booming 427, it seemed as if everyone in Arthur County had come to the meeting. Inside the church, Sheriff Thompson tried to get a head count - a noble attempt which proved to be futile. After accounting for 120 bodies, bumbling radio chatter forced her back outside to the silence of her squad car. Yanking the door open, she dropped into the driver’s seat, picked up the corded speaker, pressed the push to talk button, manipulated the console’s radio to the proper channel, then commanded her deputy to relay his message.

“Sorry to bother you, Sheriff. I know you’ve got your hands full with the town meeting, but we just received another call about missing cattle. That's the fifth call in the last month, Sheriff, totaling twenty missing Angus Bulls. What the hell is going on? Over.”

Sheriff Thompson took a moment to contemplate her orders, then shot them back over the radio. “Take a car out to the ranch and investigate the missing bulls. Talk to the owners of the ranch, all of the ranch hands and anybody else you happen to meet along the way. There's only 427 people in Arthur County, Deputy. Somebody’s got to know something. Oh, and Liam, take the new kid with you, he could use the stimulation. Three hard-fought years in Afghanistan makes it very difficult for someone to readjust to society. Over and out.”

Hooking the corded speaker back onto the dashboard, Sheriff Thompson pulled herself out of the police car, checked to make sure her holstered Glock was secured and ready, then made her way back inside of the crammed church. The matter at hand involved everyone in the county, and it appeared that everyone was in attendance, and they were all pissed off. Her senses were heightened and alert.

Nora Hughes was racing down NE-92, Nebraska's interstate highway, in her silver Ford pick up with a Nebraska Times Journalist Of the Year bumper sticker. She was on her way from the small town of Keystone, up to the town hall meeting in Arthur - when the driver’s side front tire suddenly blew out. She did her best to maintain control, but the tires on the truck were old and worn. As she wrangled with the leather steering wheel, the passenger side front tire exploded from the shifting friction, causing the front axle to buckle.

The derailed Ford made a forceful left turn, and trampled into the prairie, kicking up shrubs, sedges and large chunks of rich, brown soil. With both her hands melted into the steering wheel, she braced for the impending impact. Staring the rapidly approaching ditch in its depthless face, all she could do was slam her foot down on the brake and hope. Realizing there was nothing she could do to slow her momentum, she closed her eyes as gravity tumbled her down into nothing. When the hunk of metal finally found the bottom, Nora was not consciously aware of the discovery. The pickup luckily landed upright, leaving her limp body slumped over the center console - left hand still gripped to the bottom half of the steering wheel.

The engine was smoking, her face, neck and exposed arms were covered in lacerations from the smashed windows, her laptop was broken into two separate pieces and the cell phone in her pants pocket was vibrating. Hand written loose leaf papers with the bold words MISSING BULLS and I KNOW WHERE THEY ARE, plastered on their faces - were scattered across the upholstery as well as throughout the entire ditch. Nora knew something, something big. But unfortunately, the secret was dying beside her at the bottom of a ditch.

PART TWO

Controlling the urge to stuff her stomach with sizzling BBQ, Sheriff Thompson kept her focus on the meeting. Rowan Sorenson had just finished giving his drunken speech on why the campgrounds are essential to the future of Arthur county, and how his family, being one of the oldest in Nebraska, deserved the respect of every citizen in the state. He finished the slurred spiel with his annual promise of sobriety, which failed miserably when his top-secret flask fell from his waistband as he stood to challenge an angry resident.

“The campgrounds are crucial to the county. They teach kids the importance of ranching and farming. We also teach them useful life skills, like hunting, shooting, and starting fires. Kids gotta know how to start fires. And don’t believe a word of what these two cash cows are selling. They’re not planning on building some grand soybean factory to help bring in more money to combat the county’s ever depleting revenue, they’re intending to construct a monstrous slaughterhouse where they can extract stem-cells from the full grown bulls and then use them to raise their own line of cattle for future slaughter. The soybean factory is all bullshit. Where do you think all of your missing bulls went? They didn’t just walk off and disappear into the Nebraska sunset. If you don’t believe me, just wait until Nora gets here. She has proof!” The words were intelligent yet thick with whiskey and jumbled together, making them hard to decipher.

Clasping Rowan’s broad shoulders, veiny yet firm hands sank him back down into the ripped cushion of the steel chair. Without turning his head, Rowan knew who was keeping his outburst at bay - he could smell his horrid cologne. Governor Foster’s skinny bear paws were firmly latched onto Sorenson’s shoulders as he showcased his wide smile to the weary crowd, ensuring them that Rowan’s passion stemmed from harmless dedication and delusion. To a fool, you would think that the Governor was on Rowan’s side, trying to avert permanent embarrassment - but Rowan knew the truth. The beloved Governor was just as corrupt as the two tycoons trying to steal his land. But being a well-known drunk made his word hard to believe, so he slouched back into his sticky chair and hoped that the confused townsfolk would support him.

Skinny Quinny tried to distract the anxious audience by presenting the next speaker with the same energy as a television game show host, “And now, ladies and gentleman, from right here in Arthur County, Nebraska. The handsome devil from Keystone. Mr. Tycoon himself. Cooper Meyer!”

Wiping waves of sweat from his face and jowls, and mimicking what a corpse must look like rising from its grave, Cooper slowly stood from his chair. His sweat-stained, fat belly reached out to greet the crowd as he stretched his spine. Clearing his throat with a congested cough, he spoke his piece.

“Good morning, good people of Arthur County. You all know who I am and I know all of you. So let's keep this short. This man, Rowan Sorenson, is nothing but a conspiracy spewing drunk, who takes no pride in up-keeping his campgrounds in Lemoyne. It is a waste of space and he is a waste of life. A new soybean factory would help save our county from extinction, by providing new jobs and a new source of revenue. With Mrs. Wagner's help and funding, we won’t need to worry about the departing cattle ranches or the missing bulls, because we will become the new soybean capital of the United States.”

Knowing every word he had just delivered was a lie, he swallowed hard and dropped his overweight carcass back down into the trembling chair, relieved that he could once again sit. A mixture of angry and pleased faces stared at the fat man as they chewed on his deception.

More sweaty hands shot up among the townsfolk, as questions brewed in their minds. Becoming irritated, some of the residents began yelling out their opinions rather than waiting for their number to be called. Two rough men in the back of the church began yelling, “Sorenson is a deadbeat! Take his land and kick his ass out of town!”

A hard-looking woman around fifty, standing up front with a jaw full of chewing tobacco, hollered out in agreement. “The county needs income, not useless campgrounds that teach kids how to fish and play with fire. And lord only knows what really goes on at those grounds anyway! Kick him out!” Solidifying her position, she spit a wad of the tobacco from her chapped lips onto the ground in front of her, nearly hitting the boots of a cowering Rowan.

The crowd’s increasing rowdiness was swiftly cut short, as Mrs. Wagner rose from her chair. Voices were silenced and necks were strained forward, all eyes were on Eleanor. Her lips parted and the words spilled out like sweet barbecue sauce, “My friends, do not be alarmed by this frightened man before you. His mind is frail, and he tries to stray you from the truth. Yet like him, my family also has deep roots in Arthur County, which means I can tell you the truth behind his family's disgraceful legacy while providing you with the proper funding to put Arthur back on the map. I urge you all, please, do not believe the conspiracy. I trust that the right consensus will be reached.”

Studying the eyes of everyone she was manipulating, she pulled a cigarette from behind her ear, lifted her left boot heel to her waist, and struck a match against it. Blowing a fog of smoke into the throng, she gracefully returned to her cushioned chair - continuing to observe her experiment.

PART THREE

August 8th, 2013

9:30 A.M

Arthur, Nebraska

Boone King and the ever chatty Liam Peterson, were roaring down the interstate towards Keystone when they came across a billowing column of black smoke. As they approached the anomaly, tar-stained skid marks and the smell of burnt rubber welcomed their arrival. Stepping out of the air-conditioned squad car, they realized that the smoke was actually coming from the prairie. A well camouflaged ditch, about one hundred yards from the road, was the home of the fuming smog. Boone and Liam locked eyes, and without saying a word, communicated their actions. Liam returned to the squad car to radio Sheriff Thompson of their discovery, while Boone investigated the ditch and the source of the smoke. Stepping up to the hole in the earth, Boone’s hand found his holstered Glock and unclipped the retaining strap. Extending his neck over the edge, he peered down in awe at the familiar, wrecked pickup truck. His mind started to panic, fearing the worst for the driver. He bellowed to Liam, “Car accident! Silver Ford Pickup! Call an ambulance to the scene!”

A few moments passed between them, then Boone screamed out across the prairie, “Liam, I think it’s Nora.”

Teetering on the edge of the ditch, Boone plotted out the safest route of descent, and executed it. Fighting off the collapsing soil, he ran down the steep wall, using his momentum to stay on his feet. Reaching the bottom, he meticulously searched the crash site before approaching the vehicle. Sifting through the scattered pieces of loose leaf paper, he was desperately trying to connect the pieces of the puzzle. Breaking his focus, Boone heard Liam’s voice call out from the road, “Boone, Sheriff Thompson has been notified of the crash and an ambulance is on its way. Did you find a body, is it Nora?”

Those final words cut through Boone like a hot knife. About three months ago, Boone had finally mustered enough courage to ask out the rugged journalist. Like him, she had also served in the military. Six long years in the air force lead her to the exciting career of being Arthur County's top action-news reporter. Although she never saw combat, Boone thought that they had enough in common - selfless sacrifice for a greater good. Unable to ignore the wrecked pickup truck any longer, he tensely forced his way to the driver’s side door. Using both hands to carve a path through the smoke, Boone reached the truck and examined the interior. Shards of glass, hand written papers with the words MISSING BULLS and I KNOW WHERE THEY ARE, plastered on their faces, and numerous smears of blood were all he found. No driver. No lifeless body. No Nora.

Years of military training kicking in, he gathered the pieces of the broken laptop, collected the jaw-dropping papers, and started taking blood samples. Dead or alive, Boone would do everything in his power to find Nora.

After an hour of combing the crash site and searching for any remaining clues that would help them find Nora, Boone and Liam got back into their squad car and scanned through the stacks of incriminating papers - hoping that she jotted down the location of where the missing bulls were being kept. With Nora missing, and her car in ruin on the side of the road, Boone’s evaluation of the incident quickly started to stray from being an accident, and more towards sabotage. They needed to find an address, fast.

“Got it!” Liam blurted from the passenger seat, nearly choking on his words with excitement. “Olson Ranch. Off NE-92. We’re about two miles out from our current location."

Being a police officer in a town with 427 residents meant you knew everyone and everything about them. Confused by the Deputy’s words, Boone started to think out loud.

“Olson Ranch? But that land was sold a year ago. Noah and Evelyn Olson decided to cash in on their retirement. They moved east to Omaha, so they could be closer to their kids and grandkids. The land is uninhabited. Why there?”

The car remained silent for what felt like an eternity, then Liam broke it, “Who did they sell their ranch to?”

Again the car fell silent, but this time Boone used it to search his eidetic memory for the purchase and sale. Mumbling, Boone found what he was looking for.

“Skinny Quinny.”

“What?” Liam replied. “Stop mumbling and speak up.”

“Skinny Quinny. Quinn Foster. The Governor of Nebraska. He’s the one that bought the land. But it wasn’t him alone, he had two co-signers.”

“Two? Who.”

“Cooper Meyer and Eleanor Wagner,” Boone said.

“That’s an odd threesome to be buying land together. Eleanor despises Cooper, and Quinn Foster has hated everyone in Arthur since he became Governor. His charm is his best weapon, but he’s been using the county as his own personal wallet. We’re just a stepping stone to get him to the next level of politics.”

As the two police officers devised a plan of action, a large, muscular, black Angus Bull came trotting down the highway. As the beast passed the squad car, they were able to catch a glimpse of the red ear tag.

“Red Tag. That’s a Hoffman bull. Mr. Hoffman called the station two weeks ago, reporting that three of his prized bulls were missing from his ranch,” Liam said.

As the horned bovine continued its march towards Arthur, Boone radioed to Sheriff Thompson,“Sheriff, we have a lead on the missing bulls as well as Nora. Olson Ranch. We’re headed there now. Keep the townsfolk contained inside of the church and do not allow Cooper, Eleanor or The Governor to leave Arthur. Oh and one more thing, post someone reliable outside of the church. We found one of the missing bulls, and it’s heading into town. Over and out.”

Boone slid the silver key into the ignition, and the two officers sped off down the desolate highway towards Olson Ranch. After about ten minutes of high speeds and winding roads, they arrived at the dilapidated gated entrance showcasing the words HAWTHORN CATTLE RANCH. They parked the cruiser on the side of the road, not wanting to alert any potential threats of their presence. Boone popped the trunk revealing two AR-15 automatic rifles with scopes and two tactical vests. Taking a moment to get suited up, Boone noticed that to their right slept a small cluster of grassy knolls. In order to get a better vantage point, he insisted that they reach their peaks. Liam voted against it, wanting to continue down the entry path to cause a distraction if they did happen to encounter a viable threat. Finding common ground, they decided to split up and advance on two fronts. Keeping their radios on but volume low, they engaged their mission. Liam set off to the left, staying low and sticking as close to the shrubs and trees as possible, while Boone mounted the knolls. From his perch, he took in the landscape. The ranch was enormous, stretching to a whopping five thousand acres. Three cattle corrals, which were all empty, surrounded three, dark red farm houses. Forgotten tractors baked in the sunlight, ensuring the outside world that this land had no occupants. But that was not the case. Parked out front of the largest farm house were three, large, Chevrolet pickup trucks. Except these trucks did not look abandoned, which meant there were people here. But how many? And were they dangerous? And where the hell was Nora?

Through the sights of the scope, Boone surveyed the ranch. Focusing on the parked trucks, he aimed his rifle towards the main house - meticulously assessing the possible threats. The windows were cracked and covered with grime, making it difficult to see inside, but Boone finally got lucky and found an open window. The image inside of the rectangular opening made his heart hammer in his chest. Guarded by three familiar men who all donned loaded shoulder holsters, was Nora. Gagged and bound to a squeeze chute. Her tired face told him everything he needed to know - she was going to die here and she knew it.

Boone immediately radioed Liam, “I’ve got eyes on Nora. She’s inside of the main farm house. Approach the front with caution, Liam. The Baker brothers are keeping her captive. They have her confined inside of a damn squeeze chute. Sick bastards.”

Without waiting for his partner’s response, Boone took off in a full sprint towards the farm house. As he approached the first corral, Boone waited a moment to see if his charge set off any alarms - hearing nothing but the wind, he was confident that his presence was not detected, so he continued on. Slithering his way closer, Boone patrolled the empty structure with his rifle tucked tight to his shoulder, barrel facing out. Clearing it, he moved on to the second. Through one of the broken windows, Boone at last saw the scandal. The entire house was gutted and filled with Angus Bulls, all with different colored ear tags. The missing bulls.

Knowing that freeing Nora was his main priority, he pushed on to the third house. Still awaiting an update from Liam, Boone radioed him again, “Liam, I’ve checked the two smaller farmhouses. One was empty, but the other one was crammed with at least twenty stolen bulls. I’m moving on to the big house now. What is your status? Over.”

Getting back nothing but static, Boone’s confidence in their rescue mission started to fall apart. Had Liam been captured too? There was only one way for him to find out, he needed to infiltrate the last house.

Sneaking into the back door of the structure, Boone made his way from room to room with tactical lethality. Approaching the kitchen, he heard the clanging of glasses being filled with ice. Leading with the long barrel, he made sure the safety was off, then crossed the threshold. “Do not move, Mason,” Boone said with a commanding tone, his finger resting on the trigger.

Catching the youngest of the brothers off guard, the captor didn’t even try to put up a fight. His face went ghost white and his hands were instantly thrusted in the air, “Don’t shoot!”

“That will depend entirely on you,” Boone said. “Where are your two brothers?”

Keeping Mason in front of his rifle, Boone was escorted throughout the house until they reached the gigantic living room. Nora’s eyes went wide with fear when she saw the young brother enter the room first, then her eyes changed with a wave of relief when she saw Boone enter behind him - rifle pointed at his spine. Not expecting the intrusion, the oldest brother who was sitting in a torn leather love seat in a shaded corner, kicked over a cluster of empty beer bottles in a drunken frenzy to grasp his shoulder pistol. Smashing the butt of his rifle into the back of Mason's knees, dropping him to the ground, Boone raised his AR-15 to the drunk man struggling on the couch. Valuing his life, the drunk brother left the Glock in its holster and raised his hands high.

“Smart choice, Isaac. Now, where is Wyatt?”

“He’s in the basement,” Isaac slurred.

“Call him up here. Now,” Boone commanded.

With a pathetic squeal, the drunk man hollered for his brother to return to the living room. A moment of silence blanketed them as they waited for a response. Then, heavy footsteps started booming from below - echoing throughout the house. Wyatt was a large caliber, cold-blooded man which caused Boone to nervously sweat. He needed to maintain control and end this.

When Wyatt got to the living room, he took in the sticky situation. With a wide smirk, his six-foot-five frame vibrated with sinister laughter, “Fool. Do you know what you’re doing? Who’s plans you're interrupting? We are Goliath, and you are David. Except in this story, David dies. Brutally.”

With Isaac drooling in anger on the couch, and Mason groaning in agony on the floor, Wyatt made his move. He was quick but not quick enough. In the blink of an eye, his meaty hands lunged for his pistols. A loud crack exploded, ricocheting off the walls. Boone was frozen in place, sure he was shot. As the blast faded, his motor functions returned, and he checked his body for bullet holes. Finding none, he looked back at the large man in the doorway. Making eye contact, he noticed something fleeting in the man's eyes, something cold. Wyatt started to sway forward, then gravity took over and he fell to the floor, slamming his ugly face into the splintered wood. Standing behind the fallen behemoth, with hot smoke leaking from the barrel of his pistol, was Liam.

Realizing his life had just been saved, Boone gave his heavy head a deep tilt forward - thanking his partner with his entire heart. Now, with one brother dead, the two lucky cops were finally able to take control. They released Nora from her bindings and slapped steel handcuffs onto the remaining brother’s wrists. Liam went straight for the bulls. But not before collecting the black binders containing the lists of scientists and lawyers who were invested in making this dark project a success. Boone stayed with the brother’s, preparing to find some answers. Like an owner to his dog, he addressed the brothers, “Speak.”

Cracking instantly from the weight of potential prison time, Mason spilled everything.

“Cooper Meyer, Eleanor Wagner and Governor Foster hired us to steal the bulls. Their plans were to buy up all of Rowan’s land, for cheap, so they could build their own, private slaughterhouse. Because with the declining soybean market, they needed to find a new source of guaranteed revenue. And with Nebraska averaging 11.47 billion pounds of slaughtered cattle a year, they quickly became obsessed with getting involved in the business. The cattle are all being kept in the adjacent house, waiting to have their stem-cells extracted. The plans for the slaughterhouse and the contracts for the research as well as the scientists being considered to run the tests are all locked up in the safe upstairs.”

Satisfied, yet pissed off, Boone relayed the story to Sheriff Thompson. Her response was short and calculated.

“Roger that, officer King. Make sure Nora gets to a hospital. Have Liam focus on cataloging the bulls, so we can get them back to where they belong. Then personally help those two halfwitted Baker boys find their way into a couple of cozy cells. As for Cooper, Eleanor and the Governor, leave them to me. I have plenty of experience killing snakes, so I can definitely handle a slimy, three headed one. Over and out.”

Part Four

August 8th, 2013

11:45 A.M

Arthur, Nebraska

Sheriff Thompson, with the help of her spotter, had managed to keep all of the fuming townsfolk inside of the church. Then she saw it. Charging down NE-92. His dark skin smoldering in the sunlight, showcasing the deep creases of his muscles. His cement hooves hammered the ground with his stride, snorting at the hot wind. Some of the folks inside heard the rumble, and pushed their way outside just as the Angus Bull with a bright red tag dangling from its left ear paraded by. From the small crowd, an old voice called out, “Red tag! That’s my bull! What the hell is going on!”

Sheriff Thompson drew her firearm and commanded the mob to re-enter the church for their own safety. Not wanting to defy law enforcement, they obliged. Sheriff Thompson proceeded to walk up to the four occupied chairs at the front of the church, pistol now gripped in both hands, prepared to shoot.

Then she addressed the room.

“Cooper Meyer. Eleanor Wagner. Governor Foster. You are all under arrest for the theft of cattle. The kidnapping of Nebraska journalist, Nora Hughes, and the attempted murder of Nebraska journalist, Nora Hughes. We have just raided Hawthone ranch, and discovered your plans to build a massive slaughterhouse on Rowan’s land. Using the lake for irrigation, dumping, and ventilation. We also found the lists of scientists you hired to kill and extract stem-cells from the stolen bulls to use to harvest your own private line of cattle. We found the Baker boys, holed up in the ranch’s farmhouse, keeping Nora hostage. Two of them are headed to the precinct as we speak, the other one is headed to the morgue. It is over. The state police have been notified and they will be here within the hour to haul your asses out of Arthur, for good. You lied to all of us. Especially you, Skinny. We believed in you. But here we are.”

The entire room fell silent, as the three headed snake could do nothing but stare back with dropped jaws and wide eyes. She holstered her weapon and brought her radio to her mouth. Then she saw it. Everyone in the church must have seen it too. Governor Foster and Cooper Meyer both made quick eye contact then eyed the exit door behind them. Before Sheriff Thompson could redraw her firearm, both men's hands were suddenly pointing at the ceiling. Turning around, she saw the mouths of one hundred rifle and pistol barrels bearing down on the quivering snake. They weren’t going anywhere.

An hour later, Nebraska State Troopers arrived in force to haul the three amigos away to jail. Nora had been taken to the local hospital and was being well looked after. Boone had booked and locked the Baker Boys into their cells and Liam had already started returning the stolen bulls to their owners. Rowan was forgiven by the residents of Arthur, but that came with a cost. In order for him to keep his campgrounds, he must take and pass a weekly drug and alcohol test. Realizing that his life, future and credibility had just been saved, he didn't offer any protest.

Sheriff Thompson’s stomach started rumbling, begging her to consume more barbecue. Considering she did just help save the day, she didn’t offer any protest either. Stuffing a styrofoam to-go box with hot brisket, tangy ribs, smokey pulled pork and a generous slice of cornbread, she got back into her cruiser, stuffed her face, and waited for the next call.