Turniptown

Captain Garrick Lassiter takes a few deep breaths as the tank skims past a row of cherry blossom trees.

Carson Steele pops out of the hatch, standing alongside his commanding officer.

“Allergies?” he asks.

“Just taking in the last of the clean, fresh air. I hear it’ll get pretty foul once we cross the border.”

“It’s something more than that, Captain. You look troubled.”

“I’ve got a feeling of Déjà vu. I remember passing these trees…I remember their smell, like vanilla…”

A glint of recognition crosses Carson’s features.

“They’re pretty common in this part of the country,” he notes.

The tank passes a pristine field. A white horse trots up to the fence, nodding at the tank as if to wish the crew good luck.

From his position in the front of the tank, Coby Allard calls out above the engine's purr, “Why do they call it Turniptown?”

“Because the people there are inbred hillbillies who smell like turnips,” Carson answers, letting out a jet stream of smoke with his cigarette. “You ever smell a turnip? Stinks like an open sewer.”

Garrick looks up at the sky. “Clouds are coming in. We’ve crossed the border.”

“You mean even the weather in Turniptown stinks?”

The pavement ends, becoming a rutty, narrow dirt road.

“Sign up ahead, Captain,” Coby shouts.

The tank rolls to a stop.

“I heard the folks in Turniptown practice black magic,” Coby says.

“They’re not smart enough to be that sinister,” Carson retorts.

Garrick snorts disdainfully as he reads the crudely hand-painted sign nailed to a rotted post.

STOP! TURN ROUND. AIN’T NO REASON FOR YOU TO COME IN TO TURNIPTOWN. YOU DOES SO AT YOUR OWN RISK.

“You know how screwed up this place is supposed to be? Carson asks. “Google Street View has blacked out its location.”

“It may be a dump, but it has strategic value. It sits on the border of our enemy, the Yullins,” Garrick says. “So, let’s do our duty and make them surrender.”

With an enthusiastic “Yes, sir!” Coby drives the tank over the sign, crushing it.

The tank soon passes a second sign.

YOU BELONG TO US NOW.

“What the heck does that mean?” Coby asks nervously.

“It’s just a feeble scare tactic, you greenhorn,” Carson replies, puffing mightily on his cigarette.

A twenty-two-year veteran of Corisca’s Royal Attack Force, steely-eyed, silver-haired forty-three-year-old Sergeant Carson Steele has fought in two wars against Yullin and has a chemical burn and two medals to prove it. Driver Coby Allard reluctantly followed his late brother’s footsteps, joining the Force at twenty-one, although his dark mop-top hairdo and sad brown eyes make him look and act like a teenager. Dark-haired, rugged-looking thirty-two-year-old Captain Garrick Lassiter is a war-weary but no-nonsense commander anxious to finish their mission and go home to his family.

The tank passes three scarecrows in a field.

“Stop!” Garrick commands. “Notice anything unusual about those scarecrows?”

“They’re a bit faded by the sun, but they’re wearing Corsican uniforms,” Carson notes. “Weren’t we told no Corsican soldier has ever set foot in Turniptown?”

“Apparently, three did.”

“Permission to bury our dead, Captain,” Carson says.

                                               ***

Taking down one of the skeletons, Coby lets out an audible gasp.

“What’s the matter, greenhorn?” Carson asks.

“This skeleton has the same ring as me.”

Garrick lifts the skeleton’s finger, looking at the gold ring with the green opal.

“So, you both went to the same school,” Carson says.

“And graduated the same year,” Coby replies.

“Let’s get back to the task of burying our comrades,” Garrick commands.

“Yeah, then we can bury those turnip heads,” Carson says.

                                               ***

The tank rolls into Turniptown.

“This is a vital strategic location?” Carson questions.

Turniptown consists of a haphazard collection of run-down trailers on a dead-end dirt road. The only building, a weather-beaten combination general store and bar, overlooks the cul-de-sac.

A group of filthy children playing in a junk-strewn yard pause to gawk at the tank. A pair of salivating German Shepherds walk to the edge of their overgrown yard, staring suspiciously at the strangers. Two dozen dazed, disheveled men in worn bib overalls and women in wrinkled, faded skirts cautiously wander out of their trailers carrying an assortment of antique weapons.

“Notice how they all look alike, greenhorn?” Carson asks Coby. “I bet they all have the same last name.”

A wall-eyed, seventyish man with craggy features wearing a glittering white crown steps toward.

“I’m King Kern Flake.”

“Well, Mister Flake. We’re here to secure the town and accept your unconditional surrender,” Garrick says.

King Kern’s eyes seem to spread further apart, widening. “Surrender? We ain’t at war, and if we was, we’d certainly have conditions.”

“No, you don’t understand. We set the conditions.”

“Well, that don’t seem fair. If we give you Turniptown, what you gonna give us?”

“Your lives!” Carson snaps.

“We already got them,” King Kern replies.

Garrick huffs. “Maybe you can explain why three scarecrows in Corsican uniforms are in one of your turnip fields, who they are, and who murdered them.”  

Exhaling wearily, King Kern turns to the mob. “Somebody else wanna answer?”

A cross-eyed, red-haired man steps forward. “Name’s Kelsey Kern. That farm on the outskirts’a town belongs to our cousin, Killian. He’s right on the border between you and us, so he trades with Corsica on the town’s behalf. He must’ve asked for some uniforms to help the scarecrows frighten the crows.”

“For the sake of argument, let’s say we gave you the uniforms. What are the names of the men you’ve got hanging from those posts?”

King Kern speaks up. “Don’t rightly know. Their bones been bleachin’ in the sun for a long time. Ever since you started your war with the Yullin.” 

“Six years,” Garrick says, trying to control his anger. “You should have sent their remains back home.”

“Didn’t know where they come from. Corsica is a big place.”

“Why didn’t you just bury them?” Coby asks.

The jewels in King Kern’s crown shimmer hypnotically.

“They was trespassers.”

“Trespassing isn’t punishable by death,” Garrick replies.

“It is ‘round here,” King Kern replies.

“…You had no right…,” Carson murmurs angrily. “To hell with a peaceful surrender, Captain. You and I both know these inbred idiots murdered those three men. Let’s blast these hillbilly’s huts to kingdom come.”

King Kern harumphs. “We don’t want no trouble. But if you come here looking for trouble, you’ll get trouble.”

The townspeople raise their weapons, surrounding the tank.

“You obviously don’t know who or what you’re dealing with,” Garrick says sternly. “Sergeant Steele, aim your gun at the first trailer.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

“Last time I’m going to say this, Mister Flake. Lay down your weapons and surrender.”

King Kern laughs heartily. The crowd yells insults and curses the tank crew.

“FIRE!”

A shell hits the trailer, obliterating it.

Pieces of splintered wood and dust cover the crowd.

“Now, what do you have to say?”

Light flashes from King Kern’s crown. “My great-grandchildren was in that house. You know what I got to say? Same as you. FIRE!”

Garrick tries to retreat down the tank’s hatch. A bullet passes through his neck, and he begins to choke on his own blood. A second bullet in his forehead ends his misery.

Coby is riddled with buckshot from one side of the street. Two rifle shells fired from the other side tear into his side. Blinded, he slides through the driver’s hatch. Landing in the driver’s seat, he dies with his hand on the ignition.

Carson reaches for his .45 as the blast from a doubled-barreled shotgun tears away the side of his face. A barrage of bullets peppers his torso, finishing him.

“You think they’d learn by now,” King Kern says. “You know what to do, boys.”

                                               ***

The tank passes an overgrown field. The skeleton of a horse trots up to the fence, snorting angrily at Garrick.

Garrick closes his eyes, hoping to clear his head.

“You all right, Captain?” Carson asks.

“Just feeling a little lightheaded, Sergeant.”

“Me too. We passed a bunch of crows a half a mile back. I thought they cawed my name as they flew off.”

“You know what a group of crows is called, Sergeant? A murder.”

“Well, that’s comforting.”

Garrick surveys the cloudy sky as the tank rumbles up the dusty road.

“…I remember this road…”

“Sign ahead, Captain!” Coby announces.

The tank rolls to a halt next to the sign.

It reads: “AGAIN?”

“What do you suppose that means?” Coby asks.

“It’s just a feeble scare tactic, you greenhorn,” Carson snaps, lighting a cigarette. “Right, Captain?”

“…It’s not supposed to say that…Keep driving, Coby. We have to secure the border and end this war.”

Carson spits at the sign as they pass it.

Further up the road, the men spot three scarecrows guarding a turnip field.

“They’re wearing Corsican uniforms!” Coby exclaims.

“Let’s take a look,” Garrick says. “Bring some shovels.”

                                               ***

“Animals!” Carson shouts. “Disrespecting our comrades by leaving them to be pecked at by crows!”

Garrick’s normally commanding tone is muddled. “… Did we just bury three men?”

Carson turns, looking questioningly at Garrick. “Yes, sir. Those were pretty words you said over them.”

“…And we’re heading into Turniptown… To get them to surrender…”

“Yes, sir, and if they don’t, we’ll blow them to smithereens.”

“…Don’t you mean kingdom come? You usually say, ‘kingdom come.’”

Carson’s eyes widen as if the light of realization has just clicked on.

“We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?”

                                               ***

The tank enters Turniptown, halting near the town’s only building.

A group of grubby children boos at the men, throwing mud at the tank.

An old man wearing worn jeans, a plaid shirt, and a glassy, pointed crown ambles toward them.

“Did he win a beauty contest?” Carson comments.

“I got a bad feeling about this,” Coby mutters.

“King Kern…Your clothes… They’re different,” Garrick says to the old man.

“Let’s hope the result of our meetin’ is too.”

Bewildered, Carson says, “You know this clown?”

“We’re here on behalf of Corsica to accept your unconditional surrender.”

Armed townspeople surround the tank, pointing their weapons at them.

“Should’a sent an army. What makes you think we’re gonna give up?”

Carson aims the tank’s gun at the first trailer. “You’ll give up all right.”

“So, you’re spittin’ out the orders this time, Sergeant?” King Kern asks.

His mind foggy, Garrick mumbles, “…Lay down your arms, or…”

“Or what?”

“We’re gonna light you up!” Carson shouts.

Carson fires before Garrick can order him to stop.

A shell turns the trailer into shards of wood.

“Fools!” King Kern shouts. “All the times we done this, and you still ain’t learned a thing.”

The townspeople raise their guns…

                                               ***

The tank pulls into Turniptown.

“I don’t like this,” Coby says as a crowd of armed townspeople surround the tank.

“Let’s not provoke them,” Garrick warns.

“Get a load of this,” Carson whispers to Garrick as an old man in a tuxedo wearing a shimmering, transparent crown approaches them.

“I’m King Kern. So, you’re here to make us surrender, eh?”

“… He already knows…,” Garrick says.

“The tank’s a giveaway,” Carson replies.

King Kern rolls his eyes, shaking his head disapprovingly.

Cradling a shotgun, Kelsey Kern moves alongside the King.

“Stubborn people, ain’t they, Kern?”

“More like persistent,” King Kern replies. “Still fightin’ an old war that can’t be won.”

Carson draws his .45, pointing it at King Kern.

“Take that crown off and toss it up here, you pinheaded inbred.”

“Don’t do it,” Kelsey says.

“It might change the course of things,” King Kern replies, throwing the crown to Carson.

“What’s this made out of, paper mâché?” Carson taunts.

He places the crown on Garrick’s head, bowing. “Hail to the new king of Turniptown!”

An intense flash of light emanating from the crown blinds the tank crew. They feel the pressure of dozens of hands squeezing their skulls, and they pass out.

                                               ***

Garrick’s eyes crack open. He struggles to turn his head. Carson and Coby hang next to him. A crow pecks at Coby’s school ring. Another crow sitting on Carson’s shoulder caws defiantly.

As he dies, knowing he’ll live again, Garrick can feel the heat of the burning sun, taste the sand in his mouth, and smell the stench of overripe turnips.