The Ghosts of Brownsville

The winter was unusually mild that year in Brownsville, Pennsylvania, but for Joe Zach, it felt especially bitter. Inside his black Pontiac Streamliner parked under the shade of a large oak tree beside a cornfield, he waits along with his counterpart for the sunset. He looks at his watch, fidgeting his legs.

“The motorcycle. Is it reliable?” he asked the driver.

“It is an Indian, Joe. Top-notch stuff.”

“I like Harleys better. Is it not noisy, is it?”

“Only when you start. After that, it is like a kitty. Just don’t crank the gas too hard when you get closer.”

“Right.” He grabbed a brand new toothpick out of his pocket, placing it on his mouth and looking at the watch. “Is time.”

Both men exit the car, uncovering the Indian motorcycle attached to a basket trailer. They repeatedly look at the road for possible passing vehicles. They wanted to keep it as quiet as possible.

“Is the tank full?” asked Joe.

“Of course, Joe!”

“Don’t of course me, kid. I need to be sure there will be no screw-ups. Leave the engine on and park on the other side of the road. I should not take long.”

“Are you sure you want to do this alone?”

“Oh yeah.” he smiles with sarcasm, lifting an eyebrow. “Is personal. Besides, it keeps things simple.”

Under the cover of the night, Joe Zach drives the motorcycle down the road. It was a smooth slow ride, with the cold wind hitting his face. As soon as he sees lights emerging from a farmhouse, he kills the engine, slowing down beside the road line. 

Joe carefully comes down of the Indian, pushing it a few more yards. He places the motorcycle near a bush, facing the other direction, taking out of the side leather pouch a Thompson submachine gun, his favorite working killing tool.

Walking without haste, listening to his steps sinking on the thin layer of fresh snow, now descending over his hat, he moves to the back of the property, taking cover behind a tree. He stopped for a moment to have a better idea of the situation. He can see Roy Nine fingers, his former partner in crime, having a family diner. It was spaghetti night for them. 

Roy was your typical wise guy. Tall, dark, black hair always well kept, overweight, and yet with a taste for elegant suits that always kept him looking sharp. He was a happy man despite his life of crime, always smiling and paying people compliments, a clear contrast from Joe Zach’s dry personality. “A real wet blanket” Roy once joked about him.

Roy and Joe were once partners. Joe from Chicago, and Roy from New York, making a convenient business bridge between the Big Apple and the Windy City. For a while, they were prospering, dealing with stolen goods, and some casual bank robberies without the big bosses’ knowledge until Roy became greedy, cutting Joe off from the equal parts partnership and replacing him with his brother Vinny. “No offense Joe, family first. But you stay with us, yes?” he told Joe.

Joe Zach said yes, and kept doing some small dealings with Roy for a while, showing him that he was a reasonable man who was not holding any grudges. He continued studying Roy’s whereabouts and habits. Joe knew all the places Roy could hide once under distress, but first, he needed to cause a reason for such. Joe needed to make Roy suffer and fear to corner him onto his favorite hideout. So, he killed Vinny, Roy’s brother, and hung his body in front of Roy’s house.

A man is walking around the property, carrying a rifle. Joe observes him. He looked like a local by the relaxed way he walks and holds the gun. Joe pulled his dagger off his jacket, his favorite personal weapon of choice, and waits under the shadows. The man approaches, unaware of his dark destiny. 

Joe sinks the cold metal on the man’s throat. It does not kill right the way but prevents the victim from using the vocal cords while drowning on its own blood. Joe follows up with two fast and precise jabs on the abdominal area, causing severe organ injuries, making sure the man will not survive the attack.

“There-there, friend.” 

He carefully places the dying man on the ground, trying not to cause any noise. Without their watcher, Joe cranks his submachine. The back door was too solid, and the back windows provided little sight into the house, forcing him to make a front door entrance. He runs to the front, this time, no longer worry about noises.

Joe shoots at the door lock and knob. The noise was intense, making fragments of wood and metal fly everywhere. One did hit his face, opening a large cut on his right side, missing his eye for an inch. 

Two seconds later, a strong kick puts down the door. Joe hears a female scream as he enters the house like an angry wasp, shooting at all directions. He saw the woman and the kid running towards the back where the kitchen was. He saw Roy grabbing a 38 revolver, but he was too slow. Zach’s Thompson bullets found his stomach a few times, yet, Roy managed to run back, shooting a random, with poor aim.

Joe kept shooting, walking straight at Roy, who was standing at the kitchen, pointing his revolver at him. Joe aims at the top area of Roy’s broad torso, causing him to fall dead, revealing a boy who was hiding behind his large body. The boy touches his bleeding chest, puzzled, not sure what just happened to him. “Mamma?” The boy said, dropping dead beside his father.

Roy’s wife comes running from the back, holding a rifle, screaming in rage, cursing and yelling, “I will kill you, you bastard!” She shot many times at Joe, while Joe spared no bullets on her either.  She dropped, still alive, but pretending to be dead. She could feel a burning sensation running from her legs to her stomach where she got hit, deciding not to think about, lying there motionless, tears rolling down her face as she stares at the bodies of her husband and son lying on a pool of blood.

The Thompson submachine gun now silent was smoking hot, and Joe’s heart was beating fast. He stood there for a moment, staring at his accomplishment, pulling a new toothpick out of his pocket and placing it carefully at his mouth.

He felt a sting on his right leg. It was the rifle shot. Two bullets perforated the main section of his upper tight, one hitting the main artery. He knew it was not good, but he needed to finish the job correctly.

Limping, he grabbed two cans of kerosene, soaking parts of the back and front of the house. Margareth, the wife, was in-and-out of conscious, looking at Joe walking around like some sort of phantom into a nightmare. She also saw a dark figure staring at her from behind the basement door, but could make any sense of it.

Lighting up a piece of rag soaked in kerosene, Joe tosses it near the curtains, making a quickfire that rolled up into the ceiling like an upside-down cascade. He moves out of the house, head-spinning, walking with difficulty as if his leg was turning into a dead block of ice. Slower than he planned, he hops on the Indian, cranks it, and merges with the road in a zig-zag motion, almost losing his balance.

Margareth wakes up from her temporary slumber in terror as she realizes she was surrounded by fire. She tries to carry her son’s small body with her, but her legs were not responding. In tears, she drags herself out of the kitchen, trying to reach the front door. She was determined to live, even if she had to crawl across a pool of fire between her and the front porch. She drags her body under excruciating pain, screaming, skin turning black, and smoke entering her lungs. 

She opens her one working eye and sees the burning house behind her, and under her burned body, the fresh grass. Margareth slowly closed her eye, letting her body relax in a strange calm wave. “B...Billy” She uses her last breath while her soul slides away quietly.

The motorcycle sit feels wet and cold, which made Joe be under the impression he had soiled his pants. He looked down for a moment and understood it was blood. Blood was pouring from his leg, soaking the Indian seat, making it slippery, dripping on the white snow trail left behind by the tires.

His head feels light, hands sweaty despite the cold, and the leg was semi-paralyzed. He wasn’t far, yet it appears to be a long way to get to the runaway point, as a sudden feeling of bliss takes his body, making him close his eyes for a few seconds.

Joe and the Indian go out of the road, heading straight to a large oak tree. The motorcycle hits first, kicking Joe out of the wet seat like an angry rodeo bull, propelling Joe head-on with the rough cold oak wood. His body slams the tree hard and falls on the ground like a broken toy, arms and legs all twisted, and blood everywhere.

“Oh, no-no-no, Joe!” said the driver rushing to the scene. “What in hell have you done?” he asked with distress on his face, getting no answer in return, trying to make sense of it.

By the time Joe crashed at the tree, the house was in full burn, flaring like a giant torch, making a visible spectacle from miles. The driver had very little time on his hands before making any decision, and he knew the fire engines, or even worse, the police would be crawling the area.

He rushes to the car, grabs a shovel, and a gallon of gasoline. There was not enough fuel to burn both the body and the motorcycle. He sinks the shovel on the soil, still soft, unfazed by the cold weather and digs a hole, shallow, big enough to barely fit a body. He drags Joe Zach into it, unaware that Joe was still breathing but incapable of speaking.

Before covering Joe with dirt, he randomly gets back to the motorcycle, pushes it away from the tree, and pours gasoline on it. Joe can see him setting the Indian on fire with terror on his eyes. He tries to use all his will to make some sort of noise, or give the man a sign he was still alive, but there was no use.

“I would say some words, but I need to go. Sorry, buddy.” said the driver, frantically tossing dirt on him. At the same time, Joe’s life of crime, murder, and violence, slowly disappears behind layers of soil, covering his face, blinding his eyes under a blanket of darkness and despair. 

He looks down for a moment in a sign of respect and notices the snow falling on his dirty hands. “Good, the weather will cover the rest.” He thought, sweat dripping from his neck and chest despite the cold wind. 

With sweaty hands, he drives his car slowly, and for a while, without his headlights to avoid being spotted. He gains a reasonable distance between him and the oak tree, surprised by a sudden frantic parade of fire engines and patrol cars rushing from the opposite direction, almost hitting him, making the black Pontiac sway a little. 

The young man looks at the mirror and waits for the noisy parade to disappear into the country’s cold darkness. He looks again, and without hesitation steps on the gas never looking back.