Don't Fear the Reaper

Kicking up a spray of gravel and dust, the old 1956 Chevrolet pickup rattled along the rutted Macadam Road. It had been red, but years of sun and abuse had dulled it to a shade of pink. Large blotches of rust and primer spots gave it a rather leprous look. It rattled along, belching forth great gouts of blue oil smoke. It was on Old Mill Road; though the only cotton mill was a rambling old shanty, twenty feet from the road. There used to be twenty-five of them, all in a row, all belonging to Jefferson Addison. He had also owned a huge plantation where cotton and tobacco were raised. His mills processed cotton from miles around, before sending it north to the textile mills in Boston.

Both Jefferson, and his younger brother, Beauregard Addison joined the Tennessee state militia in the late 1850s. Jefferson had graduated West Point in 1849. Beauregard graduated VMI in 1855. They had both fought under Braxton Bragg at Chickamauga. Jefferson was wounded in the action, and sent home. Beauregard stayed, eventually reaching the rank of lieutenant colonel. He disappeared when Fightin' Joe Hooker smashed General Bragg's army at Lookout Mountain. The reports the Addison family got said that Beauregard was holding the Stars and Bars battle standard, and trying to rally Bragg's shattered center when the Union troops caught him.

When he didn't return after the war, he was feared dead. He had a beautiful Southern belle wife, and an honored place in the Tennessee aristocracy. Why wouldn't he want to return?

In 1876, Chickasaw county, Tennessee was created. Jefferson Addison capitalized on his Civil War fame to be elected the first County Commissioner of the new county. He promptly used his position to set up the Addison Democratic machine. Jefferson had been a "Redeemer" Democrat, and was the charter member of the newest secret society, the Ku Klux Klan. The Addison machine controlled Chickasaw county until the early '30s.

An ugly rumor – that Beauregard Addison had not died in a Prisoner Of War camp, but had gone out west, and married another woman – cropped up; forcing Horace Addison, the County Commissioner at the time, to try and expunge the memory of Beauregard Addison. Horace removed a statue of him from the town square, and renamed Beauregard's Rebel Redoubt. It did Horace no good. He lost the Democratic Party's nomination.

Joe Addison won the Democratic nomination in 1962 on a state's rights platform. His fiery speeches excoriating Kennedy for his civil rights stand swept him into office. He was now 68, and still County Commissioner. There was a bitter joke making the rounds of Chickasaw county bars that ol' Joe Addison's base of support was in Southern Chickasaw county. Southern Chickasaw county was where all the cemeteries were.

On April first, last year, some practical jokers put a papier-mâché model of a mailbox in the middle of the Sutter Home Cemetery. The Chickasaw County Ledger ran a picture of it, with the caption, "Since when did vote-by-mail come to Chickasaw county?" Joe Addison had hit the roof, and wildly threatened lawsuits until the Chickasaw County Ledger printed an apology.

Jeb Halloway, who was driving the truck, turned toward the opened driver's side window, and spat out a stream of tobacco juice. Then he rolled up the window. Five years ago, his father had asked him if he believed the old rumor about Beauregard Addison. Jeb had scratched his chin, and said that it sounded like under-the-table mud-slinging, since Horace Addison lost in a close race to J.D. Beaumont. Pa hadn't said anything. He just walked to the closet and pulled out a scrapbook. Jeb flipped through the pages. There were several stories from the New York Times dealing with labor unrest in the Western states. One particular story had caught his attention. "Local man confronts Portland longshoreman!” the headline blared. It was a sidebar story; with a picture that had Jeb hooked. It featured a man in three-quarters profile, wearing a World War I vintage uniform, confronting several large, burly, and obviously angry looking men. The blurb below the picture listed him as Major Reginald Addison, and he was the spitting image of an old oil painting of Beauregard Addison. After that, Jeb shared his pa's distrust of politics.

However, politics was the last thing on his mind at the moment. In the back of his mind, he was thinking about what his Pa wanted – a roll of chicken wire and two pounds of fertilizer. The rest of his mind was full of Harrisonville and Becky Sue. He planned on taking her to a picture show when he got there. Of course, given her reaction, they could always skip the movie, and find a nice quiet place to make out.His mind drifted dreamily to the mini mountains that lurked beneath her sweatshirt. Stop it, he told himself. You're as big and stiff as a flagpole. A second voice tittered in his head. Just the way Becky Sue likes it. The voice made Jeb twitch. He tried tuning on the radio. It began blaring out ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’. Jeb didn't sit with that kind of music; if it could be called music at all. His Pa listened to Ernie Tubb and Loretta Lynn. If it was good enough for his Pa, then it was good enough for him. He tried changing the station. The radio continued to blast out exhortations to not fear the reaper, in between statements.

Jeb snapped the radio off. He didn't know what to make of this. Up ahead was a figure. As Jeb grew closer, he saw the figure was holding something. Slowly, the figure became more visible. It was tall and gaunt, wearing a dark brown robe, cinched at the waist by a cincture, and was holding a scythe in it's left hand. A cowl, hiding it’s face, covered it’s head but two red eyes, like hot coals could be seen burning inside. The right arm was up in the classical hitchhikers position. The sleeve had pooled around the elbow, exposing the radial bones of the wrist. A bony thumb protruded from the fist. Was it just him, or did the eyes glow brighter when it saw him...?

Jeb slammed his foot down on the accelerator. On the right, cresting a small hill was Rebel Redoubt. On the left, in a small valley, was a gnarled old oak. It was called Hangman's Ridge because to the left of it was the Chickasaw River. It was not much of a river, and outsiders disdainfully referred to it as a creek. However, the locals were intensely proud of their river and would respond darkly that maybe it was time to resurrect the old oak as the county hanging spot.

Jeb's truck slewed to the left. The right front tire bounced on a root and the right fender scraped against the tree. The Chevy tilted drunkenly to the left and overbalanced into the Chickasaw River. Jeb's head smashed, temple first, into the driver's side window, cracking it. Water began pouring in. Jeb never stood a chance.

Roscoe Addison turned off Old Mill Road, onto Ridge Runner Road. It began as a split from Old Mill Road, and ran along the Chickasaw River until it got to Harrisonville. Old Mill Road meandered along until it came to Bragg's Gulch; where the rear-guard of Braxton Bragg caught two platoons of Union troops sneaking around in the gulch and massacred them. Now, the only reason to go out there was to break up the occasional beer party. In the summer, he would catch teenage couples engaging in a little nookie at Lookout Point. Ridge Runner Road was where all the smugglers were. It was whispered around the county that Roscoe had gotten his job through Nepotism - and it was true. Joe thought he was getting a sheriff who would whitewash all his scams. That embarrassed Roscoe, and he bent over backward to not be seen as being beholden to his older brother. Joe didn't like it, but there wasn't much he could do about it.

Roscoe was going by Rebel Redoubt when he saw a glint of sunlight. He didn't like the look of this. He parked his Chrysler Gran Fury III off to the side of the road and got out. He walked over to Hangman's Ridge and saw the truck lying in the Chickasaw River. His eyes bugged out. His jaw dropped. That's Frank Halloway's truck! The thought flashed like a shooting star. He froze, struggling to bring thought any closer to action. His paralysis was only broken when he realised Ol’ Frank may be drowning in there.

Roscoe took a couple of steps backward, and made a running jump for the truck. He scrabbled up onto the bed and opened the right door. Inside the cab, he found Jeb drifting in a pool of pinkish water, his face tattooed in a rictus of shock. Roscoe jumped off the truck, landing in water up to his knees and waded out. He ran to the police cruiser and began calling frantically for a wrecker.

Hours later, Roscoe was heading down the dirt track to the Halloway homestead. He had just emerged from a stormy meeting with Boss Joe, who had hit the roof over the calling of a wrecker. Joe had bawled him out over wasting taxpayers' money on such frivolous things. Roscoe had felt a rush of bitter retorts, but had quashed them. No use making things worse than they were already. Now, he was on his way to tell Frank Halloway that his son was dead and he didn't relish the prospect. Frank was coming out of the henhouse when Roscoe arrived; seeing Roscoe's expression, Frank instantly knew something was wrong. Roscoe took off his black cowboy hat and began crushing the brim in his huge hands. Finally, he admitted, "Jeb is dead." Frank looked perplexed for a minute. Then he demanded, "What happened? Was he stabbed?"

Roscoe's eyes widened. "No...no, nothing like that."

Frank asked, "Shot?" Roscoe looked surprised. He shook his head, and said, "No, listen. He drove his truck into the Chickasaw River." An incredulous expression spread across Frank's face. "You sayin' my boy committed suicide?” the soft tone belying the menace beneath. Roscoe shook his head and shoved the cowboy hat back on. "No, actually, if you'll pardon the expression, he looked like he saw a ghost.”

Frank's eyes grew steely and Roscoe could see the volcanoes erupt behind his eyes. Frank's jaw clenched. A vein throbbed in his forehead. His hands began to clench and unclench. He growled, "Why that dirty, rotten thievin'..." He didn't finish the thought. Instead, he thrust the egg basket into very surprised Roscoe’s hands and took off into the house. He re-emerged a minute later, a Remington .30-.06 slung over his right shoulder. Then he jumped into Willy’s Jeep. Roscoe asked, "Where are you going?" Frank shouted, "To go get that son-of-a-gun that killed my boy. Ya might want to catch him 'fore I do, Sheriff. If I catch him first, I ain't gonna guarantee I'll remain in my right mind." With that, he threw the Jeep into gear, and took off in a cloud of dust.

Rebecca, his daughter, was the first to appear. Debbie Sue, his wife and a solemn looking boy holding onto his mothers skirts, followed her. Rebecca stated, "Pa's gone plum loco." You hit the nail right on the head, little girl Roscoe thought. Debbie Sue asked, "You can't do anything for him, can you?" Roscoe handed her the basket of eggs. "I can try, but I can't make no promises." With that, he ran back to his police car and took off.

Roscoe noted that Frank was following the Chickasaw River. A few miles from Rebel Redoubt, Frank pulled his Jeep off the road and confronted a figure. When Roscoe got a good look at the figure, he let out a gasp. It’s not everyday you find a man squaring up to the Death itself. The Jeep had barely stopped before Frank jumped out and unslung his rifle. He pointed it at Death and snarled, "Alright, you sidewindin' varmint! You took my boy and I'm-a aimin' to make sure you don't come back to bother my family." Death looked at him and said bemusedly in a very cultured voice, "Mr. Halloway, I am afraid you will be unable to kill me. I am already dead. In

fact, I am Death itself. With the merest touch, I – "

Frank interrupted, "Don't give me none of your happy horse apples. You took my Ma and Pa when they were in their late twenties, you took my older brother when he was fifteen, you took three of my children and you've been killing my chickens right and left. Now you took my oldest son and it wasn't his time."

Death reached up his left sleeve and withdrew a computer the size of a calculator. It opened the lid and pressed a few keys with it’s bony fingers. Finally, Death said, "You're quite correct. I had a 10:47 appointment in Harrisonville with Herbert Mayfield, who has lung cancer. I was quite surprised to see your son. I had an appointment with him in two weeks at Rebel Redoubt."