Chapter One

Six men sat in a dimly lit room, their faces illuminated by an eerie glow cast by a lone bulb suspended by a long wire from the ceiling. Three were clad in somber business suits, two in worn overalls, and one in a dark green army uniform denoting his rank as captain. Outside, a storm raged, its fury echoed by the occasional lashing of tree branches against century-old windows that creaked with each powerful gust.

Despite the tempest outside, the men, unperturbed, gathered around a long table strewn with papers. Among them, a figure stood out - a short man with tightly cropped graying hair, unmistakably the leader, despite his diminutive stature.

"Next one up," the man announced, his voice cutting through the stillness, "Vernon Frank Bruce, Panama City Beach." He placed the sheet of paper onto the over-polished table in front of him, prompting each man to scrutinize their own documents before nodding in assent.

"Another college kid," the army captain grumbled, his frustration evident. "Mac, how many of these are slipping through?"

Mac Tate, the politician of the group, shook his head slightly. "I know the boy's father, works at the paper mill down near the port."

A chuckle rippled through the group, save for the captain, whose scowl deepened. "Gentlemen, professionalism, please," the captain interjected, his voice edged with impatience. "I need soldiers."

Mac, unfazed, reassured him. "We'll get you soldiers, Captain. Now, let's discuss the deferment for young Vernon Bruce."

As the discussion unfolded, tensions simmered. The captain's insistence on duty clashed with Mac's familiarity with the locals, each man advocating for his own perspective. Amidst the debate, a silent figure, clad in bright new overalls, at the end of the table, leaned forward.

"He has a brother, just turned eighteen," the man in overalls mentioned.

Mac nodded, feigning surprise. He was already aware of the sibling, but wanted someone else to mention the kid. His fingers grazed his chin thoughtfully as the others conferred.

"He ain't listed," the other man in overalls remarked, his drawl slow and deliberate and his bibbed garment faded and torn from years of labor in the hot Florida sun.

Mac's brow furrowed as he thumbed through the papers, a pretense to cover his tracks. "Let me check," he said, rising abruptly and excusing himself.

Outside, he retrieved the missing missingdocument, returning with a triumphant wave. "Found it!" he exclaimed, distributing copies to the assembled men.

"Ronald Frank Bruce," Mac read aloud, his voice steady. "Eighteen. No deferment, no college, works at the beach."

The revelation sparked interest, the captain inquiring about potential medical exemptions. Mac dismissed the notion, citing the boy's full recovery from a prior high school baseball injury.

"Does he have his draft card?" the captain pressed.

"He'll have it tomorrow," Mac assured him, his tone final.

Amidst nods of agreement, a lone dissenting voice rose from the end of the table. "This ain't right," Weston McPherson protested, adjusting his tie and hints of sweat appearing on his forehead. His objection met with a stern rebuke from Mac Tate.

“Please, Weston. You can’t save every kid that comes across this table,” Mac scolded him. “We can spare his brother, but not him.” 

Mac reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his reading glasses. He didn’t really need them, only using them for effect. He read the kid’s address and, once again, noted he had no deficiencies. He looked sternly down the table, nodded to each man, and called for a vote. Five hands shot in the air, but the objector didn’t move. Mac pulled his glasses to the end of his nose. 

“You know, Weston, I like for this to be unanimous,” Mac said, staring at the man.

A bolt of lightning flashed in the window and thunder crashed seemingly before the streak vanished, indicating the storm’s intensity. Mac smiled at Weston. “See, even God wants this to be unanimous.” The rest of the group, excluding Weston and the army captain, burst into laughter. 

The man with new overalls slapped Weston on the back and said, “I’m ready to get home out of this storm. Let’s vote again.”

Once again, five hands shot into the air. Weston raised his slowly, shaking his head from side to side as he did. Outside, a limb lost its battle with the wind, cracked, and fell to the ground beneath the massive oak standing guard since before the civil war. Mac stood and motioned around the room. 

“Time to adjourn then?” Each man nodded in approval, and the meeting ended.

Usually, a couple of them hung around, swapping local gossip and telling lies, but with the storm raging outside, they all grabbed their hats and headed towards the double doors leading to the hallway. As Weston angrily slapped his hat into place, Mac grabbed him by the shoulder. “Let’s talk a minute,” he whispered into Weston’s ear.

Weston reluctantly stayed behind, leaning on the edge of the table. Mac stood in front of him. With Weston leaning on the table, he and Mac were able to look each other in the eye.

“I know what you are going to say, Mac. Save it,” Weston spoke first.

“Look, West, you know how the captain is. If we want to keep our good boys alive and home, we must make compromises. Right or wrong, it's for the best,” Mac responded, holding his palms outward. 

Weston leaped from his leaned position, shook his head, and his voice cracked slightly as he responded, “It ain’t right, and I can’t do this anymore.”

The old politician took Weston’s vacated perch on the side of the table. He placed his hands on the edge next to him, tapping his fingers against the cold wood. 

“I picked you for a reason, West. People like you, respect you, and most of all...” He pointed his finger at him. “People trust you.”

“How long do you think they’ll trust me if word of how we do things in here gets out?” he asked as he walked over to the window and traced a raindrop along the windowpane with his finger. He whirled around and walked back over to Mac. “They won’t. Not one bit. Not on the street, not at the café, and, more importantly, not in my church.”

“Look, West, I understand. Believe me, I do. But we are doing the right thing for everyone. Most of the boys we’re giving him, they’d never amount to anything,” Mac said dismissively.

Weston slammed the stack of papers he still held in his hand on the table and slammed his fist on top of them. “What about this Bruce boy? He not going to amount to anything?” He picked up the sheet and waved it in Mac’s face. Mac swatted the paper away and stood up, grabbed Weston by the collar of his shirt and eased up on his tip toes so they were almost nose to nose.

“I don’t care if you are a preacher. You best be careful how you speak to me,” Mac warned him.

Weston grabbed Mac’s hand and shoved it away. He didn’t say anything, but the two stood, toe to toe, with only the sound of howling wind breaking the silence. Weston finally shook his head again and briskly walked away. As he opened the two doors, he heard Mac say, “Nothing leaves this room.” Weston didn’t acknowledge him and kept walking. 

The side door flew open, and the army captain strode through, marching towards Mac, who remained in the middle of the room, staring at the doors that had just slammed shut behind Weston.

“Problem?” the captain asked as he stood beside Mac. The politician pursed his lips, shaking his head.

“No,” he replied curtly, and left without saying anything else.

Later that evening, after the storm moved on towards the Alabama line, Weston swayed back and forth in his front porch swing, watching lightning fork across the sky in the distance. No thunder followed, the storm too far away for the sound to reach his ears. The air, cooled by rain, comforted his skin as he moved with the motion of the swing. 

Across the dirt road, a couple of frogs ventured from the depths of the swamp and talked to each other and in the darkness, he saw a couple of lightning bugs in the pine thicket lining the dirt road. It had been hot for late May, even by Florida Panhandle standards, and creatures of summer had already begun making their presence known.

He sat in darkness, leaving the front porch light off. The house was empty because his wife and children attended a youth event at another church. He loved his family, but also liked to be alone, especially after a day like today.

Guilt filled his mind, and he couldn’t get the name Ronald Bruce out of his thoughts. The kid was only another in a lengthy line that he had sentenced to death on that awful draft board. When he took the job, Mac promised him he was doing the community, if not the whole Panhandle, a great service. That was a lie. Mac was using it to line his pockets with cash. He didn’t care anything about the families he tore apart.

A strange sound caught his attention at the edge of the yard. He stopped the swing and eased to his feet, straining his eyes in the darkness, trying in vain to focus on what had caught his eye. He eased down the short steps to the ground and carefully made his way to the area where the sound originated. He kicked at a bush, and nothing happened. He kicked a little harder and suddenly the bush shook ferociously. One of his feet hung on the side of the bush, throwing off his balance, and an armadillo scampered past his other foot, nearly knocking him to the ground. When his heart rate settled and he caught his breath, he laughed and turned back towards the house. So much for monsters in the night, he thought to himself.

After only one step, an arm grabbed him from behind and Weston felt hot breath on his ear. Before he could scream, a thick blade slid across his neck, and he tasted iron in his mouth as blood careened from his lips. His last thoughts, before his consciousness faded, were of his family. He hoped they wouldn’t be the ones to find him.