Jesus Pete, it's me, Bobby," The sheriff's voice echoed through the night, desperate and strained as he struggled to free himself from the grip of Keith and Larry. Another deafening shot pierced the air, sending a spray of dirt into the air just inches away from the truck's tires. The sound of gunshots reverberated off the surrounding rocks.
"You should have just arrested us, getting shot ain't the right punishment for eating a Snickers," Keith muttered to the sheriff.
"Shut the fuck up Keith," Bobby yelled in the brother's face that was much too close to his own.
He took a deep breath, trying to keep his anger in check as he spoke in a calmer tone "look here Pete, it's me, Sheriff Bobby." Flecks of saliva flew from his lips, landing on Keith's cheek, but Bobby didn't care. He needed to get through to this paranoid farmer.
"How do I know it's really you, and not something pretending to be you?" Pete's voice boomed over the front porch, his words bouncing off the white guard railing that he crouched behind. The wooden planks creaked under his weight as he leaned forward, ready to defend his home.
The sheriff's eyes narrowed as his brain struggled to make sense of the farmer's statement. "What do you mean, 'really me'?" he asked, clearly confused by the man's words.
"I was watching a video on the Google, and it was talking about Aliens abducting humans and taking their place to eventually overthrow us." Pete's face was stern and his brow was furrowed, the lines on his face conveying a deep concern. His lips were pressed together tightly, a clear indication of his serious tone. "And then the power went out, if that ain't a damning coincidence I don't know what else is." Pete adjusted his grip on the black rifle, bringing it up to his eye level as he aimed it at the truck parked in front of his house. He narrowed his gaze through the scope, finger hovering over the trigger.
"For fucks sake Pete, you gotta stop watching that shit late at night." The sheriff's hands were white-knuckled, gripping the steering wheel as he crouched behind the dashboard of his truck. His eyes darted back and forth, barely peeking over the top of the steering wheel to survey the situation outside. "Four years ago, I found you up by Route 45 with your pants around your ankles," the sheriff shouted, recounting a story as proof that it was him.
Pete's heart raced as he nervously yelled back, cutting off the story Bobby had begun to tell. His hands trembled around the rifle, his knuckles turning white with tension. "Yeah, alright, it's really you," he managed to choke out. He took a deep breath and tried to steady himself before continuing, "No need to finish that story." As he stood up from his hiding spot, he kept his eyes locked on the sheriff who was now opening his door. Pete cautiously approached the truck, his rifle now pointed toward the ground. His palms were slick with sweat and his heart pounded in his ears. "Sorry about all that," he apologized, trying to sound calm and collected. The town's sheriff eyed him warily as they met face to face, both men sizing each other up. Tension hung thick in the air as they stood there, each waiting for the other to make a move.
"Dammit Pete, you damn nearly killed me," Bobby's deep voice echoed throughout the drive way as he tightened his grip on his holstered gun. His other hand swiftly snatched the rifle from the farmer's weathered fingers.
Pete apologized again, his eyes downcast as he spoke. "I already said I was sorry. Can't we just move on?" He kept his voice low, not wanting anyone else to hear about what had happened. "You know, strange things can happen out here sometimes." Pete's words were barely audible, meant only for the sheriff's ears.
A soft sigh leaked out of Bobby's mouth, as he stared at Pete. A man that once wasn't afraid of a damn thing, but once cancer took his one true love, everything changed. He started to lose his marbles becoming afraid of anything, from his shadow to a shadow government hell-bent on taking over his brain, and everything in between. Bobby's voice was a mix of demand and plea as he spoke to Pete, pressing the cold metal of the rifle into the farmer's chest. "How about you bring that generator and all the supplies you've been hoarding up to the school gym? We can call it even." His eyes flicked down to the rifle in Pete's hands, concern etched onto his face. "But put away that rifle before you accidentally kill someone and I have to arrest you for murder."
Pete hesitated, glancing over to the barn down the way, where the generator and some supplies were located. "Fine," he finally agreed, "but we ain't gonna be able to lift that generator by ourselves. We gonna need some extra hands."
Bobby nodded, looking back at his truck where a few more people sat waiting. "That ain't a problem, Pete. Got a few extra hands back in the truck." He let out a sharp whistle and waved for the others to join them, gesturing towards the barn Pete was eyeing.