Giorgio Faletti: I'm God

Except these guys weren’t leopards. They were vultures, of the worst kind.

He leaned out cautiously, protected by the wall. The sheriff went and switched on the TV, threw his hat on the table and sank into an armchair.

There was the sound of a baseball commentary.

‘Christ, it’s almost over. And we’re losing. I knew that playing in California wouldn’t work out for us.’ He turned to his deputy. ‘If you want a beer, there’s some in the fridge. Get me one, too, while you’re there.’

The sheriff was the boss and he made sure his deputy knew it, even when it came to hospitality. He wondered if he’d have behaved the same way if Judge Swanson had been in the room instead of Deputy Farland.

He decided that now was the moment. He emerged from his hiding place with his gun aimed at the two men.

‘The beer can wait. Put your hands up.’

At the sound of his voice Will Farland, gave a start. And when he saw him, he went white in the face.

Westlake had turned his head abruptly. Seeing him, he was stunned for a moment. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

Wrong question, sheriff. Are you sure you want to know?

‘That doesn’t matter right now. Get up and stand in the middle of the room. And you: go stand next to him.’

While the two men moved as he had ordered them, Farland tried to slide his hand down towards his holster.

All very predictable.

He took a couple of rapid steps to the side so as to have Farland completely in his sights and shook his head. ‘Don’t even think about it. I know how to use this gun. Want to take my word for that, or would you like a demonstration?’

The sheriff had raised his hands in a gesture that was meant to be placatory. ‘Listen, friend, let’s all try to keep calm. I don’t know who you are, but let me remind you, you’re committing an offence just being here. Apart from that, you’re threatening two law enforcement officers with a firearm. Don’t you think your situation is serious enough already? Before you do anything else stupid, I’d advise you-’

‘Your advice ain’t worth shit, Sheriff Westlake.’

Surprised at hearing his name spoken, the sheriff frowned and tilted his head slightly to the side. ‘Do we know each other?’

‘Let’s leave the introductions till later. Now, Will, sit down on the floor.’

Farland was too surprised to be curious. He turned to his chief, not sure what to do. The voice he heard coming at him wiped out any doubts.

‘He doesn’t give the orders now, asshole. I do. If you’d rather be lying on the floor dead, I can oblige.’

The deputy bent his long legs and eased himself down, with the help of one hand laid flat on the floor.

Once he was down, their visitor pointed to him with the barrel of his gun and said to the sheriff, ‘Now, slowly and without making any sudden movements, take your handcuffs from your belt and tie his hands behind his back.’

Westlake did as he was told, going red in the face with the effort of bending. The sharp click of the handcuffs closing marked the beginning of the Deputy Sheriff captivity.

‘Now take yours and put it on your right wrist. Then turn around holding your arms behind your back.’

There was anger in the sheriff’s eyes. But there was also a gun in front of his face, so again he did as he was told, and a moment later a confident hand locked the handcuffs on his free wrist.

‘Now sit down next to him.’

The sheriff couldn’t help himself down with his hands. He bent his knees and dropped clumsily to the floor, his bulk falling heavily against Farland’s shoulder. The two of them almost ended up sprawled on the floor.

‘Who are you?’

‘Names come and go, sheriff. All that’s left is memories.’

He disappeared for a moment behind the wall that hid the stairs. When he came back he was holding in his hand a jerrycan full of gasoline. During his inspection of the house he had found it in the garage, next to a lawnmower. This trivial discovery had given him an idea, one that made him very happy.

He slipped his gun in his belt and approached the two men. Calmly, he started pouring the contents of the jerrycan over them. Their clothes were soon covered in dark stains. The oily, acrid smell of the gasoline spread through the room.

Will Farland moved aside instinctively to avoid getting the liquid on his face and accidentally headbutted the sheriff in the temple. Westlake did not even react. The pain had been anaesthetized by the panic that was starting to appear in his eyes.

‘What do you want? Money? I don’t have a lot in the house, but in the bank-’

‘I have money, too,’ the deputy interrupted his chief, his voice shrill with fear. ‘Almost twenty thousand dollars. You can have it all.’

What are two nice American boys doing here in the middleof all these paddy fields?

As he continued pouring the liquid from the jerrycan over the two men, it pleased him to think that it wasn’t only the gasoline fumes that were bringing the tears to their eyes. He spoke in the reassuring tone he’d once been taught.

Don’t worry, corporal. We’re going to take care of you …

‘Yes. Maybe we can come to an arrangement.’

A flash of hope appeared on the sheriff’s face, and in his words. ‘Sure we can. Come with us to the bank tomorrow morning and take whatever you want.’

‘Yes, we could do that…’ His voice changed abruptly. ‘But we won’t.’

With what was left of the gasoline in the jerrycan, he marked a line on the floor as far as the door. Then he put his hand in his pocket and took out a Zippo. A nauseating odour joined the pungent smell that already filled the room. Farland had relieved himself in his pants.

‘No, I beg you, don’t do it, don’t do it, for-’

‘Shut your fucking mouth!’

It was Westlake who had interrupted his deputy’s pointless snivelling. The strength of his hate and curiosity had given him back a little pride.

‘Who are you, scumbag?’

The young man who had been a soldier looked at him for a moment in silence.

The planes will come from that direction …

Then he said his name.

The sheriff opened his eyes wide.

‘That isn’t possible. You’re dead.’

He clicked the Zippo. The two men stared at the flame in terror.

He smiled, and for once was pleased that his smile was a grimace. ‘No, you sons of bitches. You’re dead.’

He opened his hand more than necessary and let the Zippo fall to the floor. He didn’t know how long the fall of the lighter would last for the two men. But he knew from experience how long such a short journey could be.

No thunder, for them.

Only the metallic noise of the Zippo hitting the floor. Then a hot bright whoosh, followed by a tongue of flame that advanced on them.

He stood listening to them scream and watching them squirm and burn until the smell of roasting flesh spread through the room. He breathed it in, savouring the fact that this time the flesh wasn’t his.

Then he opened the door and went out on the street. He started walking, leaving the house behind him, the screams accompanying him like a blessing as he moved away.

Soon afterwards, when the screams stopped, he knew that the captivity of Sheriff Duane Westlake and his deputy Will Farland was over.

Jeremy Cortese watched the dark-coloured BMW move away, and wished it would blow up. He was sure that, apart from the driver, none of the people inside would be much of a loss to the world.

‘Go fuck yourselves, assholes.’

Having got that off his chest, he went back into one of the two huts on the site. Actually, they weren’t so much huts as sheet-metal boxes mounted on wheels and put there as a barrier to mark off the work area.