So, I go over there and hop the wall and the place is a wreck. I mean a wreck. There's shit stacked all over the place: telephone books, bags of cans, a dozen old telephones, bags of glass. There are two old cars, engines and tires missing. I'll have to talk to Dad as I can't very well clear those out. Not on my own. All of this shit and more are just piled, drifted in the yard. Stacked against the wall and the house and itself.
Why did I never notice all of this utter crap before? It's not like I haven't been over here, they were my grandparents, after all. Every other fuckin' Sunday we stopped by here for lunch after church. But I guess we never really left the house. In, eat, out. That what Dad said, even at his parents' on the other Sundays. Also, Mom didn't want us getting our good clothes messed up, so she confined us to the dining room table. At least the food was usually good and Grandma always had a cake.
Anyways, so fuck it. I agreed to do it and I need to cash. I hop back over, grab the box of trash bags out of the car and return. The box of bags looks small, but it's what I've got. It'll have to do for today. Also, some of the stuff is already in bags. So that's where I start. There's no gate and the house is locked (So how did the cars get in? Eh. Not going to worry about it.), which means everything has to be tossed into the driveway. The bags of glass are especially fun when they hit the concrete.
The bagged shit takes me about an hour and most of my back muscles. I rest for a second against one of the cars and wish that I had a coke. But I don't so I inspect the car while I rest. It's an AMC Eagle, no hood, no tires, no doors, no engine, no windows. The only thing that's still closed is the trunk. So I open it. There's a lock, but the rear seats fold down, so the access isn't too hard. And inside is the treasure.
Not gold or any of that shit. No bags of bills or even drugs. But it's still treasure. It's a pair of Desert Eagles and an AR-15. In cases. There's a cleaning kit for all three and boxes and boxes of ammo. And they all look like they've been taken care of. Not locked in a trunk for fifty years or however long it's been since Grandpa's hands could handle any recoil. Osteoporosis isn't just for women, boys and girls. At least, that's what Dad said.
The obvious questions dash across my frontal lobe: what are they doing here? Who put them here? Who has been taking care of them? But only for a second. Then I realize that I'm in a junk yard with a concrete wall, three guns and a metric shit-ton of ammo. Suddenly, my arms and back aren't so tired anymore.
Of course, I start with the AR. Sure the rounds are smaller, but there are so much more in the magazine. It also feels bad ass to fire that thing from the hip. I can't hit anything, but then I also can't miss: everything is a target. Stacks of magazines fly apart. Old CDs and DVDs shatter. And the phones. Oh, the phones. That old plastic just explodes when hit.
I move to the Desert Eagles. Or a Desert Eagle. Even I'm not stupid enough to try dual wielding. At least not yet. With the first shot, I nearly brain myself from the recoil, even with two hands. The larger round sure makes a difference. Now I start aiming for higher value targets: an old toilet, some metal drums.
It's when I hit one of those drums that things change. Again. It groans. Then it bleeds. I drop the gun and run over. The top is on and it's on tight. There is a screw cap for filling it, so I open that instead. Inside, I see hair. Brown and tangled. I find the tire iron in the back of the AMC and use that to pry the lid open. There's a guy in there. Folded up, knees on his chin, but in there. And from the smell, he's been in there for a while.
What the fuck have my grandparents' been up to? Dad said that they led a quiet life. That if we didn't visit them on Sundays, then they would never see anyone outside the house. Now they have guns? Now they have guys stuffed into barrels in their backyard? WTF?
I push the barrel over and start trying to pull the guy out. There is no question that he's dead. I'm sure that barrel life is not healthy life and the 50 caliber bullet did not help. So I don't have to be careful. Pulling on his chin and ears, I'm able to get his shoulders out. At that point, he mostly flops the rest of the way. He's wearing a tank top and underwear, but there's a pair of jeans folded up at the bottom. Getting those out is not the most fun I've had, what with all of the piss and shit that he's let loose for however long he's been in there. But out they come and with them a wallet.
Timothy Kimble, from Alabama. The licence is endorsed for commercial vehicles. Big rigs. He's a long haul trucker. Shit. Grandpa and Grandma, they killed a long haul trucker. And they got killed by a long haul trucker. Or did they? The police report was sketchy, just that their car had been wrecked in a manner consistent with a semi. But no trucker reported the accident. The police had told Mom that sometimes happens, but not often.
But what about their bodies? Mom says she ID'd them as her parents. That's what Dad said.
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