The Battle for Jericho

Copyright

Published by

Harmony Ink Press

5032 Capital Circle SW
Ste 2, PMB# 279
Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

USA

http://www.harmonyinkpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Battle for Jericho

Copyright © 2013 by Gene Gant

Cover Art by Anne Cain

[email protected]

Interior Art by Tommy Williams

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Harmony Ink Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.

http://www.harmonyinkpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-62380-273-8

Library Edition ISBN: 978-1-62380-917-1

Digital Edition ISBN: 978-1-62380-274-5

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

January 2013

For Sherri, who believes bigotry is a human failing, not a heavenly one.

And for Tommy, who helped bring Jericho, Hutch, and Lissandra to life.

Chapter 1

W
HEN
you make a commitment, when you believe in something with all your heart and soul, you stick with it no matter what. Right?

Doing the right thing can be hard. Sometimes, figuring out what the right thing is can be damn near impossible. And that’s how I got into the worst trouble of my life.

I guess I should start with a little background info. My name is Jericho Jiles. I’m not crazy about the first name, which my mom took from one of her favorite Bible stories, so most of my friends go with Jerry. Call me JJ only if you want to make a mortal enemy. I turn seventeen come July 14 (can’t wait), I’m six feet tall (which is okay, but I wish I were taller), and I’m sort of skinny. Last time I went to my doctor—a pediatrician by specialty but “doctor” sounds better to me for some reason—I pushed the scale up to 151 pounds. That was wearing baggy jeans, three shirts, flannel boxers, and a pair of size twelve Nikes. I eat lots of carbs and protein, I lift weights, I do push-ups and squats, but my body just refuses to bulk up. Of course, that makes me fast and agile, which means I’m pretty good at hoops, soccer, and figure skating (which I’ve actually done a few times, but that’s strictly between you and me). Not scholarship good and definitely not professional-level good in any of those sports, but I get my respect out there.

My folks, London and Teresa Jiles, own a two-story brick house in Webster’s Glen, a little town about fifty miles east of Nashville. I’ve lived there since I was born. When I was four, my folks brought home my brother, James Caleb. One morning, three weeks after the baby’s homecoming, my mom woke up and found him dead in his crib. I barely remember him, but my dad sure does. To this day, you can sometimes catch him staring at pictures of James Caleb. Not crying, not smiling, and not frowning in anger or pain or regret. Just staring. When I see him like that, I feel sorry for the man. I guess it’s hard to let some things go.

From first grade, I’ve done well in school. Even with the distraction of my friends (and I have lots of friends), I study, do my homework, and get my assignments turned in on time. I’m polite and respectful with adults and dogs and occasionally so with other kids. For years I went to church every Sunday with my folks, and when I turned twelve, I dutifully presented myself to the pastor for baptism in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. It’s what you do when you’re a kid in Webster’s Glen.

Like everyone else, I do dumb things from time to time. Maclin “Mac” Travis is (no, maybe I should make that
was
) my best friend. He lives next door. He was always bigger than me, but as we got older, the size difference became outrageous. Now he has three inches and thirty-five pounds on me. I was usually the instigator, however, blithely leading the way into trouble. Making parachutes out of bed sheets, tying them to our shoulders with shoelaces, and throwing our twelve-year-old selves off the roof of the Travis home’s back porch? That was my idea.

Mac came out of that one with a broken arm. Unscathed, I watched as his folks whisked him off, howling, to the emergency room.

I didn’t sleep well that night.

The next day, I went to see him. Mrs. Travis looked at me as if I were a slimy hairball one of her cats had hacked up on her spotless living room carpet, but she let me in anyway. Mac lay on his bed, watching television. His right arm, frozen in a thick, white cast, was propped across his chest in a sling. He was still in pain. Or maybe he was just constipated. I couldn’t quite read the scowl on his face.

“Hit me,” I said, offering him my chin.

He frowned at me, annoyed. “What for?”

“You need revenge.” I slapped my belly. “Punch me.”

“Fool….” He pointed with his left hand at his immobile right arm.

“Use the left one. It’s still good.”

“Forget it.”

“Come on. Do it. You’ll feel better.”

I bugged him that way for the better part of two days. There was this weight on my head, and I needed him to knock it off. (The weight, that is, not my head.) I eventually got pissed that he wouldn’t take a shot at me. This happened on a Monday after school, in my front yard. Carefully, so as not to hurt him anew, I gave him a shove in the back after he refused my offer yet again. Oh, and I called him a big, broke-arm faggot.

Ah, persistence. Mac spun around and kicked me right between the legs.

I doubled over and went down in my mom’s newly planted begonia bed, where I wallowed for a good five minutes, leaving a nice, Jericho-sized hole in the middle of everything. Mom was hoping to take the neighborhood’s yard-of-the-month award. Alas, winning that month was not in the cards for her. The pain shot straight up into my chest. I felt choked. I was sure that was because my gonads had lodged in my throat.

Guilt problem solved. Yes, indeed.

Another bright idea out of my head was taking a five-foot freshman, on the first day of Mac’s and my sophomore year, and stuffing him headfirst into a four-foot locker. The freshie got a broken nose. Mac and I got suspended for a week. And grounded for two. We escaped an assault charge only because Mac’s grampy just happened to be in some kind of hunting club with the freshie’s grampy. The old killers managed to convince the freshie’s parents that our breaking their son’s face was just boys being boys. In truth, it was. My only intent was a bit of time-honored, ritualistic humiliation. Fun stuff for all.

In the hallways, Mac passed the freshman and his heavily bandaged snout as if the boy were a drifting void. He seemed to adopt a “been there, done that” attitude. I wouldn’t look at the freshie either, but for an entirely different reason. The injured nose bothered me. Guys had already dubbed the little dude “gay boy,” so I could hardly have him smack me one, not in public. The few times I managed to catch freshie alone, however, he freaked and bolted, screaming like a police siren. You’d have thought I was a contract killer and he was the contract. Go figure.

Mac is neither stupid nor easily manipulated. He participated in those schemes of mine that he liked and stayed out of the ones that he didn’t. He also came up with a few of his own, which I sometimes went along with because that’s what friends do for each other.

It was Mac’s idea to attack Dylan Cussler.

T
HERE
are a lot of ordinances in Webster’s Glen, all of them strictly enforced. Lawns must be neatly trimmed in the summer and free of dead leaves in the winter. Fail to comply and the town will do the job for you, adding the cost onto your property taxes. No inoperable vehicle may be parked on the street or even in your driveway; any do-it-yourself auto repair must take place in your garage, discreetly away from your neighbors’ view. A first citation for littering carries a hefty fine. A second tacks forty hours of community service on top of a heftier fine. A third lands you in jail, do not pass Go or collect two hundred bucks, thank you very much. Business signs are kept to a uniform size, and no flashing neon is allowed. Liquor stores must close by 11:00 p.m. on Saturday and cannot reopen before 9:00 a.m. on Monday.

Most households have a least one gun (my folks own two, his and hers), and the owners get in plenty of practice at the Calico Reserve shooting range. Churches are packed for worship every Sunday, not to mention Bible study on Wednesday. For the ultra-devotees, the rest of the week is taken up with choir practice, various organizational meetings, and door-to-door canvassing to save benighted secularists, Satanists, and other ne’er-do-wells from themselves.

Apparently, Dylan Cussler didn’t understand the nature of his hometown. He’s this older guy, late twenties, who lives in a gray, stucco bungalow down the street from my high school. Everybody at the school knew him because he’d made himself a pariah. He openly declared his fagdom by moving another man into his home. That sort of stuff flies free in New York and San Fran. You might even get away with it in Nashville. But in Webster’s Glen, it could very well get you burned out of your house.

To make matters worse, they tried to adopt a kid. The state legislature quickly passed a law banning gays from adopting. In response, Dylan and his boyfriend filed suit, claiming the adoption ban was discrimination on the part of the state. News crews from around the country camped out at their house, interviewing anyone in the area who was willing to talk. And there was lots of talk, both pro and con, on the issue of gay rights. A stream of picketers began circling in front of Dylan’s house with homemade “God hates fags” signs. Commentary flowed from the country’s “liberal-leaning intelligentsia” (a phrase the local paper uses a lot) about the rabid homophobia of redneck Tennesseans in general, and the hick residents of Webster’s Glen in particular.