Sudetenland Tales by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Sudetenland Tales

Page 542

Joan’s Late Show

Joan's shift began at sundown, when the sunlight died and the parking lot became a mirror of the neighborhood; fractured, dim, and pulsing with tension.

She stood just outside the Dollar Store's glass doors, arms folded, a permanent silhouette against the flickering neon sign that read "Everything's a Dollar." It used to be a joke in her Army unit; cheap lives, cheap promises, cheap salvation. But Joan wasn't laughing anymore. Not in West Langley Heights, Sudetenland, where sirens sang lullabies and kids learned to duck before they learned to read.

Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed like drones. Out here, it was her realm. Her perimeter. Her war zone.

Joan didn't carry a rifle, not anymore. She'd learned that violence in uniform was loud and sanctioned, but violence in civilian clothes was messy and most often purposely misinterpreted. What she did carry was a Glock G17 pistol which resided in her visible belt; a cold, steady look from the blue eyes under her blond bangs that spoke louder than any pistol, honed from years overseas with the 8th Cavalry.

Locals called her "The General." Kids dared each other to wave. Adults didn't dare at all.