Night of the Crane | By @WendyyWolfe

1. Six by Eight

Dedicated to @Storytellingdude871

Brew Town, Alabama
Population 5290

Macallan Crete sat in the six by eight jail cell staring, his chiseled facial features sublime, drunk as he was, watching with a slight grin, as Deputy Storey Thibodaux sat at a grossly small desk eeking out the usual paperwork for Macallan's typical Friday night arrest.

It was a small police station by anyone's standards and boasted only two cells, the other currently occupied by Macallan's friend Dylan and shared the room with the deputies office.

Macallan slumped back against the wall, placing his sweat splotched cowboy hat on the bench beside him and thrust his long cowboy booted legs out in front of him, crossed them at the ankle and continued his silent stare.

He wasn't mad. Far from it. To prove it he closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Might as well relax.

See, Macallan Crete usually spent all his Friday nights here, and only because he loved fighting. Especially bar fights. Which was how he always ended up here, and also why, just when it seemed like things might be heating up between him and Lacy Thibodaux, those certain things would go cold.

The sound of a distant phone ringing forced Macallan to lift one eye lazily and watch Deputy Storey stare out the large pane window of the station as he talked. Reluctantly, Macallan let his open eye drop closed because none of that was his business. He was just here to sleep it off and the last he remembered after swinging his legs up on the hard cold surface of the metal bunk was the Deputy mumble something about staying put and the far away sound of a door slam shut. He crossed his legs, shoved his cowboy hat down over his face and grunted a disinterested reply. Macallan fell straight to sleep, his snoring echoing around the empty office.

In the next cell over Dylan frowned with disgust listening to the obnoxious roaring melody then he shrugged and joined Macallan because how else could he avoid hearing that all night?

Sometime later, which felt like only moments to Macallan a loud crash jolted him awake. He forced open an eye only to slam it shut squeezing tightly against the pounding between his temples. He heard Dylan mumbling some choice curses and swung his legs onto the floor.

Bright sun streamed in through the large windows in front of the station and Macallan forced his eyes open, cringing in the glare as he fumbled around to find his cowboy hat which was now on the floor.

"What the hell?" He grumbled, as he stood up shielding his eyes from the nauseating onslaught of light to his hungover senses, wishing he had a beer to numb the piercing ache. Squinting, he stumbled forward trying to give his eyes time to adjust and grabbed the bars of his cell door as he tried to find an answer to Dylan's dry mouthed question, 'Dang. Is it morning already?'

As the alcohol induced fog cleared from his mind Macallan stared, peering out the window and his eyes widened with concern at what he saw or rather, what he didn't see. Outside that huge window was, nothing. No vehicles driving by. No people moving about. Just nothing.

Macallan blinked repeatedly trying to focus. Straining to make sense of what his mind was telling him. Wasn't today Saturday? The first Saturday of the month? The day Brew Town held it's monthly Market Days on the Square day? No vendors? No Saturday shoppers? No crowds of happy people dragging their kids around the streets to eat roasted corn, cotton candy, ice cream and corn dogs?

Macallan shook his head. He shifted back and forth against the cell bars trying to get a better look and stiffened as a low moan reached his ears. He looked down. "Ho-lllly shit! Deputy Storey?!"

Dylan ran to the corner of his cell, grasping the bars in white knuckled fear, his eyes wide open now.

The deputy, bloody and bruised, lay right at Macallan's feet against the cell gate.

Macallan sank to his knees his heart beating furiously against his chest. "Deputy?"

He reached cautiously through the bars and shook the man lightly getting another pained groan. Macallan held his breath momentarily waiting for the deputy to speak but when no words were forthcoming he shook him again, this time a little more urgent than before.

"Hey. Hey hey hey hey hey, Deputy? Deputy can you hear me? No no no no. Deputy you've been shot you need to get to a hospital!" Macallan shouted.

Deputy Storey finally responded but weakly, barely above a whisper. "no hospital left ..." drifting in and out of consciousness.

"Deputy? Deputy no! You gotta get me out of here, Deputy Storey I need to get you to the hospital!"

"Noooo, no. Hospital. Left. Here," he repeated slowly shoving a big envelope through the bars to Macallan. "Here. Take it! Get it to them, Mac," he breathed faintly, fighting a bloody coughing spasm that had his bloodshot eyes rolling back in pain.

"Who Deputy? Deputy? Hey hey hey hey hey hey heyyyy Deputy you gotta get us outta here! You need a hospital!"
Macallan shouted back.

The deputy's head relaxed and fell to the side. Macallan sat back and looked over at Dylan who was speechless. He reached back through the bars and shook the man again. "Please...no no no don't die on me Deputy no no no no no! Please," he trailed off in abject failure, knowing the man was gone. "Fuck!" He snatched the envelope and threw it behind him running his hands through his hair and realized he was dripping in sweat.

"Is he dead?" Dylan asked.

Macallan nodded.

Dylan kicked the bars. "What the hell are we gonna do Mac?" he asked with a desolate tone.

Standing slowly to his feet, Macallan paced back and forth his movements choppy with the fear which was settling deep into his bones, stopping to pick up the crumpled yellow, blood stained envelope from the floor. He glanced at it slightly with a frown and looked back at the deputy when his eyes caught the glint of metal. His expression changed to desperation. It was the deputies key ring, laying just beyond Macallan's reach where it had probably dropped when he fell. "Ohhhhhh shit." Macallan breathed. "Noooo wayyy." His eyes darted all over the place looking for a way to get those keys into his hands.

"Come on Mac, what?"

"The keys, Dylan. I think I may be able to reach them," he nodded spying the deputies billy-club still attached to his belt. He got down and pulled it free of the loop hold hoping he could use it to get those keys closer. On further inspection he also grabbed Deputy Storey's 9mm pistol which he slid under the cell gate. He checked the chamber. Empty. He released the clip. Half full.

He looked at Dylan with a slight nod and went to work getting those keys, forgetting all about the envelope.