by Ison, S. A.
He knew he could keep himself and his grandpa fed, he could shoot really good and there were plenty of boomers, such as red squirrels, rabbits, and other varmints. Alan also knew plenty of wild plants to eat. There wouldn’t be a lot, but they could survive. There was also the Lee’s garden; he’d helped them plant it and tend it. Their house had been destroyed, but their garden had been left alone.
He noticed a poster tacked to a post. He walked up to it and read it. The blood drained from his face. Looking around, he yanked the paper off the post and walked away quickly. He needed to get to Harry’s quick and show this to him.
When he reached his home twenty minutes later, he went in to see his grandpa. The old man was sitting in front of an old box television set smoking a Camel cigarette.
Alan walked over and kissed the top of his white fuzzy head. “I’m headin’ out, Pop Pop. Kin I get you’uns anythang afor I go?” Alan asked.
“Naw, son. I’ll stay right on year an’ smoke my cigs. Ain’t nothin’ on the boob tube,” he grumbled.
Alan shook his head and went to the kitchen and opened a box of peanut butter crackers. He put a few on a plate and got his grandpa a soda pop. He placed the plate and drink on the coffee table. He kissed his grandfather once more on the top of his head and left the old man.
The truck rattled down the road. Alan knew this would more than likely be his last trip out unless he could find more gas. He was sorry. He liked Dr. Katie, Earl, and Willene. He didn’t know the others very well, but they all seemed nice. He knew he was just a kid, but he’d felt important when he’d saved the doctor. It seemed so unreal that people would want to kill her. He’d known her most of his life. Her folks had also been nice, always giving him homemade cookies.
He bit down on his lip, his eyes tearing up thinking about her parents and the way those men had treated them and then killed them. His face contorted in a rictus of sorrow and he swallowed hard. He’d never seen that kind of hate or violence. He’d only seen stuff on television and movies, and reality just wasn’t the same. His heart slammed hard against his thin chest.
The Lee’s had never said a bad thing about anyone, they’d never hurt anyone. Dr. Katie was so wonderful, and he knew he was half in love with her. How could he not be? She was beautiful and sweet and so kind. Those men would have hurt her like they hurt her momma. He’d not told her that those men had raped her mother. He could not bring himself to tell her. And those bad men had killed two men in the street, just for trying to help. He just didn’t understand any of this.
He coughed out a hard cry and wiped his nose with his shirtsleeve. Those men had laughed all the while, and had made Mr. Lee watch. Then they’d killed both of them. They had then stood over the bodies and laughed and kicked at them. It wasn’t enough for them to hurt them and kill them, they had to kick their dead bodies as well. Finally, the men had tired of the fun and gone into the house.
He had felt so helpless and he’d wanted to help the Lee’s, but his grandpa had said those men would kill him and laugh the whole time. There was nothing he could do but go get Dr. Katie. He waited, watching the house, dancing back and forth on his feet. He’d wanted to leave then and there, but his grandfather had told him to wait until the men left. They’d more than likely take their truck if he tried to leave while they were tearing up the Lee’s home.
It had seemed like a long time. He’d watched as the men went in and out of the house, taking bags of food and items from the house, laughing all the time. Several times, they had walked by the bodies and kicked them. He could only stand there and watch, and cry. His heart had broken over and over as each kick connected with the bodies.
He couldn’t understand that kind of hate, that kind of abuse. What kind of men were they? How could they do this with such joy? He wondered, if they had children, what kind of fathers they were? Did they teach their children to hate? His grandpa had always been a hard man, but a good man. He’d never said a bad or unkind word about anyone.
His grandpa had stood with him at the window. He’d been crying as well, and kept his old hand on Alan’s shoulder, whether to hold him there or to hold himself up, Alan didn’t know. He’d rarely seen his grandfather weep, and it broke his heart even more to see his strong grandpa cry.
Alan shook the morbid memories away. He had to pay attention, as the curves around the mountain were treacherous. He slowed the truck and then sped up, weaving in and around abandoned cars. His mind soon wandered back to Dr. Katie and her family.
He enjoyed helping Dr. Katie’s father in the back yard, in the garden. He’d buried the couple, his grandpa helping as much as he could. His grandpa was fragile, and the sorrow had taken its toll. He had cried the whole time while he buried them. Hate was a concept that was so alien to him. In his sixteen years, he’d always been loved.
Coming up on a hairpin turn, he slowed the truck down. Then slammed the brakes. He pulled his truck off the road and stumbled out, falling to the ground. Tears began to stream down his face once more. Then he stood, walked a step or two, then fell back to his knees, oblivious to the rocks cutting through his skin. Alan began to retch, his stomach heaving violently.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Before him was a family, Puerto Rican, hanging from a large oak tree. He barely recognized Robert, his friend from school, who was a year younger.
The boy’s face was nearly black and bloated, as were those of his mother and father, their eyes bulging obscenely. Bloated flies landed on their faces, going in and out of their opened mouths. Alan vomited again, heavy saliva hanging from his open mouth.
Though he could see the sight, he couldn’t comprehend it. They’d been hung. His breath, coming in harsh cries, tore out of his chest. Then he spotted a piece of paper pinned to the woman’s dress. He crawled toward them, his knees scraping along the asphalt of the road, until he came to the side of the road. He tottered violently as he stood, his legs weak and unsteady.
His hand shook as he snatched the paper off. He choked and cried out as his hand gently touched one of Robert’s sneakers, causing the body to swing. He fell to his knees once more. He wiped his arm across his face, trying to tamp the sobs down as well as the urge to retch. He didn’t want anyone to hear him. He opened his mouth, bit down on his forearm, and screamed into it, low and guttural. He bent at the waist and screamed over and over.
Then he heard something. The sound hadn’t come him, and neither was it the birds in the trees or the insect life. His head jerked sideways and he froze, listening intently. There it was again, not too far away. He stood on wobbly legs and walked toward the noise. His hand clamped hard across his mouth when he looked into the bushes. There was Robert’s baby sister, Angela, the fourteen-month-old, still secure in her car seat. Her large brown eyes had tears standing in them and her thumb was stuck in her small mouth. His own eyes teared up once more and he leaned over and picked up the car seat. It was heavy, but he lifted it over the bush.
Running back to his truck, he blocked Angela’s view of her family. He secured the seat in the truck and got back in. He looked back once more at his friend, and swallowed the cry that wriggled its way up his throat. He needed to get the baby to safety, and he knew that Dr. Katie would know what to do.
Ӝ
Wilber Tate watched his grandson speed away in the truck. Something had gotten into that boy. All this grim business. He looked over to the Lee’s burned out home and shook his head. He’d asked Alan what had happened to Dr. Katie, but his grandson had said she hadn’t been at the hospital. Wilber sure hoped she was someplace safe.
Anger surged once more. His friend and neighbor, Chul Lee, murdered by merciless cowards, and his lovely wife, Nari, raped and murdered. And then both of their bodies had been abused. What kind of animals did that? The two men who’d tried to help had been gunned down before they even got across the street. He’d had to hold on to his grandson, who’d have gone out to try to help their friends and just got himself killed.
Wilber
Tate wasn’t a coward. He’d make sure to get those men, but he knew he had to do it smart. The day after the Lee’s had been murdered, he and Alan had buried them. Then he’d gone to see his friends, men he knew he could trust. He’d been in the army years ago, during the Vietnam conflict. Wilber laughed, it was a god damn war, not a conflict. And now they were facing a war in their own town.
He’d first gone to Bonaparte Patterson, or Boney, a fellow Vietnam vet. Boney had a sixth cousin who was black and also worked on the police force. He’d figured his friend would know if his cousin was alive or not. Boney had been a sniper, and though the man was near eighty, Boney still had the sharp eyes of the killer he’d been long ago. Wilber was also a good shot.
Boney also had kinfolk all around Beattyville and in the surrounding mountains. They were a fractious group, but none would stand for the KKK taking out one of their own. They were very clannish that way. He would go to Boney now and see what could be done. They’d been meeting in secret with all the hell that was breaking loose.
Wilber locked the house and walked by the Lee home, his heart filled yet again with anger and sorrow. He scrubbed his hand over his unshaven face, making a rasping noise, as though trying to rub the sorrow away. He knew nothing could. He and Boney were getting organized; they were starting to work on a plan, a plan that would end the KKK’s hold over Beattyville and bring about its destruction. When he’d gone to Boney the day after the assault on the Lee’s, they’d talked about what the future held for them and their families.
“It’s only gonna get worse, Wil, you’un knows that,” Boney had said.
“Sure do. When them thar coward dogs come and did that to them fine folks, I knew the world was going straight to hell,” Wilber had said, a sour taste in his mouth.
“Yep. They’s a buncha sorry broke dick dogs, the lot of em,” Boney had said and spat tobacco juice off the porch.
Ralph Edison and his twin Abram were seventy-seven; they had also been there at the first meeting. They were both old army men as well. Sherman Collins, who’d been in the navy, no accounting for taste, was seventy-four, and Hoover Neil, a retired postmaster, who was seventy-nine. The youngest member of their group was Thornton Sherman, an ex-Marine who was seventy.
The men had talked about what supplies they had, though all had good stockpiles of food and supplies. Thornton was the only one who still had a wife, all the other men were either widowers or divorced. Living in a coal town was a hard life, and especially hard on the families who worked in the mines. They’d all spent time in the coal mines. There just wasn’t much work.
Wilber stopped and looked around and listened. The air was still and no sounds. It was still something to get used to. He was closer to town; he and most of his friends lived on the outskirts of town, on bigger properties that were not so close to neighbors. A man was sitting on his porch with a shotgun across his lap. He nodded to Wilber and he lifted a hand in greeting.
“Howdi. How’s it goin’?” Wilber called, lifting a weathered hand.
“Not sa good, had some real peckerwood boys ta come round wantin’ supplies for the town. Said the mayor wants a little from folks,” the man said, and spat a stream of dark liquid off the side of the porch.
“Well that don’t sound right. What is you’uns suppose ta do fir your’un family?” Wilber asked.
“Don’t rightly thank the mayor gives a good damn. Tolt them peckerwood boys ta move along, me and my Betsy.” The man gave a grin and held up the shotgun.
Wilber grinned back. “Good man. Gotta protect your’un family first.” He lifted a hand in farewell and kept walking.
Most of his supplies and food were hidden in the basement. Years ago, he’d seen the devastation and rampant poverty in Vietnam, people starving to death while armies and governments flourished. He himself had grown up in poverty, but not near as bad as what he’d seen in that faraway place.
He’d vowed then that he’d not ever let his family go hungry. His good wife and his daughter had canned food from the garden, and also meat from hunting. He was especially fond of venison after it had been canned for a couple years. It was tender, and he ate it over rice.
Wilber laughed to himself as his stomach rumbled. He’d built a hidden room in the basement that was covered with a large floor-to-ceiling shelf. He’d attached several large hinges to the shelf, allowing him to swing the shelf open to access the hidden room, where he kept most of the jarred foodstuffs.
He also kept boxes of instant rice, potatoes, and dried beans. It was dark and cool in the room, keeping the food supply hidden and well preserved. He’d eaten from jars that had been well over ten years old, and the food tasted near fresh and delicious.
Wilber arrived at Boney’s house, situated on a low hill surrounded by large overgrown rose bushes. Boney was up on the porch, smoking a pipe. He lifted a hand in greeting. Wilber could smell the scent of roses mixed with the fragrant smoke.
It was an hour walk or better, but Wilber didn’t mind. He’d had his back broken years ago at the coal mine. Dr. Katie had seen him in the yard one day, barely able to move. She’d insisted he be checked out. When she’d asked him what activity he did on a daily basis, he’d said armchair jockey.
They’d both had a good laugh, then she told him that in another few years he’d be stuck in that chair if he didn’t get out and walk and move about. Since that day, he had taken long walks, sometimes up to four hours. His back felt a whole lot better and he slept better at night. He once more hoped Dr. Katie was alive and doing okay.
His knees creaked as he climbed the steps and came onto the broad porch that surrounded the home. He took a rocking chair near Boney, then took out his pipe and tamped in fresh tobacco. He lit it and drew the smoke into his mouth. He never fully inhaled; some folks did, he didn’t. After working in the coal mines, it was hard to breath sometimes.
“Feller down the road tolt me Mayor’s now tryin’ ta take food an’ guns,” Wilber said without preamble.
“Yep. Them peckerwoods stopped by here. Tolt them ta have a look an’ welcome ta what they’uns could fine.”
Wilber snorted and wheezed laughter, causing smoke to escape from his nostrils. He wiped at them absently. “They find much?” Wilber asked, already knowing the answer.
“Naw, just a half poke of flour an’ sugar in the bowl. A can or two of beans an’ some eggs,” Boney said, laughing. “They come out lookin’ at me, asked was that all I’s had. Said it was and did they have anythang ta spare?” Boney laughed harder.
Wilber joined in the laughter. Boney was a small wizened man, not much to look at, but was sharper than a well-honed scythe. When he got home, he’d clear out more food and put it in the basement, hiding it behind the swinging shelving. He’d also put his long rifles down there, as well and his ammo.
“They’uns asked about any guns, said I’s had a broke down shot gun.” Boney gave a gummy grin. “They’uns left upsot, guess they’uns found the rotten tatters I’d left’em.” Boney barked out laughter and slapped his knee, and rocked back and forth with glee.
Wilber shook his head, grinning. Boney loved his fun, tormenting peckerwoods. He drew in his pipe and let the smoke pearl out from his mouth. “Any word from your’uns cousin Clay?”
Boney raised a brow and looked sideways at Wilber. His mouth turned down and shook his head. “Ain’t heard nothin’. Got my feeler’s out. ’spect I’ll hear somat sometime,” Boney said.
“We’uns need to do somat ’bout them cowards, Boney. I ’spect they’uns gonna make our lives intolerable,” Wilber said, relaxing his body into the rocker. There was a breeze blowing, and with it the perfume of roses and lilies cooled his heated skin. He could hear some jays bickering in the back of the house, more than likely pestering a cat.
“Yep, we’uns sorn do. What you’uns figger we could do, Wil?”
“Well, I ’spect you’uns a sharp shooter, an’ I’s ain’t sa bad neither. Mayhap we start pickin’ them little pissants off, one at a t
ime. Say at night, or from a good hidin’ place,” Wilber suggested.
“Young man, that issa fine idear. All our boys are good shots, even that thar navy puke, Sherman.” He laughed.
Wilber grinned and rocked a bit more. “You’uns heared bout all them folks that’s g’tting' put in the coal mine?” Wilber asked. He drew on his pipe a little harder, the bowl, the tinder trying to go out.
“Yep. Them craven bastards is puttin’ women an young’uns down thar. We gotta do somat about that too,” Boney said.
Both men sat in silence, each in their own deep thoughts. It would take planning and daring. They’d need more help than just the seven of them. They’d need to recruit. It was a tricky thing, a balancing act; you never knew where some folk’s loyalties lay. Any of them could end up in the mine along with the rest of those poor folks.
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Hobo awoke in a pool of cold congealed vomit, his head thundering. The smell of the vomit made his stomach heave and roil, and he swallowed back the ropy saliva that was hanging out of his mouth. He could feel the cold wet vomit clinging to the side of his head and shoulder. He kept heaving and sat up, his hand blindly feeling around for a bottle of water or something. His eyes felt as though sand and glass had been ground in.
Hobo knew he needed to eat, and he needed drugs or booze. He’d eaten everything he’d stolen from the house next door, but it hadn’t been enough. It was time to go looking again. He pulled himself up and groaned heavily, sweat popping out on his forehead and on his chin beneath his dirty beard, mixing with the dried vomit.
He reached the door and was glad for small mercies; it was dusk. Stumbling out of the house, he walked over to the truck and then remembered it didn’t run anymore. Cursing under his breath, he turned and began walking unsteadily up the street. He scrutinized houses for potential targets. He saw faces in some, men, and so he kept walking. He needed a weak target.
He stopped for a moment feeling dizzy, the nausea rising once more. He bent at the waist, placing the palms of his hands on his knees. He spat a glob of foulness onto the ground. Standing, he proceeded on down the road.
