Swept Aside

by Sharon Sala

  As she ate, she ran through a mental list of things she would have to do besides calling her insurance company. She would need to call a tow service. Find a good body shop or—depending on whether or not the insurance company totaled it out—cope with buying a new car. All in all, it was a disappointing beginning to her relocation.

  When she’d finished eating, she carried her dirty dishes to the sink, then began her search for flashlights and candles, as well as some oil for the lamps.

  A short while later she moved through the house, setting a candle here and a lamp there until she was satisfied that, if necessary, she could navigate the house in the dark.

  Tug French was in bad shape. He continued to moan as they drove through the back roads of the bayous. Nick was anxious to get as far away from Bordelaise as possible before someone noticed they were missing. He wanted to get back to New Orleans, take the intel he’d been gathering and make sure it got into the right hands.

  Even though the rain had stopped, the unpaved side roads were slick and muddy, with water standing in the ruts. Some trees were down, while others were missing limbs, but it appeared the brunt of the storm had missed this area.

  The odometer wasn’t working, so Nick wasn’t sure how far they’d driven. He was guessing about ten, maybe twelve, miles. But distance was almost immaterial compared to the fact that the gas gauge didn’t work, either. He had no way of knowing how close they were to running out of fuel, although there was no going back.

  As he took a sharp curve in the road, the back end of the old car began to hydroplane on the slick blacktop. Surprised by the sudden move, Lou grabbed for the dash. As he did, the bottle of Coke he’d been holding between his legs suddenly tipped backward into his lap.

  “Son of a bitch!” he yelled, as he made an unsuccessful bid to grab it. “If you can’t drive any better than that, get out and let me.”

  Wayman leaned forward from the backseat and slapped Lou on the side of his head.

  “The roads are slick. It’s not his fault.”

  “Keep your hands to your damn self!” Lou fired back.

  Suddenly Tug rose up from the seat, pale and sweaty, but conscious enough to be pissed at what amounted to squabbling.

  “Everyone shut the fuck up! All of you,” Tug said. “My head is killing me.”

  The silence within the car was palpable.

  At that point, Nick remembered the plastic sack on the backseat floorboard.

  “Hey…Wayman, there are some pain pills and antibiotics in that sack. Lou, give Tug a bottle of water.”

  Tug groaned as he felt his head, then cursed at the sight of so much blood on his hand.

  “Son of a bitch! I’m bleeding like a stuck pig.”

  Wayman shook out a couple of pills and handed them to Tug.

  “Here you go. These will fix you right up.”

  Tug frowned and blinked, trying to focus on the pills in the middle of his palm, but they kept shifting in and out of focus.

  “Where did you get the meds?” he asked.

  “At a pharmacy, right before we got the car,” Nick said.

  “Way to go,” Way said, as he began searching through the rest of the items in the sack.

  “Don’t give him more than two until we see how they affect him,” Nick warned, then added, “Are you allergic to anything, Tug?”

  “No.”

  Lou handed Tug a bottle of water, and the tension inside the car began to ebb. A few miles farther on, Nick realized Lou was going through the food sack as if it was his own private buffet.

  “Go easy,” Nick warned. “That’s gotta last us until we get to New Orleans.”

  Lou glared. “Why? It’s not like we’re stranded on some desert island.”

  “The clothes we took from that department store didn’t come with money in the pockets,” Nick said.

  Lou shrugged. “So we knock over a liquor store in the first town we come to.”

  “I did not just escape from jail just to get my ass thrown back in for robbing a liquor store,” Nick drawled, as if the thought of something so menial was beneath him.

  Lou’s voice rose in a challenging manner. “You’re low enough to peddle drugs, but too good to heist a liquor store? Bullshit! Since when is one crime better than another, and by the way…why the hell are you suddenly the man in charge?”

  “Since I’m not willing to go back to prison for stealing a few hundred dollars, that’s why…and I’m not in charge,” Nick said.

  Lou muttered beneath his breath, but tossed the sack back onto the floor beside his feet.

  Nick glanced in the rearview mirror, trying to gauge Wayman’s mood. The last thing he wanted was to get on the wrong side of the French brothers, but he couldn’t tell by the look on the other man’s face what he was thinking.

  “We all know Tug’s the boss,” Nick added. “I was only making a suggestion.”

  “Do what he said,” Tug muttered.

  Lou grabbed the sack and tossed it over the seat. “There! You are now the guardian of the damned peanut butter crackers. Is everybody happy?”

  No sooner had he asked the question, than the car began to misfire.

  “What now?” Lou demanded.

  “I think we’re running out of gas,” Nick said.

  Lou rounded on him viciously. “You didn’t fuckin’ think to check before you heisted the car?”

  “I told you when we started, the gauge doesn’t work,” Nick said. “Remember?”

  Sure enough, when the car jerked a few times and then began rolling to a stop, it became obvious they were out of gas.

  “Now what?” Lou complained.

  Nick glanced over his shoulder. “How’s Tug? Think he can walk?”

  “I’ll carry him if I have to,” Wayman said.

  Nick nodded, then pointed to a bridge only a few yards ahead.

  “I think we should roll the car off into the creek. If we’re lucky, someone will just think it got dumped there by the storm. If not, at least it will confuse the authorities as to which direction we took.”

  Tug sat up and reached for the door. “I can walk. Them pills’re already kicking in.”

  The four men got out, pushed the Lincoln closer to the bridge, then aimed it toward the creek below. It rolled past the entrance to the bridge, through a wire fence and some brush, before going nose down into the water. The runoff was swift from the passing storm. Water was almost to the windshield as the car shifted sideways just a little, then lodged between some submerged rocks, the back end sticking out of the water like the fin of a shark.

  Nick picked up the sacks of food and medicine, tied them together, then slung them over his shoulder before pointing to the broken fence.

  “Looks like a good place to cross. If we move into the trees, we can still follow the road but stay out of sight.”

  “I am not walking in the fucking swamp,” Lou said.

  “Fine with me,” Wayman said. “I’m tired listening to your bitchin’ anyway. Do me a favor and take your ass on down the road alone.”

  Without looking back, Nick and the French brothers crossed the ditch and walked through the broken four-wire fence.

  Wild-eyed and furious at the situation, Lou cursed at the top of his voice, then yelled, “Wait up!” and ran to catch up.

  Bordelaise was in chaos. Police Chief Hershel Porter had been on his way into town when the tornado hit. He’d taken cover under an overpass and ridden out the storm, clinging to the underside of the bridge and praying that the tornado missed his home.

  By the time he felt safe enough to crawl out, he was in a panic, wondering if the town had been hit and, if so, what kind of damage it had suffered.

  He got back into the cruiser and grabbed the radio, only to find out it was dead. He dug through the console for his cell phone, then couldn’t get a signal. Sure that was just the first sign of trouble to come, he headed into town with the siren running, only to find that entire streets had been leveled. Whole neighborhood
s were missing. As he drove, he couldn’t tell one street from another.

  It wasn’t until he passed a church that had been left standing that he got a mental picture of where he was. After that, he took a right and headed for the jail.

  Friday night they had booked four men for possession of drugs and drug-related paraphernalia, and they’d been awaiting the arrival of a judge to arraign them. As usual when they housed prisoners overnight, he’d left retired deputy Edgar Shoe on duty. Ed was pushing seventy and a little hard of hearing, but he was reliable.

  It took longer than expected to navigate the streets, and by the time he neared the office, he had a running list of places and people needing emergency services. But when he turned the corner and started down the block, his heart dropped.

  “Lord, Lord,” Hershel said as he parked, then jumped out on the run.

  He sidestepped what was left of someone’s sofa, and moved a large tree branch and a piece of rafter just so he could get in the front door. Within seconds he found Ed Shoe lying beneath an overturned chair.

  He tossed the chair aside, then dropped to the floor and immediately felt for a pulse. It was there.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” Hershel muttered.

  The old man groaned, then stirred.

  Hershel put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Ed? Ed? It’s me, Hershel.”

  Ed blinked, then opened his eyes.

  “Hey, Chief…what happened?” he mumbled.

  “We were hit by a tornado. Are you okay? Can you sit up? Do you hurt anywhere?”

  “My head hurts some, but I reckon I can walk all right. Help me up.”

  “No…no…just take it easy for a minute,” Hershel said. “Let’s just sit you up while I go check on the prisoners.”

  Hershel propped Ed up against an overturned desk, then began digging debris away from the doorway leading to his office and the jail. But when he opened the door, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  The roof on the back of the building was gone. Water was standing everywhere, and it was still raining. He splashed through a hallway of puddles, and as he reached the cell block, he realized his problems had gone from bad to worse.

  The back wall was gone, and the cells were empty. His first thought was that the men had escaped, and then he noticed the blood: on the bars of one cell, staining a mattress, darkening the wood on a piece of rafter and, in the last cell, enough blood that the puddle of water on the floor was a dirty pink.

  Hershel’s mind was racing as he hurried back to Ed. One of his deputies was just coming in the front door.

  “Chief! Chief! Phones and electricity are out. The EMTs are dispatching ambulances by walkie-talkie and trying to evacuate the nursing home. I got our handhelds out of the trunk of my cruiser.”

  He handed one to Hershel.

  “Good thinking, Lee,” Hershel said. “But we got ourselves a big problem here, too.”

  Lee glanced at Ed. “Is he hurt bad?”

  “It’s not Ed. It’s the prisoners. They’re gone.”

  “Escaped?” Lee asked.

  “I’m not sure. From the looks of the place, there’s a real good chance the tornado took them. The roof is gone. The back wall is a pile of cinder blocks, and there’s blood all over the place. Get radios to as many people as you can and tell them to be on the lookout for the men, just in case.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lee said, then pointed to Ed. “What about him?”

  “Help me get him in the cruiser. I’ll drop him off at the E.R., then I’ll be on the radio if you need me.”

  Once the rain ended and the sun began to emerge from behind the swiftly moving storm front, the air became a sauna. Wet heat radiated from the ground up as the four men slogged along the edge of a swamp. Kudzu vines that were hanging from trees and snaking along the ground were as rampant as the mosquitoes that buzzed around their heads. The sweat running from their hairlines burned the open wounds and abrasions they had incurred during the storm, and the bruises that they’d suffered were turning varying shades of purple.

  Nick’s belly was sore from being slammed against the bars of his cell. Tug was out of it, staggering without knowing where they were or where they were going. Wayman’s limp was getting worse from having to bear his own weight and his brother’s. Lou seemed to be the one with the fewest injuries, but he was complaining the loudest. The farther they walked, they more he bitched, until finally, Wayman stopped and grabbed Lou by the arm, yanking him to within inches of his face.

  “If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to kill you.”

  It was the lack of emotion in Wayman’s voice that drove the point home.

  Nick waited, watching to see what happened next. It was of no consequence to him how this went down. If they all killed each other, then so much the better.

  Lou opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it and yanked himself free. “Whatever.”

  “This appears to be a good time to take a rest,” Nick said, and took the sacks off his shoulder and opened them. “Tug could probably use another pain pill about now, too.”

  He began passing around food and water. As soon as Tug had the water in his hand, Nick handed him two pills.

  “Down the hatch.”

  Tug was swaying on his feet. He looked up at Nick, then down at the two pills in his hand. “What?”

  “You swallow them, Tug,” Wayman said.

  Tug blinked, then put the pills in his mouth.

  “Did they go down?” Nick asked.

  “Who the hell knows?” Wayman muttered, then eyed Nick anxiously. “Do you think Tug’s gonna be all right?”

  Nick shrugged. “I’m not a doctor. But if he was my brother, I’d get him to a hospital as fast as I could. Better he lives to go back to jail than dies in this damned swamp.”

  “Not goin’ to a hospital,” Tug mumbled.

  “There’s your answer,” Nick said, then tossed the sacks back over his shoulder and proceeded to open a package of peanut butter crackers.

  He ate without thought, easing the ache in his belly while his mind was racing. They needed to find food and shelter—and another vehicle to get them out of the area.

  “While Tug is resting, I’m going to scout around.”

  “Hell, no,” Lou said. “We stay together. Tug said so. You’re not gonna leave us here while you make a run for it.”

  Nick took the sacks off his shoulder and handed them to Wayman, then looked him square in the face.

  “Hold these, Way. I’ll be back.”

  Wayman nodded as he took the sack. Nick had already proved that his word was good when he’d stolen a car in Bordelaise and come back for them. “Be careful. Watch out for snakes.”

  “You, too. I won’t be long,” Nick said, then headed into the swamp.

  He could hear Lou and Wayman arguing as he walked away. If he was lucky, he would come back and find Lou with a broken neck. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he realized how cold his emotions had become. He’d been undercover too long. However, his mental health was going to have to take a backseat to their immediate needs, which consisted of finding shelter or wheels, whichever came first.

  Three

  A cloud of mosquitoes buzzed around Nick’s head as he pushed his way through the morass, knocking back kudzu, wading knee-deep through thick, murky sloughs with an eye on the water, making sure he wasn’t about to be sideswiped by an alligator in wait. About fifteen minutes in, he walked up on an abandoned fishing shack, startling a small flock of ibis that had taken shelter from the storm. More than half the roof was missing, which ended the notion of using it for shelter. The heat was stifling as the sun continued to emerge from behind passing storm clouds. The cuts and scrapes he’d suffered during the tornado burned from the salt in his sweat, and more than once he’d felt something bump up against his leg as he waded through the muddy water.

  Every time he heard something plop, he flinched, only to find out later it had been a frog, or a big, fl
at-shelled, snapping turtle. Well aware of the dangers in the bayous, he didn’t linger.

  He was still wading through runoff from the storm and cursing bugs in general when he caught a glimpse of something in the distance. Although his heart was hammering from exertion, he decided to check it out.

  Within minutes, his hopes rose. What he’d seen was the roofline of a house—a very large house. Hopeful this would be the answer to their needs, his steps lengthened as he hurried closer for a better look.

  By the time he reached the clearing that surrounded the house, the muscles in his legs were shaking. He needed to rehydrate and rest, but that would have to come later. Instinct told him to check the perimeter—but time was not on his side. Although it was obvious the storm had passed through here, too, other than a few downed trees and a lot of broken limbs, he saw little physical damage.

  His gaze moved to the house. Shades of Scarlett O’Hara! The three-story mansion had four massive columns and a veranda that ran the entire width of the front. The house itself was white with dark green shutters, and in need of a paint job. The structure appeared undamaged, but from where he was standing, he saw no signs of life—not even a dog. Either the owners were inside or gone. If it was empty, it would be a place to reconnoiter, maybe stock up on food. If someone was there, they could plead injuries from the storm, and beg food and the use of a phone. There were people Tug could call for a ride out of the area. But if the place was empty and they were lucky, there would be a vehicle to hot-wire. Excited by the discovery, he ran all the way back, anxious to get out of the swamp before nightfall.

  When Wayman saw him coming, he stood up and waved.

  “I knew you’d be back,” he crowed.

  Lou glared, then looked away.

  Nick didn’t have time for their petty squabbles, and from the looks of Tug, neither did he.

  “I found a house…a big house,” Nick said. “If someone’s inside, we can ask to use the phone. Tug can call someone to come get us.”

  Wayman grinned. “Yeah, Whitey will come get us.”

  Nick nodded. “And if the place is empty, we can clean up, maybe rest and get some real food while we wait for our ride.”