Eric listened as he drove up the on-ramp to the eastbound lanes of I-10, heading east on the bridge across the two main channels of the Atchafalaya. There was an exit off the bridge just past the second channel overpass, and Eric turned there at the professor’s direction.
“Just follow the ramp down to that road and turn back north under the bridge. She’s in the woods out of sight down there.”
Eric did as he said, pulling to a stop on the shoulder once they were completely under the bridge. There was a dense buffer of woods between the road and the river, certainly a good place to hide from anyone passing by on the road. Eric opened the door and stepped out of the truck as the professor exited the other side. He was looking out into the trees for some sign of the injured woman and the other student with her when a crushing blow to the top of his head sent him to his knees. Eric was dazed and seeing stars, his ears ringing from the impact when he felt a body land hard on him from behind, slamming him face-first into the overgrown grass along the shoulder of the road.
Three
BEFORE HE COULD PROCESS what was happening and react, Eric’s arms were wrenched behind his back and pinned. Another weight pressed down on the back of his legs, preventing him from rolling over or attempting to regain his feet. He was still stunned from the blow to the head, but vaguely aware of the feeling of something constricting his ankles, pulling tighter. Then he felt the cold muzzle of a gun barrel pressed into the side of his face as his arms were likewise restrained. Tightening his fists and flexing his forearms as much as possible, Eric did his best to keep his wrists from being crushed together by the binding, but he was in no position to attempt to free himself at the moment. As he tried to make sense of what was happening, he heard the professor’s voice next to him. It was Dr. Russell that had the gun to his face, and Eric saw with disgust that the weapon was his own M4 that he’d placed on the seat between them when he got in the truck to drive. Eric felt hands searching his waistline and then he was relieved of the Glock and fighting knife on his belt. How could he have been so stupid? Not only had he let these strangers talk him into going out of his way to help them, but he’d also let them set him up. To what end, he figured he was about to find out.
“He’s not going anywhere,” Eric heard one of the two students that had been in the back of the truck say in answer to the professor. He felt the weight lift off of him as the speaker got up. Eric saw a piece of two-by-four lumber that had been in the back of the truck now lying on the road beside him, and it was clear what had happened. One of the two punks in the back had whacked him with the board when he got out, and then they’d both piled onto him and hog-tied him before he had time to recover. Eric doubted this was a spur of the moment decision. They must have planned it and were already prepared before the truck came to a stop. The only question was why?
“I know what you’re thinking, Sheriff Branson,” Eric heard Dr. Russell say. “You’re wondering why you’re on the ground all tied up like that. Well, all I can tell you is that it’s payback time. You and all the other cowards hiding behind badges are getting what is long overdue, and your turn is now.”
Eric said nothing, but now he understood why this man was so judgmental about the shooting of the thugs from the pickup. Apparently, it offended his sense of social justice and he was doing something about it. He’d already mentioned students of his shot by the police in Chicago. Eric figured they were participating in violent riots, but the ‘professor’ and his little gang of anarchists probably didn’t care why it happened. They just had it in for all law enforcement officers. They had spotted Keith’s truck that morning by chance and followed him down the road to the house. Eric figured they would have simply shot him if he hadn’t gotten the drop on them first and caught them off guard. Then the smooth-talking professor had quickly devised an alternative plan and lured him here under false pretense. He’d evidently communicated his scheme to his two accomplices in the brief moment of conversation he had with them before they all piled into the truck to drive out here. Eric had made them leave their weapons at Keith’s where the others waited, but it didn’t matter. Because he’d foolishly trusted them, now he was the one who was disarmed and at gunpoint. If they wanted to go ahead and shoot him, there was nothing stopping them. The road here was deserted and they could be long gone before anyone discovered his body. But apparently, that wasn’t the plan.
“Let’s get him in the back of the truck, guys. There’s no point in wasting time.”
What they had in mind, Eric had no clue. The only good thing about being loaded into the back of the truck was that at least he was still alive. And until they put a bullet in his head, Eric knew there might be a chance to turn the tables again. The time to fight wasn’t now though. With his feet lashed together and his hands tied behind his back, not to mention that the professor got in the back with Eric’s rifle while one of the other two drove, Eric figured it best to bide his time. He didn’t have to wait long to find out where they were taking him though and why. The professor’s next question gave it away.
“I’ll bet there are some big alligators in this swamp, aren’t there, Sheriff Branson? I’ll bet bodies that end up in the river are never found, are they? Have you ever investigated cases like that?”
Eric now knew they definitely planned to kill him; they just didn’t want to do it until they were back on the bridge over the Atchafalaya. He figured the plan was to shoot him there, where it would be easy to dump him in the river, but that wasn’t the case.
“With your hands and feet tied up, I’m sure you’ll probably drown long before they find you, but then again, what do I know about the feeding habits of alligators? We don’t have them up north of course, so I’ve never even seen one in the wild.”
“I don’t know what you hope to accomplish by this, but it’s not going to end the way you think it is,” Eric said. “It doesn’t matter how many cops you kill, you’re not going to win, especially when you don’t even have a clue what you’re fighting for.”
“We know what we’re fighting for all right. And we’re willing to do what is necessary to achieve it. We’re doing it right now in fact. Your weapons and whatever else we find in your house will be of use to the cause, so it was fortunate that we met today. We still have a long way to go though, so we must be done here so we can be on our way.”
Eric knew from glancing out the window earlier on the drive over that this bridge spanned the main navigation channel of the river. He had seen several channel markers in the distance. He didn’t know exactly how deep it was or even if they were parked over the middle or not, but if they were, he knew it had to be deep enough to accommodate towboats and barges. That was enough to make the plunge survivable, as the bridge wasn’t particularly high. If they didn’t shoot him before they dumped him over the side, Eric had reason to believe he might have a chance.
That they didn’t simply shoot him was a testament to their lack of professionalism and training. He knew their aim was to make him suffer, and they probably expected him to show fear or beg for his life, but Eric did neither, he just quietly took several deep breaths as he waited for them to get on with it. They parked the truck close enough to the guardrail of the bridge so that all the two muscle boys had to do was stand in the bed and heave him over. Eric tried to scan the muddy brown current below as soon as they lifted him, looking for obstructions and hoping like hell he wouldn’t land on a piling or some other solid structure that would ruin his already questionable odds. He didn’t see anything, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he had. After swinging his body back the other way to get sufficient momentum, the two hurled him over the edge and Eric found himself in free-fall. There was little time to get ready, but he did his best to twist and turn so as to hit the water feet first, sucking in a big final breath just before impact.
His alignment upon entry was less than perfect, but at least he didn’t smack the surface on his belly or back. He felt his body knife into the opaque, brown water and saw as ex
pected that the visibility was near zero. He would soon need to regain the surface and get some air, but his first priority was to free his hands. It wasn’t the first time Eric had been thrown into deep water with his hands and feet tied, but as far as he knew, the instructors at BUD/S weren’t hoping he’d drown in the training pool. Most people in that situation would drown, because there were few who wouldn’t panic. But Eric knew staying calm and working with what he had was the key to getting out of this; not desperate struggle. The one thing he had going for him was that although he’d been stunned and surprised, he had not been unconscious when his hands were bound behind him. He’d had the presence of mind to lock out his forearms and wrists, an old trick he’d read about somewhere long before his intensive formal training and had practiced repeatedly with Keith when they were just kids. The idea was to use the tension to subtly maintain a small gap between the wrists, imperceptible to whoever was doing the binding. They would pull the lashings tight thinking they were secure, and after they were done and were no longer paying attention, relaxing the tension to close the gap would create enough space to make it possible to slip the bonds like Houdini. Eric was pretty sure he’d achieved sufficient slack to do this, but he hadn’t tested it before they tossed him in because he didn’t want to give them a reason to bind him tighter.
When he reached the bottom of his descent, the momentum from his fall finally spent at a depth of around 12 to 15 feet, Eric relaxed and calmly began experimenting by extending his fingers and pressing his wrists as close together as he could get them. There didn’t seem to be any stretch in the cord they’d used to bind him, and if it was the same as they’d used on his ankles Eric guessed it was some type of Dacron or other synthetic utility cord. Whatever it was, it was far too strong to break, and with no visibility there was little chance of finding something underwater upon which to abrade or cut the lashings. His tension trick was his only hope, and at first it seemed to be failing him. There was little time before he would need air, but Eric put that thought out of his mind and focused on every possible contortion of his wrists until he began to feel like he was making progress. It wouldn’t do to immediately resurface for a breath anyway, as his captors were likely watching and waiting to see what would happen, no doubt fantasizing about thrashing gators moving in like man-eating crocs for a feeding frenzy. Alligators weren’t even on Eric’s radar though. The real danger was drowning, followed by getting shot; if these would-be murderers saw his head pop up for air. The strong current carrying him rapidly away from the bridge was in his favor though, at least in regards to the latter concern.
In one final, all-out effort, he pulled and wiggled until it felt as if he would tear away the skin from his hands in the process, but then he was free! Casting the lashings aside, Eric began pulling himself along with the current using powerful, sweeping strokes of his hands. He had another 20 seconds or so before the need for air would force him to surface, and he used it to gain as much underwater distance as possible.
When his lungs were searing for relief at the end of that final push, Eric aimed his face towards the light and broke through, turning to face the bridge as he inhaled deeply and then immediately submerged again. What he saw in those brief seconds told him all he needed to know. The professor and his two young henchmen were already pulling away in Keith’s truck. Eric had been under long enough to drown most men, and they probably assumed their job was complete and there was nothing left to see. He wasn’t going to risk swimming on the surface though, just in case they glanced back that way, and besides, he still had to free his feet.
Back underwater, Eric felt inside his waistband for the paracord lanyard doubled through one of his belt loops. They had found and removed his Glock and spare magazines, as well as the prized handmade Bowie given to him by his former teammate, Drew, but they missed the little Suarez Gang Unit last-ditch knife tucked down inside the front of his pants in its Kydex sheath. Eric whipped out the razor-edged two and half-inch blade and then tumbled upside down in the current as he pulled his knees into his chest to reach his ankles. The lashings fell away with a couple of deft strokes and then Eric swam downriver again until he needed more air. By the third time he came up for a breath, the truck and the three that had taken it were no longer in sight from his point of view in the river.
Eric knew exactly where they were going. There was no point in going back to the bridge, and he was certain now that there was no injured woman or any other members of their party waiting in the woods there beside the road. No, the professor had duped him into driving there simply because they were at a disadvantage at the house at the time. Eric had to give it to him for his quick thinking to concoct such a scheme on the fly. They had followed him to Keith’s to do him in by whatever means they could, simply because they had it in for all cops. Taking out a sheriff was no doubt a satisfying coup to add to whatever list of murders they’d already compiled. They’d seen him as an ideal target of opportunity—a lone lawman out in the middle of nowhere—with no backup and no witnesses. He was sure they must have been feeling quite smug by now as they drove back to join the others. They had to be thinking they could ransack the house at their leisure, isolated as it was at the end of that lonely road. Eric doubted they wanted the truck or other vehicles, because the bikes had worked well for them thus far. Instead they would be after the additional weapons and ammunition they would assume could be found there, as well as needed food supplies. They’d already scored a select-fire M4 and an RMR equipped Glock 19 with three spare mags, not to mention his treasured blade, and knowing his brother well, Eric figured there were indeed more weapons and ammo stashed at Keith’s place.
As he treaded water while looking back at the bridge, Eric reached back and felt the lump on his head where the two-by-four had clobbered him. It was a wonder it hadn’t knocked him unconscious or fractured his skull. As it was, he would have a knot for a while, and there was still the possibility of a concussion, but considering the alternatives, Eric had gotten away relatively unscathed. Those three guys might have gotten the drop on him, but they’d made several grave mistakes, the biggest of which was not killing him while they could. They’d also failed to search him thoroughly enough to remove that last blade, or to check that his hands were really secure. Eric thought too that if they’d looked hard enough in Keith’s patrol truck; they would have probably found a set of spare handcuffs in it. If they had, his lungs would indeed be filled with river water by now.
Turning away from the bridge, Eric began swimming downstream, angling across the current in the direction of the west bank. Walking back to Keith’s place by road might be a lot faster, considering the terrain, but that would put him out in the wide open, especially while on the bridge. Instead, he aimed to cut through the swamp and find his way there by a more direct route. Without weapons, he would be at a great disadvantage if caught out on the road, vulnerable not only to the threat he knew, but to anyone else he might encounter while so exposed.
He reached west side of the channel and quickly scrambled up the slippery mud of the bank into the cover of a willow thicket. Eric knew that going cross-country wouldn’t be easy here, but the one thing he had on his side was that it was the relative dry season here, the transition time between late summer and early fall. Although he knew there wasn’t much of a winter or fall here to speak of, it was far better for what he had to do than the wetter seasons when most of the forestland in the basin would be completely flooded.
Eric stood just outside the tree line, getting his bearings off the bridge while it was still in sight. He could guesstimate the angle needed to come out on the gravel road paralleling Keith’s bayou by the time it took to drive from the house up to the interstate and then from the on-ramp to the exit where he’d been knocked in the head. This was yet another time when he wished for a working GPS that would take him straight to his objective, but Eric had plenty of experience with dead-reckoning and the electronic bearing compass in his watch still worked just fine.
As soon as he had worked out the number he felt was most reasonable, Eric was on his way.
“Dry season” was a relative term in a place like this, as Eric well knew, and he hadn’t gone a hundred yards before he came to the first of many muddy sloughs he would have to swim and wade. His feet sank into the muck that threatened to pull his boots off his feet, and briar thickets and reed brakes impeded his progress. There was little chance of encountering human threats while traversing such inhospitable swampland, so Eric deliberately made enough noise to flush out the snakes that might be lurking unseen in the deep vegetation. These precautions seemed prudent after seeing the effects of a cottonmouth bite on the kid he drove to the hospital that very morning. He’d spent plenty of time in the jungle, and this swamp was more the same than different. As he slogged through mud, wormed his way through thickets and swam the waters that were too deep to wade, Eric caught sight of several inhabitants of the river basin, not only snakes and alligators, but armadillos, whitetail deer and even a small herd of wild hogs. But as he’d expected, he encountered no sign of humans during his traverse, as few people ventured into the Atchafalaya Basin without a boat, and that meant sticking to the navigable waterways.
Tribulation Page 3
