by Bobby Akart
Kristi flipped him off and continued her conversation. “No, she’s a year-old chimp that we’ve named Brooke. You know, short for Brookfield.”
“What about Knight?”
Kristi sighed. It would take a while for her to get over the loss of her primate best friend. “Misty, it’s a long story. He changed and he ran off. Listen, there is a we. I have a friend, a boyfriend actually.”
Tommy beamed.
“Awesome! Wonders never cease. Your brother has a girlfriend, too.”
“What? Levi’s married.”
“No, not Levi. Chapman’s home, and he brought a beautiful French girl with him from Paris—Isabella. She’s a scientist. Smart and beautiful, too. Bitch.”
“Bitch!”
The women laughed as they said it. Of course, it was said in jealous jest, sort of.
Static began to interrupt their conversation, so Kristi got to the point. “Listen, we have to drive at a snail’s pace because of the traffic leaving Chicago and now around Indianapolis. We’re headed that way, but it could be tomorrow as slow as we’re goin’.”
“Say no more,” said Misty. “I’ve gotta head to south county late morning, so I’ll stop by afterwards and tell your folks. They’ll be as thrilled as I am.”
Kristi managed a smile and wiped away a tear as she thought about reuniting with her folks. “Well, thanks, Misty. Tell them I love them, and we’ll be there as soon as we can.”
Kristi signed off and terminated the transmission. Then the tears began to flow. Tommy reached over and rubbed her shoulder, drawing a smile from her.
She managed to find the words to express how she felt. “You know, you take your family and home for granted when you grow up. They help you find your path in life, and you run off the farm or out the door to pursue it, sometimes never looking back. Yet they’re always there when you need them.”
He smiled and nodded.
She continued. “Tommy, I just want you to know my family is your family now if that’s what you want. I promise you there’s a place in their hearts for you.”
For the first time, Tommy Bannon cried, too.
Chapter 39
Near Defiance, Ohio
Levi was growing desperate for gasoline. As the needle approached the one-quarter-of-a-tank mark, he began to try the more conventional means of obtaining gas—he asked politely. Wherever he saw a country gas station on the back roads he traveled, he’d stopped and tried to play on people’s good nature. He’d tell them his story and how he was trying to get home to his family. No matter how heartfelt he appeared, or elaborate the recent events could sound, the answer was always the same.
No. No gas. And even if they had any, they weren’t giving it away for free regardless of the sob story being told.
At first, Levi was angry at the lack of compassion being shown by his fellow man. Then he began to understand. Through his conversations with people, he learned a little more about the circumstances that had led to the president’s decision to turn off the country’s power supply. What was happening around the world was beyond his imagination, but he was able to relate to the unusual changes because of his own experiences.
That still didn’t make him feel better as the truck’s fuel tank headed rapidly toward empty. Dusk was fast approaching, and Levi considered this to be a benefit as he contemplated stealing gasoline. He’d siphoned fuel out of equipment around Riverfront Farms since he was a kid. When his allowance ran low and he wanted to go out on a date, he’d borrow diesel from his dad’s tractors to fill his pickup.
That worked well until he was pulled over at a random checkpoint by the Indiana State Police. They retrieved a sample of diesel from his tank and discovered it was dyed. Dyed diesel was sold to farmers without the normal taxes charged on fuel for passenger vehicles. Levi received a big, fat ticket and an even bigger scolding from his dad.
Nonetheless, he intended to apply his knowledge to siphoning gasoline out of anything he could find. He’d already gathered a piece of water hose at his last stop, and there was an empty five-gallon plastic gas can in the bed of his stolen truck. Now he needed several lawn and garden tractors to provide him a source of gasoline. Most tractor-style mowers held two or three gallons of gasoline. Levi was happy to gather what he could to get him farther down the road.
His first attempt was south of tiny Lyons, Ohio, and netted him a few gallons, but the poor gas mileage of the older pickup quickly consumed it.
He was on the outskirts of Defiance, Ohio, a town midway between Toledo and Fort Wayne, when he made his next attempt. It was dark outside, but Levi passed a small farm with two dozen refurbished lawn tractors in the front yard for sale. The farmer had a hobby business fixing up old lawn mowers and selling them to locals.
Levi assumed the lawn mowers would have gas in them, as the farmer’s customers would ask him to start them when they came to make a purchase.
He slowed as he passed the property and found a place off the side of the road to hide the pickup. There were no lights on in any of the adjacent properties. Only a candle flickering from the living room at the farmer’s house indicated anyone was home.
By Levi’s calculations, he could easily fill the truck and carry a spare five gallons in the container. It would be more than enough to get to Riverfront Farms.
At first, he was a little overanxious and found himself running through the drainage ditch that ran adjacent to the county road. Once again, Levi’s adrenaline had spiked, and he charged forward without thinking of the pitfalls. He crossed over a driveway and jumped down into a ditch, losing his footing slightly before falling to the ground. He used his right arm, the one injured with a gunshot wound, to brace his fall.
It helped him avoid further injury to his wound, but it came with a cost. He sliced it open on part of a steel drainage culvert.
“Arrrggghhh!” Levi screamed in pain as the steel ripped through his skin to the ulna, one of the two large bones that make up the forearm. Blood began to pump out of the ulnar artery, soaking through the sleeve of his shirt and gushing over his pants.
Levi doubled over in pain, frantically trying to stop the bleeding. He pulled his shirt over his head and used his left sleeve to tie a tourniquet just above his elbow. He used the remainder of his shirt to wrap around his forearm to put pressure on the wound.
“Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!” Levi quietly cursed his bad luck, or bad decision, or both. Either way, he knew he was in trouble.
He briefly considered going to the farmer’s door and asking for help. But then he’d find himself in the awkward position of explaining what he was doing in the man’s front yard with a gas can and a siphon hose.
Levi remembered checking his map before it got dark. The road he was taking would hook up with Highway 24 just south of Defiance, Ohio. Maybe they have a doctor or a hospital, Levi thought to himself.
Giving up on his plan to steal gasoline, he crawled out of the ditch and walked briskly back to the pickup, keeping the pressure on his wound, which had now completely soaked his shirt with blood.
In his already weakened state, it didn’t take long for the blood loss to have a profound effect on Levi’s body. He became short of breath and dizzy. An extreme feeling of drowsiness came over him as he started the truck and drove toward the highway. On several occasions, he drove off onto the shoulder of the county road, causing him to correct his course and quickly yank the wheel to the left to avoid wrecking in a ditch.
His head bobbed up and down as he continued on. A mile seemed like an eternity for the young man, who was gradually losing consciousness. The days that preceded this had taken their toll. Levi Boone’s body was shutting down and his mind was giving out.
He was barely coherent when he pulled onto the westbound lane of Highway 24 outside Defiance, Ohio, just as the truck sputtered and shut down, out of gas.
In his delirious state, he thought he’d arrived at a hospital. He fumbled for the door handle. After several attempts, he finally flipped it open and fell face-
first onto the pavement, ripping open a gash in his chin. He spilled into the middle of the highway and attempted to stand. But his body was too weak and his knees gave out, resulting him landing on his chest, completely oblivious to the convoy of FEMA trucks roaring toward him on their way to Fort Wayne.
Chapter 40
Riverfront Farms
Southeast Indiana
“How are your eyes, Dad?” asked Chapman as Squire leaned back in his recliner. Physically, he seemed to be recovering from the near-drowning experience. Emotionally, he might not unless this tragedy were to be replaced by another. His eyes had been bothering him, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the brief exposure to the sun or because he’d had them wide open under water. The Ohio River was not known to be the cleanest.
“Well, the gritty sensation seems to have gone away. The eyewash helped with that.”
Chapman knelt down by his chair and gave his dad a wet washcloth to replace the one he’d been using. “That could’ve been from the river. Considering there hasn’t been any large vessel traffic, I was surprised at how much sediment there was in the water.”
“Is the river polluted?” asked Isabella.
Chapman left his father’s side and took up a seat on the fireplace hearth. “They’ve tried to control the mercury levels and harmful water runoff from sanitation facilities near the river. They had a lot of success for a while. Then the coal-fired power plants complained they were having difficulty meeting the government standards, and the rules were relaxed.”
Squire covered his eyes with the washcloth and leaned back. “That was especially true down in Evansville.”
Carly had just returned from putting the kids to bed and joined in the conversation. “That’s true, but Evansville is pretty far downriver.”
“Maybe,” muttered Chapman.
“What do you mean, son?” his mother asked.
“I don’t know, Mom. It could’ve been an aberration, but the body we spotted in the water was floating upstream toward New Amsterdam. I watched it for a while, thinking maybe it got caught in an eddy or a whirlpool of some kind that carried it counter to the main current. But I couldn’t see any swirling motion, and the body stayed on a pretty steady track.”
“Damn!” Squire’s sudden outburst startled everyone.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” asked Sarah as she jumped off the sofa and rushed to his side.
Squire squirmed in his chair and then lied, “Um, it was just a pain in my eyes. It went away.” He held the washcloth against his face to bolster the fib and to hide his eyes, which would’ve told the truth if his wife saw them. The pains in his abdomen were becoming more frequent and intense. He exhaled after holding his breath in an attempt to will away the sensation that his bowels were being squeezed to the point of popping.
“Let me get you a fresh washcloth and some more Refresh eye drops,” offered Sarah.
Squire didn’t want her to bother. “That’s okay, honey. It passed. I really think that I got some kind of debris in them while I was flailing about.” He pulled the washcloth away and looked to Carly. She managed a smile.
“I see it in your face, Dad. Don’t you worry about Jesse. He’s fine, in fact, better than fine. He can’t stop looking at that knot on his forehead. It’s like a badge of honor.”
“He’s a hero,” said Squire. “That boy saved my life today.”
Carly looked over at Chapman. “And you saved Jesse’s.”
Sarah squeezed Carly’s hand. “We’re a family of survivors.”
Carly appeared sullen. With every passing day, she became more worrisome about the whereabouts of Levi. She glanced over at Isabella. Today, Chapman’s new friend had talked her off the cliff, so to speak. Carly was about to load up her truck with supplies, guns, and extra gasoline to trek across the Midwest in search of her husband. She’d told Isabella that she couldn’t just sit around while Levi was out there, possibly injured.
Using logic, Isabella had talked her out of the fool’s errand. Levi had his friends to assist him, and from what Chapman told her, he was clearly the most adept of all the Boones to survive in the wilderness. Moreover, Isabella reminded Carly, her kids couldn’t afford to lose both of their parents. She simply had to keep the faith.
The conversation turned to the next day’s activities. For the first time, the family and all the farmhands would stay indoors throughout the day except for patrols. Chapman and Isabella would continue to ride the perimeter of the property during the day, using the least agitated of the horses.
They had retrieved an air horn out of the family’s bass boat to be used in the event of an emergency. The farm was divided into numbered sections. A problem by the river, for example, was declared section two. Two long blasts on the horn, followed by a pause, and then two more long blasts would mean send the cavalry.
At night, they’d instructed the farmhands to watch over the orchards and the farming operations, harvesting what they could and remaining vigilant for trespassers as well. This change of routine proved to be fortuitous in the coming days.
Chapter 41
South Harrison County, Indiana
The key to any government official successfully taking part in an illegal or corrupt activity was plausible deniability. Whether in Washington or Corydon, in order to avoid being swept into a conspiracy, the official needed to have several layers of insulation between the illegal activity and his hands. The larger the government—such as, for example, the U.S. federal government—the more layers were required. In Harrison County, Sheriff Randy Clark only needed a couple of loyal deputies to spearhead the operation for him to keep his hands clean.
Sheriff Clark wanted his first operation to come off without a hitch, yet the haul needed to be worth the effort. He considered his options and chose Clarence Watson as his first target. Watson owned six hundred acres in the bend of Indian Creek off West Heidelberg Road south of Corydon.
Watson’s wife had died in the spring, and he was reportedly distraught over the loss. His farm had been a consistent producer of corn, soybeans, tomatoes, and, of course, apples. The Watson farm was an ideal first mark because there was only one way in and one way out of the property off the road. One of the deputies would position his patrol car near the entrance to ensure nobody came upon them in the middle of the night. The other would supervise the inmates to make sure they were diligent about their duties and didn’t try to run off.
The darkness coupled with a lack of ambient light gave them the perfect conditions to do their work. The meandering creek that surrounded the property acted as a barrier and deterrent to the work-release crew from running off.
Starting with the crops, the inmates picked Clarence Watson’s gardens until they were virtually emptied. They then moved into the orchard.
Sheriff Clark had never grown crops, much less maintained an apple orchard. He did, however, study the activities of criminals. Years prior, a report had crossed his desk out of La Porte, Indiana, just west of South Bend in the northern part of the state. It appeared that some well-organized thieves shook down an apple orchard, literally.
The owner of the orchard reported an entire section of his farm had been raided one evening, and approximately fifty thousand apples had been stolen. He believed they’d put down tarps around the apple trees and worked together to shake them loose, or knock them down with long poles.
Sheriff Clark liked the simplicity of the operation. He had access to Harrison County’s vehicle pool, which included several surplus military vehicles, like the M35 Deuce and a Half, a two-and-a-half-ton cargo truck with tall wooden side rails all around the bed.
His deputies removed two of the vehicles from the county’s maintenance facility, loaded the inmates in them, and made their way onto Watson’s farm. It was just after dark as the men drove along the dirt trails that encircled the farm.
The M35s made more noise than the deputies wanted, but they hoped staying near the creek might not draw the attention of Mr. Watson. They were
wrong.
At first, the operation went as planned. The first truck stopped at the gardens, where four of the inmates under the watchful eye of their deputy supervisor made quick work of the available crops. Just after midnight, they finished their task. It was when they started their truck to drive around the back side of the farm to join the apple pickers that trouble arose.
The two groups of five men had just joined together to shake the trees loose of their ripe apples when Mr. Watson approached them with a shotgun.
“Hey! Get away from them trees!”
The men froze and slowly raised their hands. It was very dark, and the men, who had been using flashlights to gather any wayward apples, immediately dropped them to the ground. They’d discussed this in advance. Holding an illuminated flashlight when approached by a man with a gun simply made you an easy target.
Mr. Watson stepped closer to the largest group, not realizing there were two men circling behind him. He shouted at the pickers again, this time demanding to know just what on god’s green earth they thought they were doing.
The answer he received did more than knock him unconscious. It killed him.
One of the inmates hit him in the back of the head with a softball-sized rock he’d carried from near the creek. His adrenaline, fueled by fear, levied a blow much too strong for the seventy-nine-year-old man’s temple to handle. Mr. Watson died instantly.
The deputy responsible for supervising the men didn’t panic. He recalled the sheriff’s final instructions before they set out that evening. If there’s collateral damage, then there’s collateral damage. Leave no witnesses.
“You two. Pick him up by the arms and legs. We’re gonna take him back to his house. The rest of you men keep pickin’. We’ve still got a couple of hours until daybreak.”
The deputy put on his gloves and retrieved the murder weapon—the round river rock. He cradled it and Watson’s shotgun in his arms, thankful the farmer didn’t get a chance to use it. When they reached the farmhouse, he instructed his men to drop the body in the middle of the foyer. Without touching anything with his fingers, he pulled the door closed.
