The New Madrid Run

by Michael Reisig

  “I see you’re awake,” she purred. “That’s good. I want you awake for this.”

  Travis’ insides did a back flip at those words. “Listen, wait a second –” he croaked, trying to keep his wits about him.

  “No, you listen,” she snapped, her face contorted in anger as she leaned down next to him. Her breath washed over him, hard and foul. “You have offended me. Your right hand held a gun to my boy’s head, and the Lord says ‘smite the hand that offends.’”

  Oh my God, thought Travis. This can’t really be happening. “Listen,” Travis started again. “I don’t know exactly what you want, but I’m sure we can work this out. This . . . this just isn’t necessary. You can’t—”

  “Oh, but I can,” she said, snatching the axe from the stump, a maniacal gleam in her eyes. “Now you will learn to obey,” she hissed as she raised the axe.

  “For God’s sake, no!” Travis cried, and as the axe fell he screamed again. He shut his eyes at the last moment, as the blade sliced through his flesh and buried itself in the wood.

  When he opened his eyes again, Travis was immediately assailed by two emotions: The first was major relief, as he discovered his hand was still attached to his arm. The second was a combination of pain and nausea when he realized that the axe had cut into and through almost a half-inch of the meaty part of his forearm before burying itself in the stump. He was bleeding considerably from the wound, but it was small change compared to losing a hand. Looking up, he could see the boys behind Ma, giggling like demented elves, and the ugly smile was still fixed on the old woman’s face.

  The preacher stood by with a look of stricken relief.

  “Now that I have your attention,” she whispered coldly, “this is what I want from you, and it better happen just as I say, or that axe will fall again. And the next time, I promise you, I won’t settle for a piece of your arm.”

  “You,” she said as she stabbed a finger at the preacher, “are going to go back to your boats with my boys. Walt’s gonna wait on the shore while you and Billy go pick up the rest of your friends and bring them back to the bank. If anything happens to Billy, Walt’s gonna fire his gun. In fact, if I even hear a gun go off, I’m gonna come over to this stump, cut this man’s arm off and let him watch himself bleed to death. You understand? Billy’s gonna have a look at your stuff and when we’ve taken what we want from your boats, then you’ll be free to go.”

  Right, thought Travis. When pigs fly.

  “Do you understand?” she said, staring at the preacher.

  He sighed and looked at Travis, “Yeah, I understand. I understand completely.”

  The woman swung around to her sons and pointed at the shrimper. “You boys take him back to the shed, then get some sleep. I want you out of here before dawn.” She glared at the preacher once more. “Remember my words, old man. I hear a shot, and your friend here dies.”

  As they started to drag the preacher off, he hesitated, and turned to the woman. “Can I say goodbye to my friend?”

  She paused, then shrugged, “Sure, why not.”

  He was released, and walked over to Travis. The old shrimper, his hands tied behind him, knelt beside Travis. His eyes were tired and worried and dried blood was caked down his cheek and neck. “I’ll do everything I can, son, to get you out of this.”

  Travis did his best to smile and failed miserably. “I know you will.” Then, in a last effort for salvation he told the preacher, “Tell the sensei, ‘remember katana.’” The preacher looked puzzled, but repeated the phrase dutifully. “Just tell him that,” Travis emphasized.

  His friend rose reluctantly. “God bless you, son,” he said, in a tone that sounded far too much like a eulogy to please Travis.

  It was a long night. The preacher, contemplating the possibilities of a no-win situation, didn’t sleep much. Travis, tied up like Houdini at show time with an axe buried in the meat of his arm, hardly shut his eyes.

  Just before dawn, Travis heard them pass behind him. Moments later he could just make out their shadows as they reached the trail in front of the clearing. “Good luck, Preacher,” he whispered.

  The boys knew the trail well, so they tied a rope to the preacher’s hands and pulled him along. They moved fast and failed to sympathize with the man’s inability to see in the dark. When he stumbled and fell, they dragged him until he managed to get to his feet again. An hour after dawn, they arrived at the shoreline and the preacher showed them where the Avon was beached.

  Billy turned to his brother. “You remember what Ma said, Walt. Now I’m gonna go on out and look around on them boats.” He turned to a big tree on his left, about fifty yards away. “If I’m not back by the time the sun reaches the top of that tree, you high-tail it back to Ma and finish off that fella, you hear?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, Billy, I hear,” answered Walt nervously. “I’ll wait. But you’re comin’ right back, ain’t you, Billy?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be right back. This should only take a few minutes.” Billy looked at the preacher. “All right, mister, let’s go meet your friends.”

  When they reached the sailboat, the preacher yelled out and the sensei came on deck, along with Ra. The Japanese’s face was a mask, but his eyes riveted on the man with the gun. Billy instantly stiffened at the sight of Ra, who growled menacingly. “Have ’em tie that thing up now, before I come on board.”

  The preacher called to the sensei, “There’s been some problems. We’re coming aboard to explain. Tie Ra up.”

  As the sensei complied, they pulled the raft alongside and secured it. The rest of the crew was on deck by then, anxious to know what was happening.

  Pointing the gun, Billy yelled, “Everyone back away, I’m coming up.”

  The preacher’s voice boomed out behind him, “Let him come, don’t do anything!”

  Billy reached the deck, keeping his gun leveled on the confused group. The preacher climbed aboard behind him and put his hands out, palms up. “Whoa, listen everybody.”

  “Yeah, you tell ’em, mister,” Billy interrupted, obviously nervous, still waving the gun.

  The preacher continued. “This man and his . . . his family, have taken Travis prisoner. They want to trade Travis for whatever goods they need that we have on our boats. We’re supposed to go ashore now so they can check over the boats. If we do anything wrong—if there’s a gunshot—the one on shore will signal them to kill Travis.”

  There was an audible gasp from Christina, and Carlos muttered under his breath, “Madre de Dios.” The sensei remained stoic.

  “Everybody inside,” Billy yelled. “I want to see what kind of goodies you got in here.”

  As they entered the hold, the preacher remembered Travis’ last words. He whispered urgently, “Sensei, Travis said to tell you, ‘remember katana.’”

  There was no change in the sensei’s face, but his eyes came alive. “Yes,” was all he said. Billy kept everyone in front of his gun as he examined the gear, the food, and the equipment he planned to steal. When they reached the forward cabin where the National Guard guns were stored, he demanded, “What’s in those boxes?”

  “Nothing much,” replied the sensei, “old clothes, extra sails, that sort of thing. If you promise to let my friends go, I have something very special I will give you.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Billy, turning away from the army cases.

  “I have a sword given to me by my grandfather. It is four hundred years old and the hilt is made of gold and silver.” Billy’s eyes lit up. “Yeah? Show it to me.”

  Everyone, sensing what was about to happen, slowly moved back. Billy just thought they were frightened, and paid little attention. The sensei turned to his bunk. “It is here,” he said as he reached under the mattress.

  Billy backed up, leveling the gun on the Japanese. “Slowly, mister, slowly. One wrong move and I’ll blow you in half.”

  “Do not worry,” said the sensei in his softest voice. “I just want to give it to you so you won’t hurt my companions
.”

  As the sensei turned to present the sword, he subtly clicked the scabbard release. When he reached out to hand it over, he tilted the weapon just slightly. The sheath immediately slipped from the blade and fell to the floor.

  Billy tensed, as did everyone else in the room. “Oh, so sorry, so sorry,” said the sensei as he went into his best Japanese act and bent over to pick up the scabbard. The barrel of Billy’s gun was just in front of and above the sensei’s head. The unsheathed sword was in his right hand. The sensei reached for the scabbard with his left hand, when suddenly, in one lightning-quick motion, he swept the barrel of the gun aside and struck. It was an instant replay of the last time he had drawn his sword. There was a whir, then a snap as the blade sliced through the man’s wrist as if cutting butter, and cleaved into the butt of the shotgun. The hand and the gun dropped to the floor.

  “Jesus! You cut my hand off!” Billy cried incredulously as he stared at the bloody stump. Without a moment’s hesitation or a whisper of pity, the sensei turned and drove his sword—his katana— up under the base of the man’s chin and into his brain. Billy’s eyes opened wide in shock, his body shivered in a death tremble, and he fell, the sensei withdrawing the blade as he collapsed.

  The preacher broke the tomb-like silence as he whispered in awe, “They told me about you, but I didn’t believe it . . . I never seen anyone move like that.”

  If it was a compliment, the sensei didn’t acknowledge it. He simply turned to them and said, “There is another on shore. We must take him before he suspects anything and sounds alarm.”

  The preacher nodded. “You’re right, but we’re gonna need some sort of plan. Let me tell you the situation quickly.”

  As they talked, they moved away from the body and the preacher looked down. “You know, I got an idea already. Sensei, you’re just about the same size as this guy. If you put on his clothes, and sat in the bow of the boat on the way to shore with that hat pulled down and your back to his brother, we might be able to get him close enough to take him. The other one’s a bit retarded, but he’s as brutal as Stalin on a bad day, so don’t take any chances. Just get him. Remember: he can’t fire that gun or Travis is dead.”

  The sensei studied the man on the floor and thought for a moment. There wasn’t much blood on the jacket or the pants. It just might work. “Very well,” he said. “Help me with his clothes.”

  Once the sensei was dressed, he took the tattered hat, pulled it on so it covered his head down to his neck, and turned to the rest of the group. “I will sit in the bow and keep the shotgun leveled on you people. My sword will be hidden next to me. If necessary, I want you, Preacher, to create a distraction, to draw him closer to the boat.” He didn’t need to say anything else; everyone knew what would happen then.

  They all climbed into the Amazing Avon and headed back to shore. The sensei sat in the front, the preacher rowed, and the others huddled in back. As they neared the shore, they could see Walt standing in plain sight about thirty feet from the water line.

  When the Avon finally touched land, Walt hollered, “You got ’em all, Billy, huh? You got ’em?” He moved closer to the dinghy, but unfortunately, instead of walking right up to the boat, he stopped about ten feet away, his instincts picking up something unnatural about the way his brother sat. “Billy, Billy, let’s get ’em out of the boat. Come on, Billy, you know you promised me . . .” Then, more cautiously, talking to the sensei’s back, “Billy, how come you ain’t gettin’ outta that boat?”

  Suddenly, the preacher cried out, “Don’t shoot us, Billy, please don’t shoot us,” as he fell to his knees in front of the sensei. “You can have everything, just don’t shoot us, Billy!”

  The outburst pulled Walt a couple of feet closer, but his guard was up. “What’s goin’ on, Billy? How come you ain’t talkin’?”

  The preacher paused and looked up. The tension was so thick it was nearly tangible. Suddenly, the sensei sighed with resignation, and slipped his sword free from the scabbard as he turned. Walt was a good eight feet away and the sensei was still in the boat as he swung around.

  “You ain’t Billy!” Walt exclaimed as he started to bring his gun up. The sensei held his sword by the very back of the hilt, his arm straight down at his side and slightly back, with the point of the blade aimed at Walt. With almost superhuman speed, he threw the sword underhand, blade first, like a softball pitcher, at the man in front of him. Before Walt could bring his gun to bear, the blade pierced his chest, the inertia driving the bloodied point out his back. The man’s legs buckled and he collapsed to his knees, frozen in that position for a moment as he examined the hilt of the weapon protruding from his breastbone with a surprised expression.

  Slowly he raised his head to the others, who stood there, stock still, willing him to die. “Ma’s gonna be very mad at you,” he whispered. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth and dripped onto the weapon in his lap. Walt looked down at his gun. As if seeing it for the first time, the corners of his mouth turned upward in a small, sick smile, and the fingers of his right hand crept toward the trigger.

  “For God’s sake, die you son of a bitch!” hissed the preacher. The sensei braced himself for a desperate leap at the man, when suddenly Walt’s eyes went wide, and he gasped. He exhaled softly, the smile fading with the life in his eyes, and he tumbled face forward onto the soft earth. The shotgun slid from his fingers and thumped to the ground. There was a simultaneous sigh of relief from the others in the Avon when they realized that the sensei had pulled off the impossible.

  “Gracias a Dios!” whispered Carlos as he crossed himself.

  The preacher shook his head as if to clear it, and quietly said, “Years from now, when I’m drunk in some bar and tellin’ this story, nobody’s ever gonna believe me.”

  The sensei turned back to the rest of the crew. “He was the only one on shore, yes?”

  “Yeah, he’s the only one,” answered the preacher. “But we’ve still got to deal with the old lady and her dogs. Don’t sell her short; she’s as mean as God makes human beings and her two dogs would have you for lunch and still want dessert.”

  The sensei nodded. “Very well, everyone back to the boat. You and I, Preacher, are going after Travis. Carlos will stay with Christina and Todd.”

  Half an hour later, the two men stood on the shore with rifles in hand. The preacher threw the bolt on his weapon. “All right, sensei, follow me. Let’s go get my boy.”

  The preacher kept a hard pace. Two hours later, they approached the clearing where the house stood. Ma was feeding the chickens from a grain sack, not more than forty feet from where Travis lay bound to the stump. The ever-present wolf-dogs stood by her side, eyeing the chickens with poorly suppressed malice.

  The two men were a good fifty yards from the woman and fairly well hidden, but they failed to take into account the dog’s keen sense of smell. The wind at their backs blew their scent across the compound, and as it reached the dogs, they bristled and turned as one. Ma jerked to attention, followed the dogs point with her own eyes, and caught a glimpse of the preacher’s red flannel shirt.

  In a second she surmised what had happened. Dropping the sack of grain, she stabbed a finger at the men and screamed to her dogs, “go! go!” They didn’t need a second invitation. The animals were off like two gray blurs.

  The woman paused long enough to look across at the preacher. Her venomous smile promised retribution. In the next second she was running, surprisingly fast for a woman of her size, toward Travis— and the axe.

  The preacher stood up. “You take the dogs, Sensei, I’ll take the woman. Now!”

  The pair raised their rifles with the dogs less than twenty yards away.

  Grimly intent on reaching Travis, the old woman had covered better than half the distance already. As they fired, one of the dogs slammed into the earth, its front legs collapsing as the bullet smashed into its chest. The preacher’s bullet caught the woman high in the shoulder, spinning her slightly as h
er huge body absorbed the impact of the round. She stumbled and fell no more than ten feet behind Travis.

  The sensei pulled the trigger to take out the second dog, but nothing happened. The first shell had not ejected cleanly and had jammed the mechanism. He threw the gun aside and swiftly drew his long sword, facing the charging animal with his blade high.

  The preacher had no time to help; he had his own problems. Blood-splattered but coldly resolute, Ma had struggled to her knees and was crawling toward Travis, who was trapped between them, inadvertently shielding her from the preacher’s gun. Try as he might, the shrimper couldn’t get a clear shot at her as she crawled closer and closer to the axe.

  The sensei stood his ground, awaiting the onrushing dog. When the distance closed to six feet, the dog leaped, fangs bared. Flexing his knees, the sensei drew the sword back, and thrust it into the animal’s chest as the dog flew into him. The Japanese was bowled over as man and dog careened backwards. When they finally stopped rolling, the sensei found himself staring at the creature’s jaws, only inches from his throat. The angry, glaring eyes of the dog were just beginning to glaze. The sword had entered his chest and the impact had forced the razor-sharp blade through his heart and into the vitals of the body cavity.

  Ma, using Travis as protection, had nearly reached the stump. The preacher, beside himself with frustration, still didn’t have a clear shot and he knew he would get only one chance.

  Travis watched helplessly as the maniacal creature clawed her way toward him. Spittle and blood flew from her lips with each ragged breath she expelled.

  Die! his mind screamed at her. Please God, make her die! Don’t let her reach that axe! But on she came, slowly, inexorably, hatred emanating from her like heat from a steel mill furnace. She was five feet away—then two—then her hands were on the stump.

  “Now,” she wheezed through clenched, blood-covered teeth, “now you pay! The law! My law!” She ripped the axe free, drew herself up onto her knees, and raised it over her head.