by JEFF MOTES
“It’s okay, John. It’s not your fault. Everything is going to work out.”
On the inside, however, I have no idea how any of this will work out.
“Let’s go see if we can talk Betty into some breakfast,” I say.
Chapter 32
John
A Small Voice
Day 6
“Jill, we’ve been through a lot since we left the barn. Much of which I know nothing about, but if you don’t mind, let’s pray.”
“Yes, please do,” Jill says.
I go to one knee beside the bed; Jill follows suit. Bowing my head, I pray, “God, for Your great hedge of protection, we thank You. I don’t know what all You have done, as is often the case, nonetheless I thank You. Thank You for these kind people who have helped us. Please allow us to continue our journey soon. Protect our children. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
Jill whispers, “Amen.”
I stand and so does Jill.
She says, “Thank you, John. Thank you for doing that. Now let’s go eat.”
She opens the door and steps into the hall. I’m right behind her, taking note where she tucked the Glock, just in case. She tucked it in her waistband in the same position I carry mine, right behind her right hip. Those hips…I’ve never paid much attention to them, but this morning, for some reason, I do. Pleasantly curved, is the first thing that comes to mind. The second thing is a pang of admonishment as I think to myself, I don’t have time for this. Neither of us.
I have to get myself and Jill back home safely.
But I can’t help it. I have to look one more time.
When we reach the end of the hallway I see a big older man.
“John, my name is George,” he says. “It’s good to see you up and about. I know you have a lot of questions. But Betty has a fine breakfast cooked and it’s hot. So if you don’t mind, let’s eat first.”
The smell of the food and the growling in my stomach says, ‘don’t argue.’
I extend my hand for a shake. “Sure, George. I do have a lot of questions, but they can wait a little longer.” I study the man as I move to the table. He’s a big man, maybe in his late sixties or early seventies. Obviously, a hardworking man used to outdoor activities. I hold the chair back for Jill. She’s probably going to fuss, but this is what my dad taught me to do.
Dad would often say, Son, always, under all circumstances, be kind to women. Never think their delicate feminine ways are a sign of weakness. Because in truth, they are stronger than men. The fact that any of us are born is evidence of that. I sure would like to see my dad right now.
Betty brings a plate of food and sets it before me. Fried eggs, grits, bacon, and biscuits. A large tumbler of milk is before me. George asks the blessing, and we start to eat. The food we are eating is not store bought food. The eggs are yard eggs, the grits have been milled by a small grist mill, the bacon is thick, smoky, and still has the rind on it. This breakfast probably came from outside that kitchen door.
“Mrs. Betty, this is so good,” I say between bites. “It reminds me of home.”
Betty smiles. “Thanks, and don’t be bashful. I have plenty more on the stove and George doesn’t like to eat leftovers.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll do my best to keep George from having to eat leftovers.” I turn toward George and ask, “Did you raise the pigs, or is there a local pig farmer around?”
George cocks his head and asks, “What makes you ask that?”
“Well,” I say, “this is thick cut smoke cured bacon. Hickory I would say. Not the smoke flavored stuff from the store. And those grits, their texture tells me they were milled at a local grist mill.”
“Everything here is from our farm or our neighbors,” George says with a proud grin. “Everything except the flour. Nobody around here has planted wheat in a long time.” He takes another bite. “I can tell you’re an observant man. That’s good. If you want, later I’ll show you around.”
After my third trip back to the stove, I tell Betty, “Ma’am, I’m sorry, I tried, but I just can’t eat anymore.”
Betty brings coffee to the table, and I accept the mug with thanks. I should have brought my mug from the bedroom. I’ll have to go get it later. Turning to George I say, “George, I appreciate everything the both of you have done for Jill and I. We’ve been through a lot. It’s a comfort to see there is still good in this world.” Looking at Betty, I ask, “What happened to my head?”
“I don’t know what Jill has told you,” George says, “but son, you were shot in the head. You’re fortunate to be alive.”
I was shot in the head? Why didn’t Jill tell me that earlier? She is looking down and her eyes are moist.
“How bad is it?” I ask, afraid of the answer.
“I’m not going to sugar coat it, John,” Betty says. “You had a nasty gash, and you lost a lot of blood. That’s why you feel so weak. The bullet didn’t hit bone. I was able to sew you up nicely, and when your hair grows out, I don’t think anyone will be able to see the scar.”
I sit in stunned silence for a moment, then I say in a low voice, “Thank you.”
“Let’s step out to the garage,” George suggests. “I know you want to see your gear. I’m going to warn you, some of it is pretty damaged.”
We all head out to the garage through the side kitchen door. Next to the far wall are my tent, sleeping pad, and a box containing some water bottles and MREs. In the box are four MREs and six bottles of water. I pick up the GPS out of the box, it’s cracked and coming apart. The likelihood it will work is slim. I try turning it on. Nothing. The loss of this is a hard blow. Then I notice the pile of metal near the garage doors. Mine and Jill’s bikes are twisted and bent. I let out a curse. There is no way to fix those things. No way at all. Then a load of bricks hits me. The bikes being twisted like they are, can only mean one thing.
“George, the truck. Where is the truck?” I ask shakily.
“John, I’m sorry. The truck is a total loss. It rolled down an embankment, completely crushing the front end. I’m truly sorry.”
The bricks are piling on. My mind is reeling. The enormity of the implications are clear. That bastard, whoever he is, has killed us. My plans and preparations mean nothing, as in a brief moment some bastard has taken them all away. We’re one hundred fifty miles from home, with less than a week’s worth of food between us both, no transportation, and me with a serious head injury. It’ll be days before I can carry my pack. Days! Then what? Walk Jill to her death? With the GPS we could have taken to the woods and navigated around questionable areas. But we don’t even have that now.
I look over at Jill. She’s looking at me. I ask George, “Where are our guns?”
“They’re in a safe place, and I’ll give them to you, but first I want you to talk to Mark. He’s our nephew, and he brought you here. After you talk to him, I’ll give them all to you.”
“Alright George, I’m in no position to make demands.”
George and Betty have concern in their eyes. Jill is weeping. I walk back to the bedroom, cursing silently.
Jill follows. My mind is still reeling and the weight of the bricks upon me is overwhelming. I sit in the chair, feeling weak and spent. Jill sits on the bed as before.
“What are we going to do?” she asks.
I look over at her, still unsure of myself. “I’m not sure. As soon as I have enough strength to carry my pack, I should start back south. Maybe in three weeks or so I can make it home. Jill, I’m not sure we can make it home on foot. It’s going to be very dangerous. Things are only going to get worse. I think you should stay here and let me go alone.”
She jumps to her feet. “Are you abandoning me, John?”
Her words sting. I rise from my chair and step closer to her. Her arms are across her chest and she is looking straight into my eyes. I want to hold her, but not sure if I should. She is trembling. Reaching out, I pull her close. She leans on my chest, and I wrap my arms around her, hugging her tight.
>
“Jill, I will never abandon you. I want you to live.”
She pushes away, looks directly into my eyes and says firmly, “I will not part ways from you, John Carter. I will not. Where you go, I will go.” She turns and walks out the door.
I sit back in the chair. My body is still weak and I’m emotionally spent. The enormity of what has happened, my destroyed plans and my weakened condition, have caused me to despair. How am I going to keep both of us alive until we make it back home? I have got to figure something out. First and foremost I must shake these foreboding thoughts from my mind. There’s no time for them. It's not only my life anymore, it’s Jill’s too. As long as God allows me to remain, I will do the best I can, with the best I have, to live and help those around me live. I owe myself, Jill, Will, Lizzy, and our other family and friends nothing less. I stand and walk out of the room.
Jill is in the great room, sitting in a big chair. Her feet are tucked up under her and she has a paper towel in hand, dabbing at her tears. I walk over and kneel by the chair.
“Jill, I’m sorry. Of course, we’ll go together. We need to plan. We will make it, but it’s going to be hard, very hard.” I squeeze her hand. She grips mine tightly. “I’m still weak. After I’ve rested some, let’s sit down and plan our course of action.”
“Yes, John, get some rest, then let’s make our plans.”
I return to the bedroom and lie upon the bed. I need a bath, but I’m too spent right now. I should have been stranded back on the interstate, but I wasn’t. I should have been killed at the barn, but I wasn’t. I should have been killed in the ambush, but I wasn’t. I’m still alive.
I pray, “Dear God, if ever I needed You, I need You now.”
I drift to sleep.
***
Sometime later I awaken alone in the room. I have got to have a bath. I look in my pack and see my dirty clothes have been removed. What remains are a clean t-shirt, boxers, and a pair of clean socks. That’s it. Jill must have removed my other clothes. I had two shirts. I wore the first one for what? Three or four days? Now a t-shirt. What happened to my other clean shirt? Did I leave it somewhere? Oh, right. I gave it to Jill to wear. She only wore it for a day. Maybe it’s in her pack. I’ll ask her later, The t-shirt will do for now.
In the bathroom, I flip on the light. It doesn’t work. I guess George’s generator has quit working. Maybe I can help him with it later. With the door closed it’s too dark to see. I leave it open a bit to allow enough light to see with. I get a towel and washcloth, turn the shower on, strip down, and step in. I see the bottle of Old Spice and a Bath & Body Works body wash. That must be the scent I caught from Jill this morning. Certainly better than the sweaty smell.
Trying to keep my head from getting wet, I bathe, towel off, and get dressed.
The bedroom door is still closed. I feel naked without my Glock. What’s up with this “meet Mark before you get your guns” business? Who is this Mark? Is he some kind of leader to a group? I don’t know, but I’m in no position to make demands yet. Before we leave I will have them, even if I have to use the Glock from Jill’s hip to get them. For now, we need these people. Although they have been very good and kind to us, it seems like they’re holding something back.
Wanting to gauge my recovery, I go to the floor and start doing pushups. My strength leaves me at twenty. I have a ways to go, a long ways. I exit the bedroom and walk down the hall. There is plenty of natural light coming through the windows of the kitchen and great room. George and Betty are sitting at opposite ends of the table. Jill is sitting with her back to me. On the other side of the table is another man, about my age. I don’t recognize him.
Sensing my arrival, Jill stands. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No, not right now. Thanks,” I motion for her to sit and help her with her chair. I sit next to her, directly across from the man, and look at him questioningly.
It’s quiet for a moment. Then he clears his throat. “My name is Mark Anderson.” The man has a frank expression on his face. “My daughter Karen is one of the girls you rescued from the barn. I want to thank you for what you did. It was a brave and honorable thing. I can’t truly express my appreciation and gratitude.” There is something more going on here. The man takes a deep breath and continues, “I am also the man responsible for what happened to you and your wife. I made a very bad mistake and it has cost you dearly, I know. I am truly sorry.”
So, this is the bastard who has killed mine and Jill’s hopes for getting home safely! This bastard has destroyed my plans, destroyed our means of getting home, and shot me in the head!
Anger flares inside me. I killed a man for trying to take my bike. I would have killed Officer Brunson if he had taken my bike. I killed those evil bastards for what they were doing to Jill. Here, right in front of me, is the bastard that has done all those things! I may never see my son again. Lizzy will never see her mom. Jill is going to die because this bastard ‘made a mistake’! Does he think ‘sorry’ means anything to me when he’s taken my very life! A darkness invades my soul as my fury mounts.
The man continues, with an expressionless face, “I know there is nothing that I can truly do to make this right.” He reaches behind his back and pulls out my Glock and holster and sets them on the table in front of him. The grip is pointing toward me and the barrel toward himself. Jill and Betty gasp. From the corner of my eye I see a stern expression on George’s reddening face.
Looking at the Glock, Mark says, “I took this off your hip when we brought you here. It’s just like it was. It hasn’t been unholstered. I have one like it, not needing it today, I left it at home. I brought yours in case you felt a need for it.” He slides my Glock across the table in front of me. He sits back with no expression on his face and folds his hands. I reach for the Glock. It’s definitely mine. My hand molds around the grip. With my extended index finger, I release the pistol retention and slide it from the holster. I run my finger across the slide, feeling the ejector is slightly raised, indicating a round is in the chamber. I slide my finger down to the frame, right above the trigger, and pause. This bastard across the table, is he expecting sympathy from me? This man whose stupidity is going to cause mine and Jill’s death? Thoughts play through my mind as to what will happen to Jill after I’m dead. The fury inside is overwhelming. I grip the Glock harder. This bastard has to pay! As the rage and darkness envelop me, a small voice from somewhere deep inside breaks through.
It’s just a faint whisper. John, you are a good man. You must fight to remain what you are, even if it means fighting yourself.
At that moment, I feel a trembling hand touch my arm. I glance over at Jill. There are tears and a pleading expression in her eyes. Our eyes are locked and her penetrating stare melts me. The darkness inside starts to fade, and the burning fury subsides. Sanity returns. I loosen my grip on the Glock.
Looking the man straight in the eyes, I holster my pistol and place it on my hip. “I hope your daughter can recover from what has happened to her.”
Betty is weeping, her hand covering her mouth. Jill leans her head on my arm, and the red in George’s face fades.
“She will,” the man states. “In fact, she wanted to come thank you herself, but I told her to wait.”
I look the man sternly in the eye. “I don’t know what it is you want from me, Mark. If it’s forgiveness, I grant it. But the fact remains, you have killed us.”
The man’s eyes falter, and a pained look appears on his face. “I know,” he states simply. “I’ve been trying to figure a way to get you some transportation. There’s a guy around here who has an extra four-wheeler. I’ve tried to buy it from him but he won’t take cash, and he says I have nothing of value to him. He did say he wanted an AK47, plus silver and gold. I was thinking, if you could part ways with your AK, I could combine it with the silver I have and maybe some from other folks around here, and maybe I can get the four-wheeler for you.”
I smile slightly. “Well, Mark,
maybe you didn’t kill us after all. If you can get me the four-wheeler and enough fuel for one hundred and fifty miles, I have the AK, an SKS, a Hi-point pistol, and these.” I reach in my pocket, pull out two quarter ounce gold eagles and ten one ounce silver eagles and place them on the table.
Jill looks up with a puzzled expression on her face as if to ask, Where did you get these?
“I told you I wasn’t completely unprepared.” I flash a grin. Jill smiles back.
“Mark, I need a four-wheeler big enough to carry me and Jill, our packs, and enough fuel to make it to Jackson in Clarke County. If you can get me that, you may save our lives. Use whatever you need of what I just told you. If there is anything left, I also want to trade for a 22 rifle and some ammo and a few other things. Let me know what’s left, then I’ll tell you what we need.”
Mark nods. “Will you trust me with these things?”
“Yes, I will, Mark. George, will you return my weapons so I can give Mark the ones we talked about?”
“Yes, of course.” He heads out the kitchen door.
Mark stretches out his hand, I do likewise, and we shake on it.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” I reply.
I think I might just like this bastard after all.
Chapter 33
Jill
Don’t Let Him Fall
Day 6
I sense the turmoil inside John when Mark says, “I am also the man responsible for what happened to you and your wife. I made a very bad mistake and it has cost you dearly, I know. I am truly sorry.”
Though I’m not sure what the mistake is going to cost us, I know John is. The fact he wanted to leave me here tells me he thinks death awaits us on the road.
“I know there is nothing that I can truly do to make this right,” Mark says, then places the gun on the table. I gasp. Is he going to kill John? My hand reaches for the Glock on my hip. If he starts to unholster that gun, if he tries to hurt John, I will kill him.
