On Thanksgiving Day he used his one round of shot and got them a nice fat rabbit. It was the first one he had seen in a long while and the boy curiously watched him as he said a prayer of thanks over it while it roasted on the fire.
Their entire time together the boy spoke not one word although it was clear that he understood the man. At first he thought the child was in shock but after two weeks now wondered if the boy could even speak at all.
On December 3rd, they were crossing State Highway 241 when he heard someone yelling. Two young men were running up the road right at him, actually one was running and the other hobbling far behind. The man put the frightened child back in the ditch there by the highway and then got down himself and prepared to fire.
The one running starting yelling again and raised his rifle over his head with both hands, “We need help! We don’t want trouble!” The young man stopped about twenty-five feet away and let his slow friend catch up. “Sir, my brother needs some help. You got any medical supplies? Alcohol? Hydrogen Peroxide?”
The second one finally caught up and then quietly whispered to the other, both of them put their rifles on the ground and took a large step back. The one with the limp finally got his chance to speak, “Sir, I’m hurt. I’m need to get this fixed up,” pointing to a dirty rag tied around his left ankle.
They both stood there looking at him for a minute and their similar age and respectful manner at once reminded him of Brad and Edgar. Although from the look of the scruffy two he doubted they had ever been in the Army.
Although it was a risk he couldn’t turn them away and took a look at the boy’s leg right on the road. The injured one introduced himself as Jamie Smith and the other as Michael, they were brothers heading for their uncle’s farm just south of Greencastle.
The man cleaned, sutured and then dressed the gash above Jamie’s ankle. The youngster said he cut it open while jumping a wire fence but to the man it looked more like a minor gunshot wound. As for the names, he suspected they were lying as they just didn’t fit the boys at all. But he had no proof and really wasn’t certain. Nowadays he found suspicion was one of the few things he had plenty of.
With Jamie’s leg taken care of both he and Michael insisted on “paying” the man and gave him two unopened cans from their laden knapsack, one can of beans and the other diced peaches. The man didn’t even consider refusing; by then he was so hungry he nearly snatched the food right out of their hands.
They made camp together by the road that night and the two boys said they should all travel together “for safety,” at least for a while.
The man sat by the fire listening to them and as he did switched between feeding himself beans and the child peaches with the one spoon he had. The boy eagerly taking each large mouthful until he swallowed down the whole can by himself. The man had his best laugh since this all began as he looked down to see the boy’s bulging cheeks overflowing with fruit, but still wanting more.
He agreed to travel with them on the road although he knew better, that inner voice screaming at the man NO! the entire time. It wouldn’t be long before the voice was proven right.
That second day together, and not two miles from where they started, the boys showed their true colors. They came upon another old gas and convenience store that had been completely emptied inside. Not one speck of anything was there on the shelves or counters but Michael did find a locked steel door in the back. With a crowbar he just happened to have with him, he and his brother pried the door open and what they discovered brought them wide smiles and loud, mutual congratulations. Along with file cabinets, company papers and a now useless computer, they also found four cases of beer. Soon after that Jamie noticed his leg was bothering him again and Michael suggested his brother should “take the rest of the day off.”
Right then they started drinking and they never did stop, and with not much effort it wasn’t long before they were drunk. Sitting there listening to the two rambling on, the man knew their short affiliation was over and he would tell them so the next morning when they were sober.
As the afternoon dragged on, their condition only worsened, now sitting on the floor because they were unable to stand on their own. By then the boys were constantly jabbering and reminded him of something his grandfather once told him many years ago, “When the booze goes in, the truth comes out.”
Before long their truth serum began working and the man found that initial feeling in his gut had been right all along. The “brothers” weren’t really related and had only met nine weeks earlier when they were let out of jail the same day. They never did say what they were in jail for. He went on to discover that Jamie’s wound was from being shot at, just as he first thought. Apparently they had robbed some elderly homeowner and he took off after them, at least until they started shooting back. Jamie told them both with a bit of regret in his voice that he “should have killed that old coot.”
By dark the two had moved on to their dreams and aspirations, which mostly consisted of finding women to assault. The man felt sick when the two of them began wildly laughing. Michael confessing that he wanted to “rape a woman to death.”
At eight that night the two boys were finally unconscious, long before then their rifles had somehow got out of their reach and were standing in the corner behind the man. He decided he was going right then and wouldn’t be leaving weapons with men of this kind. At first he planned to take them but they were just too much with his pack and other guns. He was just too weak to carry them all. Neither gun was in his caliber, Michael’s was a bolt-action in .243 and Jamie’s a Ruger Mini-14 in .223 Remington. He couldn’t take the guns with him or leave them behind either. He knew the two of them would get around to murder sooner or later, if they hadn’t already. So he took the bolt from the rifle and trigger group from the Ruger, their guns were worthless without them. He then woke the child from his peaceful sleep warmly wrapped in their blanket in the hallway outside.
Then the two of them took off that cold December night, the man intentionally traveling in the wrong direction. He was thankful that the conversation never got around to where he was going. With a couple of miles behind them he found a good hiding place to stop late that next morning. After a few hours rest the two started in the right direction again.
Later the same day he found a small pond that the man could get them some fresh water from, and deposit some gun parts he already tired of carrying. As he tossed the bits of metal in the water, the man said a prayer that he would never meet either Smith again, knowing if he did one of them, if not all of them, would end up dead.
As the man and child continued their journey, they quickly were starving again. The weather was getting colder by the day and the hunting even more meager than before. He realized there was little time left to find this child a home before winter really arrived.
That very next morning, just after crossing a lonely road, the man noticed a narrow column of smoke splitting the otherwise clear sky. The faint trail brought his attention to a small homestead almost invisible on the horizon. It was an old two-room shack with a real outhouse behind. The roof and walls were faded by innumerable days under the sun but still seemed solid and looked like it had been lived in a very long time. Even now it was most definitely occupied.
Approaching the aging home, the man could see more from around the side, a worn and dented truck not quite as old as the house but nonetheless still looked like it belonged. Behind it in the gravel drive was a shiny new SUV that stuck out like a sore thumb.
He got a good long look at the SUV as he passed by, noticing at this short distance that both windows on the driver’s side were gone. There was also what appeared to be dried blood on the door and inside. In the back compartment, behind a child’s car seat were numerous odd sized boxes tied up with string or sealed with tape. All had writing of some kind. One that immediately caught his attention was marked “Tommy’s winter clothes.” With a hopeful thought in mind, the man led the child up the path hea
ding straight for the front door.
As he came almost within knocking distance of the tired old door, it suddenly swung wide open with a shrill rusty moan. An older man, about sixty he thought, stood there with his double-barreled shotgun aimed right at the man’s feet.
“What do you want?”
The man was caught off guard, he had never done this before and was scared, not sure how to start. “Sir … sir, I’m trying to feed myself and this boy. I’d be glad to do some work for a meal. Cut wood … anything. I’m an experienced paramedic. Does someone in there need some medical help?”
The old man shifted his stance and brought his gun up a little, now aiming it at the man’s knees. “We don’t need any medical help … or any other kind. Maybe you should just go.”
But the man was desperate for help and the fear in him was no match for the hunger. He had to go on. “Sir, I’m trying to find this boy a good home. He’s an orphan, his mother was killed, he’s got nowhere to go …”
“We can’t take him, and we’ve got nothing for you here.” The old man seemed impervious to the child’s sad face and story, or perhaps had already heard something like it before. “Just go.”
Then in the doorway a woman appeared, about thirty years younger than the unbending man at her side. “What’s his name? How old is he?”
The woman’s questions encouraged the man and now he thought maybe he had found the boy a home after all. “His name is Joshua. I don’t know his age … three maybe. I’m trying to find a family to take him in.”
“He’s probably three … same age as my baby … my Tommy.” As she spoke the woman seemed to be staring right through the child to someplace unseen.
The older man interrupted before the conversation could get friendly. “We can’t take him in.” He turned to the woman still staring right through the child, “Honey, you know we can’t take him in,” and then glanced back at the man, now with hate in his eyes. “Just go!”
He knew from the old man’s voice he should leave right then but the desperation in the man wouldn’t allow it. “If you can’t take him in, could you give us some clothes?”
She finally looked up at the man, her intense gaze on the child at last interrupted, “Clothes?”
“Yes, I noticed you had some winter clothes in your truck. You said that your boy is the same age as Joshua. Can’t you spare some clothes for him? He needs some good winter clothes or he’s going to freeze out here. Can’t you please help us?”
The woman withdrew from the doorway ever so slightly and only seemed repulsed by the idea. “You want my Tommy’s clothes?”
“Just a few things, this boy is freezing. It’s getting colder all the time and he has nothing to keep him warm but this old blanket.”
She still seemed unbelieving, “You want my Tommy’s clothes?”
“Just a few things … a coat, a cap, some thermals maybe? Anything you could give us would help.”
The woman continued to stare at the man and now seemed stuck in some kind of loop, “You want my Tommy’s clothes?”
“Yes, just a few …”
“GET OUT!” In an instant the woman’s face went from confusion to anger. “I SAID GET OUT! She then tried to attack the man but her companion held her back with one arm, his shotgun in the other.
The older man was having trouble controlling his own anger and the woman’s. He now had her pinned against the doorframe trying to keep her from tearing the man apart. “YOU HEARD HER! JUST GET OUT OF HERE! NOW!”
The man quickly grabbed up the child and crossed the front yard. As he was leaving, he noticed in the back an old family cemetery about two hundred feet beyond. Among the old moldy and cracked stone markers were two fresh graves and two new white crosses.
As the old farmhouse quickly left his view the man knew what had to be done, if the child was to survive. He made a long winding loop and approached the house from the opposite side just as it was getting dark.
Leaving the child wrapped up in the blanket and all his gear and rifle too, the man crept back to the SUV with its treasures inside. As he approached the truck, inside the home he could see the faint shadows of those within delicately cast by candlelight on the curtains outside.
He knew this was stealing, but even though it was wrong it had to be done. As he approached the truck right away he noticed a change in the short time he had been gone. The broken side windows had been hastily sealed shut with plastic bags and tape. He gently pulled on the door handle to find it was locked and was rewarded with a screaming alarm. The man went directly to the back window of the truck, its blaring horn pounding in his ears. There, just inside, he could see what he wanted, the box of clothes that the child needed. He pulled his pistol and smashed the butt of the gun against the window with no result. Then he looked up just in time to see the old man standing in the open doorway.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
The man struck the window with his gun again and again until finally it gave way, shards of glass flying in every direction. He reached in and with the carton securely in hand took off running. In only a second he heard the first blast from the old man’s shotgun. With two more terrified steps he heard the other. He took the box under his left arm while bringing the pistol over his head. As he fled into the darkness the man emptied his gun straight in the air hoping that no one got hurt and the old man didn’t follow.
He got back to find the frightened boy crouching behind a tree. He stood him up and promptly started dressing him from the container, the man constantly checking over his shoulders to make sure he wasn’t followed. As he dressed the child with his new pilfered clothes, the man felt two distinct emotions, he was both ashamed for what he had done, and relieved he wasn’t caught.
On their way again, they traveled a few more hours before bedding down for the night. As they lay there under the cold but clear sky, he wondered what had become of the man he thought he was.
It was the seventh of December and they had found nothing to eat for two days straight and the child’s painful crying had kept him up all night. With his recent bad experience asking for charity the man was reluctant to try it again. But he didn’t have another choice, begging was all he had left to keep them alive.
He started stopping at every old farmhouse spotted on the horizon, even if it took him out of his way, the two of them zigzagging across the countryside. If there was only the slightest chance a house might be occupied, the man would stop by. He would walk right up to the home holding the child’s hand and praying that whoever was inside would show them some mercy, or at least to the child. Usually someone would stop them long before they reached the door, shouting “I can’t help you go away!” or most often just “get off my property!”
The man found if he could just get them to talk his chances of success greatly increased. From their front yard, or if lucky their porch, he would ask if there was anything he could do for a little food, cut some wood or other chores. He would always ask if anyone needed some medical help.
It was rare he got anything more than a command to leave although a few took pity on him and the boy. One older woman threw them a large chunk of ham, it landing at the end of her porch with a wet thud. Another older man handed him a bag containing a scant few cans of mixed vegetables and fruit cocktail. As he handed the bag over through the cracked door with one hand, the man noticed the other hand pointing a pistol at his belly, just in case.
Mid-morning on Thursday the twelfth, the man was no longer sure if he was in Indiana or Illinois. He came upon a plowed field that went on without end, west towards the horizon, a few meager remnants of this summer’s corn crop scattered about. He started following the furrows, pulling the child along by his hand hoping to find where the crop had gone. After another hour of leading and then carrying the child, the man noticed in the distance the plowed field abruptly stopped, broken in two by a long gravel road.
To the south he could now see an old two-lane highway and on the north end of the
driveway an old one-story farmhouse. Lined up behind the house were three other structures all in a row, a small storage building, a large barn of some type and beyond them a tall metal silo. The man immediately started to cut across the field carrying the boy hoping they might get a meal, and if truly lucky someplace warm to sleep that night.
He crossed the tilled fields holding the boy and finally arrived at the gravel drive that the two of them followed right to the old house. As they approached, he noticed a large man step out on his porch. The man noticed him too and immediately stepped back into his front door, and with only a second wait reappeared with some kind of long gun.
The man turned right around, heading back to the road. He knew not to even try this house. Immediately he quickened his pace still holding the boy. He looked back in time to see the farmer step off his porch and run around the back of his house. The man had a bad feeling and broke into a run, trying to put some distance between him and the farmer.
Then he could hear the high-pitched whine of motor shatter the cold air. He turned around to see he was being followed, the farmer pursuing on an ATV and quickly advancing. The man was now in a full run trying not to stumble or lose his hold on the child bouncing in his arms.
The farmer was quickly overtaking the two when the man carrying the boy jumped into a shallow drainage ditch on the edge of the cornfield. The man took his body covering the terrified child and tried to bring his rifle to bear but found his pack had it pinned to the ground. He then found his .380 pistol trapped between him and the boy. As he was straining to grasp his handgun, the man heard the sound of the small motor approaching and then come to a sudden stop. The man then looked up to a shotgun right in his face.
“Who are you?!”
“Please don’t hurt us!”
“Us?! Who are you?! You with Jimmy?!” the end of the farmer’s barrel only inches from the man’s face.
“Don’t hurt us! We don’t want no trouble! We’ll go!”
Joshua (Book 1) Page 19
