28
Clinch Mountain Wildlife Management Area
Lloyd and Jim worked too late into the night to get any decent sleep. After leaving the burial site they camped at the location of another plane crash, finding an artificial clearing created by a Beechcraft plowing away the vegetation like some aerial bulldozer. Jim didn’t remember the story behind this particular crash but it was known to authorities. A bright orange X spray-painted onto the broad aluminum surfaces marked it as discovered, hopefully preventing some pilot from reporting it as a new crash.
It had been there long enough that the woods were attempting to swallow the plane. Still, enough of a clearing remained for the weary travelers to settle there. Jim strung his hammock for the second time that night while Lloyd spread out his sleeping bag on a ground cloth. Neither found a good night’s sleep awaiting them. With their sore muscles, itchy bug bites, and being well past the point of exhaustion, it took them a bit to fall asleep.
Two hours after they stretched out the sun began to peek over the horizon. The pair managed only about three or four hours of shut-eye before the heat caught up with the sun. Soon the humid forest was like a sauna and they became too miserable to sleep any longer, sweating beneath their sleeping bags. When they tried tossing them to the side and sleeping uncovered, insects feasted upon them with a maddening fury.
“Fuck,” Jim groaned, kicking back his sleeping bag and surrendering to the day. He furiously scratched the red welts covering his arms, neck, and forehead.
They were following the stream and Jim wandered over to its weedy bank. He waded in, splashing himself thoroughly until he felt human again. By the time he was done, Lloyd was sitting up in his sleeping bag, looking like shit. Considering the day they’d had yesterday, the look fit him.
“I can’t believe I volunteered for this trip,” Lloyd groaned. “I’m an idiot.”
“You didn’t volunteer because I wasn’t looking for volunteers. You insisted on coming. You invited yourself.”
“Is it too late to change my mind?”
Jim looked at him like he was crazy. “You’re committed now. You try to go home on your own and you’ll get lost. You’ll die in the woods and bears will scatter your bones.”
Lloyd glared at him, not impressed with how little faith Jim had in his survival abilities. “Any sane man would know better than to set out on a trip with you. They always turn out the same. One minute I’m having a good time, the next you’re killing people.”
“We’ve beat that horse already. Remember that when you’re recounting this tale to your drinking buddies. I came to save your ass and that’s how I ended up killing people. I could have stayed in my hammock and ignored the whole thing. I could have left you to your own devices but we know how that ends too, don’t we?”
“Bears scattering my bones in the woods?”
Jim grinned. “Exactly.”
Lloyd ignored him, fighting the urge to lay back down. Jim began refilling water bottles from the stream, using the Steripen to sanitize them. He went ahead and refilled Lloyd’s too since he hadn’t budged. He was sitting there with the same scowl on his face, hating life. When Jim was done refilling the bottles, he tossed one in Lloyd’s direction. The bottle landed on his sleeping bag and thumped off his shin.
“Ouch.”
“Drink up.”
Lloyd groaned in response, fumbling for the bottle without opening his eyes. Jim dug into his packs and found a couple of energy bars. He tossed one of those at Lloyd too, bouncing it off his chest.
“What the hell is that?” Lloyd asked, eyes closed.
“Breakfast. Tastes like bark, but we’re in the woods so it’s kind of fitting.”
“I can’t wake up and I can’t sleep,” Lloyd moaned. “I’m trapped in limbo.”
Jim unwrapped his energy bar and took a bite. He shoved the rest in his pocket and began packing his gear. When his packs were closed up, he saddled his horses and slung the packs onto them. “You better get your ass moving. You wanted to go check in on that camp in Bland County so that’s where we’re headed.”
Lloyd held the bottle of cold water to his head, then twisted the lid off and took a long pull. He tossed back his sleeping bag and staggered to his feet. He spent a moment getting his balance, then set about packing up his sleeping gear. “I used to like camping.”
Jim smiled. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard a comment like that. “It was different when camping was recreation. When it’s your only choice it isn’t so fun anymore.”
In another twenty minutes or so they finished rehydrating and topped off their water bottles. They finished their breakfast and took care of any business in the woods that needed to be taken care of. When they were done, they saddled up.
“I forgot how sore you can get from riding a horse,” Lloyd griped. “I remember now.”
Jim grinned. “Toughen up, snowflake. We got a long day ahead of us.”
Lloyd didn’t toughen up. He continued to complain for most of the morning. The sun was too hot and the woods too buggy. There were too many spider webs and he was tired of riding through them. He couldn’t escape the feeling that thousands of baby spiders were crawling up and down his back. He asked Jim to take a look but Jim ignored him. Lloyd complained his horse didn’t walk smoothly enough and that his saddle was insufficient in its padding.
After two hours, Jim had all he could take. “Damn, Lloyd, I don’t know whether to shoot myself or shoot you. Maybe I should have snuck off while you were sleeping this morning. I don’t know how much more of this whining I can take.”
“I ain’t whining, I’m commiserating.”
Jim rolled his eyes. “It ain’t commiserating unless I’m sharing my misery too and you’ll notice that I haven’t said a fucking word. If you’re wanting to hear about it, though, my biggest misery right now is your flapping gums.”
Lloyd grinned knowingly. “See, I knew you were thinking about being miserable too.”
“Then if you’re such a psychic, what am I thinking now?” Jim growled, shooting Lloyd a dirty look.
Lloyd frowned. “Ain’t a hundred percent sure but I know it’s not nice. I suspect it’s something unkind about your only friend and traveling companion.”
“You’d be right about that.”
Lloyd reached back and unzipped the soft banjo case. He extracted the vintage instrument and slung it around his neck. He gave it a hard strum and glared at Jim with a “take that” look. When that had no effect, he launched into a tune, writing it as he went along.
“My friend Jim ain’t so nice,
He feeds me nothing but beans and rice.
I just came along for the ride,
To watch out for his sorry hide.
But it ain’t a very easy job,
Cause he acts like a total knob.”
“Are you done?” Jim asked.
“Oh, not nearly.”
“He ain’t got no people skills,
Most people he meets, he kills.
That’s why he ain’t got no friends,
Every word he says offends.
I’m pretty sure he got dropped on his head,
When his momma got him out of his bed.”
“That’s the dumbest song I ever heard,” Jim groaned. “Shut up!”
But Lloyd didn’t. On and on he went, insulting Jim’s lineage all the way back to his earliest cave-dwelling ancestors.
They continued to follow Laurel Bed Creek for most of the morning, Jim trying his best to block the obnoxious musician out of his head. He found only limited success with those attempts, knowing that if he plugged his ears he might miss some critical threat along the way. They eventually encountered the cleared right-of-way for a high-tension power line running perpendicular to the creek. High metal towers stood at intervals to the north and south, looking like a procession of robots frozen in their tracks.
Jim reined his horse to a stop and fished his GPS from his gear. He allowed his horse to drink while the device acqu
ired satellites and located his position on the tiny screen. Waiting for the device to sync, he pulled out his water bottle and took a long pull. Lloyd stood off to the side tuning his banjo. Jim watched him out of the corner of his eye, wondering if he could put a bullet through the instrument without hitting the horse or rider.
When he returned his eyes to the screen of the GPS, he zoomed in and studied the image. If he could travel along the utility clearing it would drop him off the high plateau and connect him with the Cove Road. He’d only been to the section of Tazewell County known as The Cove a few times over the years. It was a remote farming valley surrounded by mountains on three sides. There were some old farms there, a couple owned by the same families for over two hundred years. Sprawling homes were set back from the road amidst massive oaks and overgrown shrubs of long-forgotten varieties, imported from distant lands by prosperous landowners.
It was a beautiful area in better times, but it was hard to predict their current sentiment toward strangers. The more Jim thought about it, the sentiment wasn’t hard to predict at all. It was unlikely that any of the residents would be welcoming to their passage. He imagined dogs might be turned upon them and shots loosed in their direction.
“We’ve got a long day ahead of us,” Jim said. “We’re headed into farmland and I don’t want to cut across some stranger’s land. People might not take kindly to it.”
Lloyd nodded, more focused on tuning his banjo. Proper tuning did little to minimize how the instrument of torture grated on Jim’s nerves. It sawed on him like a dull knife on a nerve.
Jim pointed along the power lines. “If we can follow this clearing to the Cove Road, we can travel through The Cove and Thompson Valley, then pick up the Appalachian Trail at the Chestnut Ridge trailhead on Route 625. It might be as far as thirty miles, but if we get on good roads we could make that in one day. Then we could camp in the woods near the AT, which would be safer than camping along the road.” Getting no response, Jim studied his friend. “You got any opinion on any of this?”
“I don’t want to die today. Find me a route where I don’t get killed and I’ll appreciate it.”
Jim raised an eyebrow at his old friend. That seemed kind of an obvious request. “Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to do here, Lloyd. Find us a route where we both survive. Any more useful input?”
“No, I’m good. You lead and I’ll follow. Any idea how far the camp might be?”
Jim studied his GPS. “You said it’s in Bland County, right? Off I-77?”
“Yep.”
“We might make it tomorrow afternoon if we get a good ride in today.”
“Then let’s hit it. Talking ain’t getting us there.”
Jim tucked his GPS away. “I don’t know when you suddenly got so focused on the mission. You’re the one who usually won’t shut up.”
“And you’re the one still talking,” Lloyd said, swinging his banjo onto his back.
Jim let out a sigh and nudged his horse. This was going to be a long day.
29
The Valley
Pete and Charlie were standing at the garden fence. Inside the enclosure Ellen, Pops, and Hugh were picking tomatoes for another day of canning.
Ellen was shaking her head. “I don’t know. Hugh, what do you think?”
“It was pretty calm last time,” he replied. “There wasn’t any hostility or tension. As long as they go straight there and come straight back they should be fine.”
Ellen looked uncertain.
“I brought a lot of useful things back last time,” Charlie said. “I’ve got more to trade. I might be able to get more seeds. There might be different vendors with other stuff we need.”
Ellen had been impressed with Charlie’s purchases last time. He’d brought candy for the children and several other things they’d been in dire need of. His decision to purchase for the tribe instead of himself had shown maturity.
“I’d rather you have an adult with you,” Ellen said.
“All the adults are busy,” Pete countered.
“Maybe that’s a hint that you should be too,” Ellen said pointedly.
“Randi might want to go,” Pops said. “Poor thing is kind of missing Lloyd. Might be good for her to get out of here for a while.”
“Can we go if Randi goes?” Pete proposed.
“Okay,” Ellen conceded, “if Randi will go, you can go. But you have to listen to her. Okay?”
Pete couldn’t hold back a grin. He was excited to get into town and see what was going on.
Hugh straightened up and stretched his back. “You guys know how serious things are, right? Always be on guard but don’t present yourself as a threat. Don’t make people feel like they need to take you out for their own safety. There’s a time when being menacing is a good thing and this is not one of them. Stay low key but watchful. Don’t let yourself be caught off-guard.”
Both boys nodded, then sprinted for their horses.
“Stop by here on your way out,” Ellen called out.
“We will!” Pete yelled back.
They found Randi in her garden, fighting the constant and overwhelming battle against weeds. She was wearing shorts and working barefoot, her sweat creating a layer of mud that reached up past her knees. Her face and arms weren’t in much better shape.
“I hope you boys came to help,” she said, standing splay-legged over a row of carrots.
Pete and Charlie looked at each other, then back at Randi.
“No, we were wanting to take you away from all of this,” Charlie said. “Thought you might need a break.”
Randi frowned. “Boys, I’m a grandmother. I know bullshit when I hear it. What are you up to?”
“We want to go in to the farmer’s market,” Pete said. “No one else wants to go and my mom says we have to find an adult to go with us.”
“And since you couldn’t find an adult you decided to ask me?”
The boys smiled in tandem.
“I look like I’ve been rolling around in a pigsty. I ain’t fit to go into town.”
“Ain’t like the old days,” Charlie said. “You don’t stink any worse than anyone else.”
Randi narrowed her eyes at him. “I ain’t sure that’s a compliment, Charlie.”
“Please?” Pete pleaded.
Randi swiped at her forehead with the back of a grubby arm. “I tell you what. I’m going to the bathroom and scrub this mud off of me. If you pick weeds until I get back, I’ll go.”
“You sure you’re not going to sit in there and wait on us to finish before you come out?” Pete asked. “Is this a trick?”
Randi shook her head. “Nope. I just need a quick scrub to get the mud off me.”
The small farmhouse where they were living had an improvised hot water system, thanks to Jim. The gutters on the back of the house filled a raised water tank. The tank was painted black and the sun kept the water warm for much of the year. When it got cold enough that the house required a fire, the family relied on water they heated on the woodstove instead.
“It’s a deal,” Pete said.
Before the boys could change their minds, Randi high-stepped her way from the garden and jogged toward the house. “Five minutes,” she called back over her shoulder. “Maybe ten.”
The boys kept their promise, pulling everything that didn’t have a vegetable attached to it. It was hot work that both boys would have complained about a year ago. While they didn’t enjoy it, they enjoyed hunger much less. They understood that gardening was a communal effort and a healthy garden benefited everyone.
True to her word, Randi emerged in ten minutes. She was freshly scrubbed and wearing clean clothes. She had her Go Bag on her back and a shotgun slung over her shoulder. Ten minutes ago she looked like a hippie gardener. Now she looked ready for trouble.
Randi had horses that had belonged to her father. That was how she’d originally brought her daughters and grandchildren to the valley after her parents were murdered. She collected a saddle
from the shed behind the house and whistled for her horse. In the field near the garden, it pricked up its ears and came trotting in her direction.
“We’ll meet you at our house,” Pete said. “Charlie has to get a sack of stuff out of my parent’s barn and we need to get our gear together.”
“Be ready when I get there,” Randi said. “I ain’t got all day to fool with you knot-heads.”
The boys climbed on their horses and galloped off toward Pete’s house. Despite Randi’s harsh words, both boys knew the truth. As Pops said, she needed the break and there was an undercurrent of excitement in her voice at escaping her routine, even if it was only for a few hours.
30
The Farmer’s Market
This ride into town was no different than Charlie’s previous trip. They passed a few folks with whom they exchanged little more than nods. People were more accustomed to moving about now but maintained a wariness beneath their casual demeanor. Charlie did most of the talking on the ride, telling the others about the things they’d seen and what he wanted to look for this time. Pete didn’t have much to trade so he was just along for the ride. Randi had some baby clothes that her grandchildren had outgrown and were too small to fit Gary’s grandchildren. She’d be willing to part with them if she could find something of interest.
While the boys were excited, riding through town made Randi nervous. Despite what they’d been through, the boys were too young to understand her vigilance. She’d seen a lot. Charlie had been through a lot too, but he hadn’t walked home from halfway across the state. He’d not seen the way that each town brewed its own particular cocktail of violence and mayhem. Randi would never feel safe in town again. If she had anything to say about it, she’d never live in town again either. She’d stay as far outside the limits as she could.
Near a burned-out fast food restaurant, the trio turned down the road toward the farmer’s market. In the distance, people wandered through what looked like a large yard sale. Goods were thrown out on blankets, tarps, or scattered on cobbled-together tables. Some laid their goods out on the hoods of abandoned cars. Others walked among the crowd, selling on the move. They announced their goods like carnival barkers, their cries adding to the festive atmosphere.
The Borrowed World Series | Book 8 | Blood & Banjos Page 18
