by David Wayne
“I told you, Sis, Doug was tied up,” I said with a shrug.
“Max Ryker, something went down that I completely missed, and you’re not owning up to it,” she said, a piece of purple Pop-Tart stuck to her chin. I reached over to wipe it away and got a slapped wrist in return. “Don’t patronize me; you always try and distract me when you’re avoiding an issue.”
I ate my oatmeal in silence, avoiding her issue.
“Fine, I don’t want to know. I’m sure whatever happened was unseemly somehow. With your involvement, it’s almost assured.”
I thought about how pissed Doug was when he realized I was leaving him partially bound. The chances of him pursuing us were basically nil, but I didn’t take chances and wanted to put some road between us. I figured he struggled with the tape handcuffs until at least midnight. The thought of his lewd comments about the sister still rankled me, yet I was confused by it. Why was I so angry? I noticed my hands were balling up.
“What’s got your goat? You look ready to rumble,” she asked casually, yet her eyes were probing. When I didn’t respond, she kept talking. “I think Doug might have been a little sweet on me. What do you think?” She was slicing up another plump red ’mater.
“I wouldn’t know. Sis. I didn’t ask. Maybe.” I reached over and took a few slices. They were red, ripe, and juicy. Along with grits, I’d also learned to enjoy tomato sandwiches when I moved to Alabama. Fresh white bread, real mayonnaise, lots of black pepper. Good eatin’.
“He was a sweet guy. A real country gentleman, yes ma’am this, no ma’am that. It’s refreshing to know those kinds of men still exist,” she said.
“Yeah, a refreshing sweetheart,” I said. And lucky to be alive.
“Oh, so you don’t think a man could be attracted to me, is that what you’re saying?” she said, preparing for battle.
“I’m sure they are. Women, too,” I added with a wink. “Besides, what man doesn’t crave endless tongue lashings, ornery stubbornness, and endless chitchat.” I laughed, waiting on her explosive comeback.
Instead, she put on a sad smile. “I’m sorry, Max, I didn’t mean to make you jealous. He’s a kid. What, mid-twenties?” she said softly.
My head snapped up. “Jealous? You are a presumptuous woman. Besides, the guy was an idiot, a full-fledged…” I stopped myself when I saw her eyes sparkle with amusement, the mischievous smile spreading like wildfire across her face. “Whatever. Let’s just change the subject. Dealing in your fantasy world is too hard for me; I deal in logic and hard facts.” I stabbed my last slice of tomato and ate it down.
*
I calculated us to be sixty miles west and several miles north of downtown Atlanta. Keeping the Bug at a safe twenty miles an hour would put us there in three hours. I planned on ditching the car short of the outskirts and walking the last part. I wanted to do some surveillance and make sure it was safe. Sneak down in the middle of the night, scope out the situation, and if all was well, stroll on down. Otherwise, if things looked bad, we’d head south toward Florida and warm winter weather. It was a good thing I wasn’t born in the frontier days, because nothing had gone as planned on this expedition. Then, as if my thoughts were a self-fulfilling prophecy…
Pop!
We had a flat. Uneventful, because we were traveling at a snail’s pace, but a big bummer nonetheless. I tried to drive on the rim, but that was grueling—loud, difficult to steer, and bumpy. I was pissed, taking a minute to collect myself, doing some deep breaths. The sister was humming, gathering her stuff from the back, rolling with the flow.
“You going to sit there pouting all day, or are we going to hit the road and see what God has waiting for us on this glorious day?” She smiled at me. I looked away, ready to punch out the window. Sometimes I hated her positive attitude and would love to see her break loose, kick the car, and spew some curse words. Nothing seemed to shake her; no event bothered her. Nothing except me, that is.
“Max, do you see that up ahead? Get your glasses.”
I did so. “Believe it or not, it’s a horse-drawn wagon. Looks like a family, two adults and four kids, various ages. Maybe a mile ahead.” I looked over at her.
“Let’s catch up, see if we can hitch a ride. I love children.”
Without waiting on my response, she put herself in high gear, taking off at a near trot. I hesitated, because I hate kids. I mean, I don’t mind them for short periods of time. After all, who can resist a fat, cuddly baby? But traveling with four of them, moving at three miles an hour, forget it—I’ll walk, thank you.
“Max, hurry up. Quit fretting about the children. You’ll be fine. Give it a chance.” She stopped to wait on me.
What I needed was a tin foil hat so she couldn’t read my thoughts. “What are you talking about?” I asked. “Let’s not be rude. The family’s traveling just fine without us imposing. We’ll say hello and then good-bye. Agreed?”
She hesitated. “You’re right; it would be burdensome all the way around. We say a quick hello, and off we go.” And off she went, full speed ahead.
It didn’t take long to catch them, because the father stopped and waited as soon as the kids saw us. They were pointing and jumping around in apparent joy at the sight of newcomers breaking their boredom.
“Howdy, fellow travelers. You heading to Atlanta?” Papa asked.
“Yes, we are,” the sister responded. “May we hitch a ride?” she asked, ignoring my angry stare.
“Of course. Hop up, as long as you don’t mind a horde of kids.” He laughed, his wife leaning into him for a subtle cuddle.
Before I could protest, Sister threw her stuff into the back and jumped in. Everybody was looking at me, waiting. Reluctantly, I joined them—feeling outmaneuvered and tricked yet again. I never would have dreamed that a nun could be so crafty and mischievous.
Introductions were made: Brad, five, Brett, eight, Brenda, twelve, and Becky, fifteen. Mommy was Betty and Daddy was Bob, no ages provided. A cute family whose names all began with B’s. To top it off, their last name was Brouder and they were from Brightwaters County. They had left three days ago, forgoing the safety of their country farm for the unknown conditions in Atlanta. “It seemed best for the children, long range,” the parents explained.
The wagon was filled with loose hay, with nothing else to sit on. For a family of six, they were traveling light, but so were we. I tried to doze, and when I couldn’t, I kept my eyes closed, pretending to be. Otherwise, the minute they opened, one of the kids would start visiting with me. It seemed the Brouder clan were born chatterboxes, even the littlest one.
At four thirty, Bob pulled over next to a mailbox. “We need to find shelter. It takes at least two hours to unload, get set up, cook dinner, and put the horses down. I’ve learned the hard way not to push the time, or we get stuck trying to get settled in without light, and that’s no fun.” The whole family chimed in agreement.
I volunteered to scout out the house. Halfway up the drive, I heard feet scraping gravel behind me. I turned to tell the sister we weren’t staying the night. “We’re not…” But it wasn’t the sister, it was the older boy, Brett, tagging along uninvited. “Oh, Brett, what’s up?”
“Just going scopin’ with you, dude. This is cool.”
“Scoping?”
“Yeah, scope the situation out before we bring the children and the ’rents up. Us men need to protect them, ya know?”
I didn’t respond, because it was a rhetorical question. Apparently, he didn’t get that. “You know what I mean, jelly bean?” he asked.
“Brett, tell you what,” I almost snapped, but caught myself. “Let’s scope it out quietly, all right? That way we can see any trouble before trouble sees us. Got it?”
“Sounds like a plan, Stan.” Apparently the kid talked in rhymes, a habit I found irritating.
After establishing the coast was clear, we unloaded and set up shop in someone else’s home. The Brouders were traveling with a heavy stash of rice, flour, and jerky. The
y had sacks of the stuff. Dinner would be cooked rice with jerky gravy and all the tortillas you could eat. I planned on sneaking away to eat an MRE.
One thing I had to give the family, they all knew their jobs. Bob and Brett tended the horses, Betty and Susan started dinner, the older girl got the sleeping arrangements made, and the younger girl watched the little one. Pretty efficient—no one bitched or had to be told what to do. They worked like ants, in harmony.
I hid my guns in a closet, up on the top shelf. I would be chopping wood for the fire, and couldn’t wear them—and didn’t want to leave loaded weapons where kids might stumble upon them. I took off my shirt, grabbed the axe, and went to do my chores. I was anxious for some alone time. Solitarily chopping wood and doing aimless work would be relaxing and tiring, helping me sleep later.
Forty-five minutes had passed when I strolled back to the house with an armful of thick logs. I was greeted by an unfriendly man with an automatic weapon. Since we started this trip, I hadn't been without my firearms except that one time—which had given me a very bad bear day. Now, the second time I did it, I encountered a bandit pointing a gun at me. Just perfect.
“Drop the wood and get your ass over with the rest of them,” he said.
Chapter 50
“Carlos, let’s stay for dinner before we split. It’s not gourmet, but it’s almost ready,” said a fat guy with a bushy beard and tattoos. He was swigging whiskey from a small pint bottle.
“Ten-four that, but let’s do business first. We’ll take the long-haired one,” Carlos said, pointing at Susan, “and that skinny one. What’s your name, girl, and how old are you?” he asked. He was a brute of a guy and obviously the leader. He had long, shaggy hair, pulled back in a ponytail. It was held together with four hair ties, spaced about two inches apart. He was also the biggest freaking Mexican I’d ever seen.
“My… my name’s Becky, and I’m… I’m fifteen,” she answered, attempting to hold back tears.
“Old enough to bleed, old enough to breed,” the third guy threw out, causing them all to laugh. That guy wore a big black cowboy hat with a matching jacket that went down to his knees, the kind cowboys used to wear. He looked stupid, like he was playing dress-up. None of the men were small, and all looked rough. The prison tats and gruff appearance could only mean one thing—dirtbag Hogwogs. Two had automatic weapons; Tex had a six-shooter in a western holster tied at the leg.
“My name's Carlos. They call me the Mexican Cockroach. Glad to make your acquaintance,” the leader said, nodding his head at Becky. She looked down at the ground, her lips trembling and hands shaking.
“What about Mama?” Tex asked.
“Forget her. She’s too old,” Carlos answered. “Buyers are starting to get picky. With all the people pouring in, there’s lots of prime product out there, bro. Now the pretty nun, she’ll fetch a good buck,” he said, stroking Susan’s hair. She jerked her head away, causing all three to laugh.
“Think she’s a virgin?” Tex asked.
The Mexican winked at him. “I’ll let ya know in the morning, my brother.” More laughter.
“How ’bout the boy?” the fat one asked.
The boss gave him the once-over. “Too young and too scrawny. The kid would out-eat the work he could produce. We’ll take the two chicks. Business meeting over. Now, let’s talk valuables. We want watches, weapons, food, camping stuff, anything like that. Dad, give me an inventory, and make it quick. You lie and you die.” He grabbed the whiskey from his buddy and took a swig, letting out a large belch afterward. He pointed his weapon at Bob and said, “Speak.”
It was almost completely dark now, and I listened to Bob list off his stuff. I was trying desperately to come up with a plan. After Bob finished, I jumped in. “Please, sir, don’t hurt me…I mean, us. We have food stashed down the trail a bit.” I pointed toward the forest, where I had been chopping wood. “I just went and hid it.”
Bob, like an idiot, jumped right in. “Max, what the hell are you saying? We don’t—”
“Shut up,” I said, cutting him off. “These guys mean business. They want everything. Just don’t hurt me, sir, and I’ll take you to our food cache,” I sniveled, holding my hands up in the air, shrinking downward.
“You worthless piece of shit,” Carlos the supersized Mexican said. “What a pussy. You’re crying worse than the girl there. I should shoot your ass.” He slapped me hard on the side of the head. I shrank back farther, quivering.
“Tex, take wimpy out there and get the food. The rest of you get your asses in the living room. You three older ones, finish cooking dinner. We need to get going. It can be dangerous around here at night.”
We made our way down the trail, toward the woodpile. First a slave camp by the army base and now a roaming gang of slave traders. The world was spinning out of control. “Say, Tex, can I get a sip of that whiskey, man?” I said.
“Fuck you, punk, whiskey's prime property these days. Shut up and show me the food before I kick your ass.”
He didn’t have his gun out and was carrying the bottle in his right hand. He had no worries; good for me, bad for him. I faked a stumble and fell forward, face first into the ground. “Oh, shit, I broke my leg. Oh, it hurts,” I moaned, rolling around in the dirt and leaves, holding my ankle.
He kicked me hard in the side. “Get up, puke. Jesus fucking Christ, I’ve never seen a bigger wimp than you. Get up or I’m gonna kick the shit right out of ya.” He was looking at me in disgust, shaking his head.
I struggled up to my knees and then stood. I started limping slowly down the trail. I’d retrieved an eight-inch Bowie from my ankle sheath. I held it close to my stomach, the cutting edge turned outward. I was bowed down, moaning and holding my gut where Tex had booted me. The hurting gut part wasn’t fake. I stopped, bent over and moaning, waiting on my cue. The moment I felt his hand on the small of my back, but before he could actually shove me, I pivoted three-sixty and thrust forward with my full weight—burying the blade deep in his belly. Then I yanked upward with all my strength. I knew his body would stiffen, his joints would lock in place, and he would momentarily stand upright, frozen in place. I used those few seconds to grab his bottle before he dropped it. No use in wasting good whiskey. He looked at me, confused and shocked. Then fell down in a heap. I grabbed his hat and jacket, wiping the blood from the knife onto his britches. I snagged the pack of smokes from the top pocket of his shirt and headed back down the path.
As I got close to the yard, I slowed and looked around. Over in the back corner, I was pleased to see a cigarette burning in the darkness. For once, I was having a little luck. I pulled the hat low and headed directly toward the red tip. As I approached, I realized it was the tattooed fatty.
“What the fuck, Tex. I’m pissin’ over here, you faggot. Get outta here,” he yelled over his shoulder.
I took a step to the left and he returned to relieving himself, which was ironic—because I was getting ready to relieve him of his life. I swirled right and ran hard, which was only about five strides, shoving the knife in his back at the approximate location of his heart, and then yanked upward. The jab must have made its mark, because he fell silently to the ground, not even making a grunt.
I walked to the plate-glass window by the front door, past the pile of stuff Fatty was stealing. I peeked in and saw that Sister and Becky were standing next to their belongings, ready to leave with the baddies. Mother was cooking, and the others were seated where I couldn’t see them. Carlos the Cockroach was leaning against the wall, chatting Sister up. I pulled the hat down over my brow, closed the black jacket tight around me, and leaned in front of the window. I knocked a couple times on the glass and waved my hand quickly for Carlos to come out. I pulled immediately away from the window. Hopefully, he bought the act.
I hid beside the front door, intending to take him out the minute he emerged, but the big Mexican hadn’t entirely bought the ruse. The door swung open, but no one walked out. He hadn’t taken the bait, so I
plowed into the door, the weight of my body knocking it hard against him. Unfortunately, he didn’t fall, and recuperated astonishingly fast. During the scuffle, the doormat bunched up and got tangled around my feet. While I was trying not to trip, the Cockroach bowed down and ran, catching me against his shoulder in a football tackle. He used the momentum to slam me hard against the wall. It knocked the breath out of me, causing my head to go dizzy. Worse still, I dropped the knife. He slammed me against the wall again, utilizing his full weight and strength. He was like a human battering ram. I felt like a rag doll, leaning limp over his shoulder. Everything was going fuzzy, and my body felt like it was floating. I was losing consciousness. He pulled me back for another wall slam, taking an extra second to adjust my position against his shoulders—preparing for the optimum smash. This one would crush my ribs and put me out, maybe permanently. I didn’t have the strength to do anything about it. He let out an angry yell, more like a roar. I felt his body tense and then push off hard—his shoulder firmly in my gut, my body and arms falling uselessly against his back. I prepared for the pounding. It never came. Instead he fell limp, and I stumbled backward into the wall and then into a slumped heap on the floor. Before I passed out, I saw Sister gasping into her hands—a broken lamp lying shattered around the fallen Mexican. Then everything went cold, black, and very silent.
*
I awoke in the middle of the night, sweating profusely, very sore and starving. As the disorientation wore off, I saw that Sister was sleeping next to me, and a plate of food and a canteen of water were lying by my head. I ate, drank, and crashed back out—awakened early the next morning by unfamiliar sounds—shrieking children.
Chapter 51
I spent an hour stretching, trying to work out the pain. My upper body was badly bruised, and a huge knot lived on the back of my head. I had God’s worst headache. I was a bit surprised my ribs weren’t broken.
