Legion of Despair: Book Three in The Borrowed World Series (13 page)

She turned slowly, listening for a moment in each direction. She determined that three houses down, in the dark recesses of a front porch, an older couple sat enjoying the cool evening air. At least that’s what she assumed they were doing. After thinking it over for a moment, she began walking in their direction. She knew she was headed in the right direction when the conversation halted.

“I got a gun up in here and I ain’t a bit afraid to use it,” came a cold voice.

Alice froze, trying to figure out what to do next. Had she not been completely lost, she would have just turned and walked away as fast as she could. “My name is Alice,” she said. “I’m lost and need some directions.”

There was no response, but there was also no movement. She didn’t know what she should do, and she had no other options. “Can you help me?”

“Whereabouts you trying to go?” asked a woman’s voice.

Alice swallowed hard, not wanting to get into the details of everything that had happened to her over the past few days. She’d be here all night if she tried to tell that story. “I’m just passing through town trying to get to Tazewell and I’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere.”

Tazewell was a town close to her office. She thought it was strategic to choose a nearby town, giving the impression that she had people waiting on her who might come looking for her if she didn’t return home.

“How did you get down in here?” the woman asked.

“I was on the highway,” Alice said. “There were some bad people and I had to get off the road and hide. Somehow I got turned around and this is where I ended up. This is Bluefield, right?”

“It’s Bluefield, all right, and there ain’t no shortage of bad people here,” the man said. “You need to be careful out there wandering around at night. A girl can end up dead. Or worse.”

Alice laughed nervously. “Trust me,” she said, “I know all about that.” She could make out nothing about these people in the dark. They could be fifty or they could be twenty years older than that.

“You get back on the road,” the woman said. “You go right. You walk that way about ten minutes and you’ll come to College Avenue. You go right there. That will lead you back to the highway and out of town.”

“I can do that,” Alice said. “Thanks for your help.”

“You be careful out there,” the woman said. “It’s a lot easier to talk it than to walk it. You keep your eyes open.”

“You got a gun?” the man asked.

Alice was hesitant to answer, but decided to be honest. She didn’t want to be killed for her gun but she wasn’t getting the psycho-vibe from these folks. “Yeah, I do.”

“Anyone mess with you,” the man said, “you shoot their fucking nuts off.”

Alice smiled a smile that no one else could see in the darkness. These folks had no idea what she was capable of. “I’ll do that,” she said. “I can promise you that.”

She turned in the deep grass of their yard and went back to the edge of the road. Once on the solid surface of the pavement, she turned right, just as instructed.

Chapter 9

The Valley

Russell County, VA

Buddy had been walking nearly two hours and, strangely, the world was coming back to life around him. Color was gradually returning to his vision. His senses had been completely pummeled by the trauma of his daughter’s death and the anger that consumed him. Although he assumed that he had been eating and drinking in the days since her death, he could not recall that he had. He felt lightheaded, and assumed that some of it may have been from not taking in enough food or water.

The road from Macktown to his home traced the bottom of the long, narrow valley. The end closest to Macktown was more populated. At the far end, where his home lay, there were fewer houses. It was a fertile valley and the fields around him contained cattle, corn, and even tobacco patches. He imagined that the men who owned these fields must be working day and night to try to protect their crops and livestock from thieves. He saw men working at the door to a barn. He threw a hand up to wave at them but they didn’t wave back. He could not blame them. He felt almost exuberant, freed as he was from the yoke of his obligation. He did what the world required of him and now he could go on about his life and grieve without anger. He could see if he had a life beyond this experience.

A sure sign that he was more present in this world than he had been earlier was his increasing awareness of the condition of his feet. He could tell that the heels of both feet and the tops of several toes were raw and skinless. They burned constantly. The bottom of his feet ached. His feet were now more accustomed to the advances in modern shoe technology that had taken place in the decades since the boots on his feet were made.

He stopped at one point, leaning against a fencepost to see if he could push the dizziness away. The day was hot and the road radiated the heat back at him. He kept his eyes on the ground, breathing deeply and wishing for a cold glass of water. When he raised his eyes, a man near his age stood in the yard of a nearby house, a shotgun levelled at him.

Buddy met the man’s eye. “I’m just clearing my head. I ain’t walked like this in years.”

The man used the barrel of the shotgun to gesture down the road, as if the movement might sweep Buddy from where he stood and push him from this place where he was not wanted.

“Clear it somewhere else,” the man said.

“I’m on my way home,” Buddy told him. “I live in this valley.”

The man took in Buddy’s appearance. “Well, you don’t live here,” the man said. “I don’t recognize you, so keep moving.”

Buddy thought of the .45 beneath his fatigue jacket.
I have killed two men today and I would have no trouble killing you
, he thought. But that was not true. This man had done nothing to him. Killing him would be wrong. Even killers could have morality. Buddy had learned that from the example his own father set for him.

He straightened up and wiped his hands on his pants legs. His body had become stiffer in the moments of inactivity, his age settling into his bones and muscles. It took more of a push these days to get him going. When he got home, he imagined that he might lay in his porch swing and sleep there for an entire day. Maybe even two. He moved on, the shotgun man continuing to bear him in his sights until he disappeared from view.

For the next mile, he saw no one. Then his ears perked up at the throaty roar of what sounded like exhaust pipes. He’d not seen a moving car all day and he stepped to the shoulder of the road, turning stiffly to look behind him. The move made him lightheaded. The car was loud, not yet visible, and clearly getting closer to him if the V-8 roar was any indication.

In a moment, the heat mirage merged with the oncoming grille of a vehicle. Buddy recognized it as a Plymouth of some sort. The car was hauling ass with no concern for the preservation of fuel. Though surely the driver had to see him, there was no falter of his speed, no decrease in the throttle. On a whim, Buddy stuck out his thumb.

The gesture carried some weight for the driver of the vehicle. The car was nearly upon him when the driver locked up the brakes. In the days before anti-lock brakes, brakes locked when you wanted them to, and that’s exactly what happened. The tires squealed and left black trails behind them, the car skidding diagonally in the road, stopping near where Buddy stood. The passenger window was down.

Buddy stooped over, resting his hands on his knees, and saw a man in jeans, a white collarless shirt, a black vest with a pocket watch, and a fedora sitting behind the wheel. It seemed an unusual outfit, of an old style no longer worn. Then Buddy looked down at his own Vietnam fatigues and knew that he was not in a place to judge another man for his fashion choices. They stared at each other.

“What car is this?” Buddy asked.

“It would be a 1973 Plymouth Scamp,” the driver replied.

The back glass was shot out and several bullet holes pierced the mustard yellow body panels. “Rough day?”

The driver shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Could a feller catch a ride?”

“Might could,” the driver said. He pulled back his vest to reveal a nickel-plated revolver tucked in his waistband. “But the feller better understand he ain’t taking this car without a fight.”

Buddy drew open his fatigue jacket and revealed his .45 in its shoulder holster. “The feller understands and agrees to keep his pecker in his pants.”

The driver smiled. “Get in.”

Buddy opened the door and settled into the passenger seat. He sighed. The smell of the vintage car brought back memories of when he’d first returned from Vietnam. In the jungle, he’d forgotten the smell of cars.

“My name is Buddy,” he said. “Who do I have the pleasure of riding with?”

“Lloyd,” the driver said. “My name is Lloyd.”

*

They barreled through the valley at speeds Buddy had not seen on these types of roads in decades. Lloyd squealed around turns without regard for any creature of God. Had they encountered a man on horseback or bicycle, a stray cow, or just someone walking the road, they would have died a quick and merciful death.

“What brings you to the neighborhood?” Buddy asked. “I see your windshield sticker says you’re from Wythe County, assuming this is your car, which would be none of my business.”

“It’s my car, alright,” Lloyd replied. “I’m here to check on my parents and to visit a friend.”

“They live in the valley?”

“They do,” Lloyd said. “I grew up here and my parents still live here. My friend lives on the far end of the valley.”

“I live on the far end of the valley too,” Buddy said. “Maybe I know him.”

They came around a turn and Lloyd whipped the wheel hard, the vehicle slewing sideways and nearly taking out a row of mailboxes. The vehicle jolted onto a dirt driveway, narrowly missing a deep culvert. Buddy held on to the dashboard with both hands, but was still slung up against the door.

“What brings you to this end of the valley?” Lloyd asked.

“I had to kill a man this morning,” Buddy replied without hesitation. “Then my truck was stolen.”

Lloyd considered this. “He need killing?”

Buddy nodded. “Most assuredly.”

“You use that .45?” Lloyd asked.

“No,” Buddy admitted. “I burned him alive.”

Lloyd nodded distractedly, his attention drawn to the small brick house that came into view. He slowed, then hit the brakes and slid to a stop in the driveway.

Buddy noticed that the man expertly avoided hitting the other cars in the narrow driveway.

“Looks like you’ve parked here before,” he commented.

“All my life,” Lloyd said. He opened his door and looked at Buddy. “I have to go inside. If I leave you here, you promise not to steal my car?”

Buddy nodded. “I promise.”

“I’d not take just anyone’s word on something like that,” Lloyd said. “But you’ve already told me that you killed a man this morning and how you killed him. You’re obviously not prone to lying.”

“I actually killed two men today, but one was of no consequence so I failed to mention him. I won’t steal your car,” Buddy said. “Although I might just close my eyes for a bit. I’m wore out.”

Lloyd climbed out of the car and walked across the yard to the back door. He reached onto the top of the porch light for the spare key and used that to let himself in.

Buddy eased himself back in the seat and closed his eyes.

He wasn’t sure how long he was out before he felt a nudge at his elbow. He cracked an eyelid and saw Lloyd standing outside his window.

“I need a hand,” Lloyd said. “I hate to ask, but do you mind helping me?”

“Of course not,” Buddy said. He moved to get out, finding that his body had stiffened while he’d been asleep. Pain shot up his feet and legs when he put weight on them.

Lloyd made an odd sound that may have been a sob and Buddy thought he looked pretty rough. “Everything okay?” he asked.

Lloyd shook his head. “They’re dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Lloyd,” Buddy said. “What happened?”

“I’m not really sure. Best I can tell, Mom accidentally cut herself in the kitchen. She’s on blood thinners. It looks like they couldn’t stop the bleeding. There’s a trail from the kitchen to the bedroom. That’s where I found her.”

“What about your dad?”

“He couldn’t live without Mom,” Lloyd said. “Shot himself in the bed beside her.”

“What do you need me to do?” Buddy asked.

“I’d like to bury them.”

*

Several hours had passed before Buddy and Lloyd threw down their shovels beside the filled graves.

“You going to make a marker?” Buddy asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” Lloyd said. “If things ever get back to normal, I’ll have to sell this house. It will never sell if folks know there are two graves in the backyard. Such things used to be common, but folks these days are weird about it.”

Buddy nodded but didn’t remark on this. It was a very practical and logical consideration in his mind.

“I would like to get a few things from the house,” Lloyd said. “In case it gets broken into.”

“I don’t mind helping,” Buddy offered. “I got nowhere else to be.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Make sure you check for any food,” Buddy said. “I think it’s getting in short supply. You may need everything they’ve got.”

Over the course of another hour, they removed all the guns and ammunition from the house, what food they could find, and several boxes of keepsakes that Lloyd wanted to take with him. It looked like family photos and some other mementos. Several boxes contained Mason jars of various colored liquids.

“That moonshine?” Buddy asked.

Lloyd nodded. “The last of what my grandfather made in his lifetime. My dad never drank it so it just sat in the basement collecting dust. He wouldn’t drink it and he wouldn’t give it away. Just held onto it for sentimental reasons.”

“That why you’re taking it?” Buddy asked. “Sentimental reasons?”

“Hell no,” Lloyd said. “I’m going to crack open a jar as soon as the last box is in that car.”

Buddy smiled. He liked this guy. “What did you do for a living?” Buddy asked. “Before things went to shit.”

“I was a barber and a musician,” Lloyd replied.

Buddy nodded. “Suits you.”

Lloyd locked up his childhood home and pocketed the key. He went to the open trunk and stood looking into it while Buddy folded his stiff frame into the car.

“I’ve got blackberry, peach, and plain old clear,” Lloyd called. “Do you have a preference?”

Buddy considered this. “I’ve always been partial to blackberry.”

“Blackberry it is,” Lloyd said, shutting the trunk and taking the driver’s seat with a jar in hand.

He stared out at the fresh graves while he unscrewed the ring and popped the lid with his fingernail. He held his nose over the jar and inhaled. With the smell of that liquor came a flood of memories. Lloyd recalled his grandparents and the thousands of stories they’d shared over the years. He had loved them. He thought of his parents and their life together in this house. He thought of his childhood and how quickly it had all passed to bring him to this point. It was as if this jar held the distillation of an entire lineage. Not just his lifetime, but several lifetimes.

Lloyd brought his lips to the edge and drank deeply. Much in the way that Buddy had brought resolution to a chapter of his life by killing a man that morning, Lloyd also turned the page to a new chapter of his own life by opening a jar that his father had held for most of his life but refused to drink.

“Whereabouts does your friend live exactly?” Buddy asked.

Lloyd finished his drink and passed the jar to Buddy. “About a mile and a half past that little white church. Fellow named Jim Powell. Been a friend of mine all my life.”

“Then we’re going to the same neighborhood,” Buddy said. “I know Jim. We probably live within a mile or less of each other.”