Mississippi DEAD

Mississippi DEAD

By

Shawn Weaver

Copyright 2013 Shawn Weaver

Cover design: Rhe’Anna Weaver

Edited: Wendy Ely

All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any
information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are the products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously.

Novels by Shawn Weaver

Tides of War Series

Sense of Honor

Dragon’s Chest

The Dark Caravan

Rose Marie

Honored Son (Coming fall 2014)

Children

Brooklyn and the Magic Ring (2014)

Horror

Little Valley

Wolves in Springfield

Welcome to Plainfield

Mississippi DEAD

Chicago Undead (Coming Feb 2014)

With Donnie Light

Ripper’s Row

Ripper’s Revenge

Ripper’
s Wrath

The Ripper Trilogy

Mississippi DEAD

A cold breeze blew over the bow of Jack’s houseboat as he drove down the waters of the Mississippi, heading for Gilman’s Bait just off of Highway C on the Minnesota side of the great waterway. A great stop for motorboats and summertime visitors to the Wyalusing State Park supplying needed fishing supplies, snacks, or gas.

Gilman’s was the only store for miles with a long dock shooting out from the bank behind the store with two pumps for boats to fill up and to moor too while being serviced and stocked up with supplies. And that was what Jack Piccoulty aimed to do before his son, Luke, daughter-in-law, Suzie, and their three kids, Molly, age ten, Jeremy, age fourteen, and Steve, age three, arrived at his cabin set in the valley below Wyalusing State Park and just a stone’s throw from Boscobel at the very edge of the Wisconsin/Illinois boarder.

After dumping sixty dollars and thirty cents worth of unleaded into the tank of his GM 305 V-8, Jack hooked up the fresh water hose and topped off
the twenty-five gallon water container. He knew that a weekend on the river would not deplete it, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Walking up the long dock supported by neon blue plastic barrels underneath, Jack climbed the dozen steps leading up to the back door of the bait shop. Entering through the glass door, a bell, connected to the top, rang loudly to alert the proprietor that he had customers. Because his wife, Kelly, didn’t like the bite that regular colas had. Jack grabbed a twenty-four pack of root beer from a small stack that stood against a squat freezer containing bags of ice. He then pulled a six pack of Red Dog beer in amber-colored bottles, from the long row of coolers.
Kelly had seen to stocking the small fridge in the houseboat for the weekend. But just to be sure, Jack grabbed a pack of hot dogs for the grandkids.

Passing by a small endcap display of fishing lures, Jack grabbed a pack of copper hooks. The kids always seemed to find every branch underwater. And near the best place to fish off of the main pathways of the Mississippi, called the
Bottoms, were thick with the grabbing wooden stalks.

Taking his armful of items to the register, Jack piled his goods on the counter where Sam Richardson sat every day on a black padded stool, his stubby legs almost disappearing underneath the girth of his large stomach. A cigarette stuck out of Sam’s slit of a mouth, where a trail of smoke slid up the side of his round balding head. In an eternal squint, he looked at Jack and gave a gruff, “’Ello.”

“Hi, ya,” Jack returned as Sam checked the gas meter, punched in the prices in the register, and then hit total.

“78.54,” Sam said, and Jack parted with his hard earned cash. “Fish are biten’ today,” he continued, taking four twenties from Jack and counted out one dollar, forty-six cents in change.

“Good. Kids are down from St. Paul this weekend,” Jack replied.

As Sam slipped the purchases into a white plastic bag, he said. “Really, ‘bout time, haven’t seen Luke in years.” His cigarette bounced as he spoke, the long ash at the end threatening to fall off.

Jack knew Sam’s comment to be true. Luke’s job as a car salesman back in St. Paul was busy. And with a growing family, their visits came shorter and short every year. Getting them to come down this weekend was a lucky strike.

The radio, permanently suck on WXKO smokin’ oldies station, sat on the windowsill behind Sam was rambling on about an accident at the Prairie Du Chien Memorial Hospital.

“What’s going on?” Jack asked as he stuck his change into his pocket.

“Not sure. Some moron got clipped by a car on Highway K. After they got him to the ER he attacked a nurse,” Sam replied as the ash at the end of his cigarette finally broke and fell onto his shirt. “They shut down all access to the hospital and are searching for him now. Some people can’t hold their liquor,” Sam continued as if this happened every day.

Grabbing all of his purchases, Jack said, “See ya later,” and headed back to the houseboat.

Crossing the dock, Jack heard the sound of the B&O railroad blasting its way along the tracks on the Wisconsin side of the river. As Jack stepped aboard his boat, he caught a glimpse of silver as the train moved through the trees, topping speeds of at least eighty miles an hour. The train’s appearance was of no surprise to Jack. For this route was busy
with trains heading for Chicago, St. Louis and Minneapolis. During the day a dozen trains passed by the cabin, but at night they seemed to pass by every half hour like clockwork. No sooner would you hear the crossing lights start to chime their warning. Then the train would arrive barreling by at top speeds. The car count never seemed to be less than fifty, but Kelly swore that she’d counted ninety last summer.

After storing the hot dogs in the fridge, beside the brats and hamburgers for tomorrow’s lunch, and placing the beer in a large red cooler filled halfway with ice, Jack untied the houseboat from the moorings on the dock and cranked the motor to life. Like driving a RV, Jack stood at the helm set near the bow just outside of the enclosure containing the small bedroom and kitchen. Pulling back on the throttle, he could feel the rumble of the engine as water churned out the back and he steered into the river.

The heat of the setting sun beamed on the left side of Jacks face as he pulled clear of a large rust and dirt colored barge pushing coal down the center of the river. Once past, Jack opened the throttle up and sped home.

Shadows pulled long against the river as the high rocky bluffs on the Minnesota side of the river. As birds hunted over the water spying for insects, and a few bats had made their appearance grabbing mosquitoes.

Just a mile from the cabin, the motor started to sputter. And from the sound, Jack immediately knew what was wrong, the fuel filter. Cussing to himself, Jack turned off the engine and dropped the anchor. The current in this part of the Mississippi wasn’t as strong as being in the center, so he knew he would not drift far or have to worry about the speed boats and barges that populated the river this time of year.

Stepping from the helm and into the small enclosed kitchen area, Jack flicked on the lights and stepped over to the
counter next to the small fridge. Opening a utility drawer, he pulled out a flashlight and wrench. If things worked out, it would only take a few minutes to pull out and clear the filter, and he’d be home before the arrival of his kids.

But things do not always work out as planned. After unlatching the engine cover, Jack found that the wrench was too large. Knowing that another smaller one was somewhere aboard, Jack started to search for it. All the while,
muttering that he should’ve taken the houseboat to the mechanic’s earlier for its yearly tune-up. Now he would have to do so after the kids had headed back to St. Paul when the weekend ended.

As the sun moved against the Minnesota side of the river
, Jack was able to remove, blow out, and replace the fuel filter.

Flipping up the toggle switch that activated the pulley to raise the anchor, Jack turned the ignition. The motor started, and then he flicked on the lights on the bow and aft. Though they were
not stunningly bright, the lights were strong enough to alert any approaching watercraft.

Pulling around a small island with a thick out cropping of trees, Jack drove the houseboat toward his cabin. The tall trees on the island loomed darkly, and birds had just started to roost in them for the night. As the lights on the bow crossed them, a few were scared up into flight. Jack watched as they gracefully soared across the river and disappeared into the trees on the other side.

The smell of smoke came first. Jack thought that maybe the Peterson family had a bonfire going, but as Jack drove closer, he realized that no fire burned by the shore where the Peterson’s usually fished, nor were any lights on in their two story house, sitting high on a bluff of limestone across the road and railroad tracks.

Passing by a bend in the shore, Jack saw the reflection of something burning against the water. Tightness grew in his chest as he pressed down on the throttle, speeding the houseboat up. Cresting the trees the water came alive with the flames reflecting off of his burning house.

Where the glass had already shattered into the yard from all of the heat, Jack could see flames licking at all of the windows of the cabin.

“GOD NO!
Kelly!” James shouted.

T
he houseboat bumped along the dock as it came to a stop. He could feel the strong dock rock slightly, but the long support poles held tight in the grip of the deep Mississippi mud.

Cutting the motor, Jack climbed around the port side and grabbed the mooring rope. Stepping over onto the dock, water splashed up on his pants from the rocking boat. Wrapping the mooring rope around the base of the pole, he knocked a white life preserver off where it bounced off of the side of the houseboat and splashed into the water. Jack twisted the rope twice around the pole. Not securing the rope any farther, Jack ran up the dock toward the burning cabin.

As he climbed the small hill that led to the driveway, Jack could see Luke’s Ford Explorer parked cockeyed in front of the cabin, headlights on, doors open and motor still running.

“Kelly?” Jack yelled toward the house and car. “Luke?” But in return all he got was the snap and crackle as the house burned.

The front door was open, and Jack only hoped that they’d all got out okay. Thinking that they may all be waiting by the main road for the fire department to arrive, Jack dashed around the Explorer and down the long gravel driveway. Heart pounding, Jack could hear the crossing lights of the railroad start to ding and light up the night sky. As Jack came up toward the tracks, he saw Jeremy standing in the middle of the road with his back to the driveway.

“Jeremy?” Jack yelled, panting.

Hearing his name, Jeremy turned toward his grandfather’s voice. With mussed blonde hair poking in every direction, Jeremy started to step back toward the driveway. His tall lanky form seemed stiff and unbalanced as if he were disoriented.

From the right, Jack could hear the approaching train. Its horn cutting through the night as it quickly barreled through the countryside. Realizing that Jeremy was on the other side of the tracks and totally unaware of the approaching train, Jack started to wave his arms to warn his grandson to stop.

In a roar of metal and wind, the train came on.

Jack’s voice was drowned out by the charging wheels. The light in front of the train made the land between Jack and Jeremy bright as day for a moment illuminating his grandson’s shirt covered in blood. Then in the next instant as Jeremy stepped onto the tracks the train powered by in a sickening crunch of wind and noise.

Mouth agape, Jack felt the world drop underneath him. Jeremy was gone, ripped from the world right in front of his eyes. Legs no longer able hold him, Jack dropped to his knees. Tears well up in his eyes he cried out in the agony of his loss.

Flashes of the crossing lights pulsed red between the fast moving cars. From the corner of his eye, Jack caught movement to his left. Turning, he hoped it was Jeremy, safe and sound, but all he saw on the ground was a wreathing mound. Unsure if it was Jeremy tossed by the train, Jack scrambled to his feet. Staggering, he walked across the gravel drive.

There in the flashing red lights, wreathing in a beige silk nightgown covered in daisies was Molly. Her long blonde hair, turned red in the lights, hung down toward the ground. “Molly? Baby?” was all Jack got out as he bent over to check on her.