The New Madrid Run (19 page)

They motored in close enough to see a line of grim-faced men and women assemble at the front of the town, weapons in hand. There were no waves of greeting, no smiles, just a hard look of determination on the faces of the gaunt and hollow-eyed people as they watched the boats pass by.

“Well, I think we can scratch that off our list of places we want to visit this vacation,” Travis said.

Christina shook her head. “God, what a welcoming—suspicious, and threatening.”

“That’s the way it’s going to be for a while,” he replied. “There’s going to be a transitional period where mankind plays a giant game of musical chairs. A lot of folks are just going to end up without a chair. Interaction between people will begin to take place again, as order and security are re-established. Maybe, from all this devastation, a new society will emerge—one that remembers the mistakes and the shortcomings of the old, and refuses to live like that again. I think that decision belongs to us.”

Travis felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the sensei. “You are beginning to sound like a leader, Travis. It could be that you are becoming a good American after all.”

“I figure it’s now or never,” replied Travis.

They turned west at the panhandle of Florida and stayed with the new coast. The days passed, and the travelers on the two boats drew together. Ra and Todd were becoming inseparable; the preacher and Carlos had become the best of friends. Carlos was spending so much time around his companion he was beginning to develop a Southern Baptist/Cuban vernacular—“Pass dem ’taters,
por favor
.”

Christina and Travis were becoming closer but not intimate. She still maintained an emotional distance, but both looked forward to their nightly ritual of stargazing and conversation before bedtime.

Both the sensei and Travis recognized they were on the path to establishing one of those friendships that a man finds only once or twice in a lifetime. As is often the case, it was unspoken, but the bond was pure and strong, nonetheless.

Nobody in the group could say what the future held, but the present, tenuous as it was, felt good.

The only problem they had, as they sailed toward the new inland waterway, was lack of fresh meat. Todd still caught a few fish, but they had eaten all the canned chicken and beef. They would exhaust their other supplies too quickly trying to substitute them for meat, so something had to be done.

Travis and the preacher, both having done a considerable amount of small-game hunting, came up with the idea of a hunting trip into the interior. The little flotilla was near the Mississippi–Alabama border, and Travis figured there would be deer, wild turkey, and probably boar in the surrounding woodlands. The group decided to anchor their boats in a bay near the shore, while the two men took the
Amazing Avon
in and looked for game. Travis and the preacher would leave at sunrise the next day and be back by sunset, with or without success.

The cold dawn crept over the misted trees and fog-shrouded water of the small bay. The hunters were ready; Christina had packed them a tote bag with a couple of cans of fruit and vegetables, as well as a half-gallon of water. Both of the men carried an M16, and Travis had his nine-millimeter pistol, stuck in his belt under his sweater.

After a goodbye that included a less-than-hasty embrace from Christina, Travis stepped down into the raft with his companion, and they paddled ashore. There, they tied up the boat and headed inland.

The first hour was spent crisscrossing through the brush trying to find a game trail. The preacher finally located one with fresh spore— deer for sure. They followed the trail for about an hour, the old shrimper periodically doing an excellent turkey call just in case there might be a bird in the area.

It was midmorning when the path finally broke into a clearing. There in the center of a small meadow stood a six-point buck. They quietly knelt out of sight and, without taking his eyes from the deer, Travis said, “Go ahead, take him.”

The preacher raised his gun and fired. The deer’s head snapped back as if it had been slugged, its legs buckled, and it dropped to the ground. When they reached the animal, Travis realized his friend had gone for a head-shot, a credit to his confidence with a rifle.

The preacher saw him examining the deer. “A heart shot with this kind of bullet would have torn up too much meat.”

“Nice shooting for a shrimper,” remarked Travis.

The preacher laughed, “Son, give me a good gun and I can neuter a bullfrog at a hundred yards. Now let’s get this fella hung and dressed.”

While they were dressing the deer they heard the turkey. “An ol’ gobbler for sure,” the preacher said with a smile. “He ain’t far from here, let me go take a look—maybe I can add a bird to the larder.”

Travis agreed and continued to dress the deer, quartering it and storing the meat in canvas gear bags from the sailboat.

For the first fifteen minutes he could hear his friend calling and the turkey responding. Eventually, both became fainter until finally, there were no more sounds from either one. He wasn’t concerned for the first half-hour, as he was kept busy getting the deer packed; but, as a half hour moved into an hour and there was still no word from the shrimper, Travis started to worry. It was afternoon—they had their meat and he wanted to get back before dark. He walked to the edge of the clearing and called. No answer. He went back, picked up his rifle, and began to follow the trail the preacher had taken.

Travis called a couple of times as he walked, but the farther he got into the bush, the less he felt comfortable about yelling and giving away his position.
Giving away my position to whom
? he thought, the back of his neck prickling ever so slightly.

He’d been following what he thought to be the preacher’s trail for about twenty minutes when he heard a sound up ahead. Cautiously, his gun ready, he rounded the bend in the path. There, in a small clearing, lay the inert body of his companion. Travis looked around quickly and, seeing no one, ran forward and knelt beside the older man. There was still a pulse, but he’d been badly beaten. There didn’t appear to be any major wounds, just a number of cuts and bruises. Travis was bringing the preacher around when he felt the cold muzzle of a rifle pressed against the back of his neck.

“Well, well, here’s the boy we been waitin’ for. This other fella just weren’t the talkative type, didn’t wanna tell us nothin’, but he made good bait. Now you drop that fancy gun, mister, and turn around real slow.”

Standing in front of Travis were two characters right out of the
Beverly Hillbillies
, before they moved to town: patched and ragged pants, only one of them with shoes, crumpled hats, dirty shirts, and unkempt beards. They would have appeared humorous were it not for the malevolent eyes.

Suddenly, the one in the rear started shuffling back and forth nervously, and in a moronic southern drawl, began to whine, “Can I shoot ’em, Billy? Can I shoot ’em? Come on, Billy, you always get to shoot ’em. Let me shoot these ones!”

As the dimwitted little brother danced over to Travis and started to raise his gun, the older one knocked it aside and pushed him to the ground.

“How many times I gotta tell you, you don’t do nothin’ ’less I tell you to. We ain’t gonna shoot ’em here. We gonna take ’em back to Ma. Maybe they belong to them boats in the bay. Ma wants to know.”

“It ain’t no fair, Billy, it ain’t no fair. I never get to shoot nobody,” the little one moaned, getting to his feet. “You know what’s gonna happen if we take ’em home to Ma! Come on, Billy, ’least let me shoot the beat-up one. He deserves to be shot. Called me a inbred bastard and I wanna shoot him. Come on, Billy,” he whined, “just let me shoot him a little bit.”

The older one swung around and raised his hand as if to strike his demented younger brother, who yelped and danced back. “I’m only gonna tell you once more,” he growled. “We ain’t gonna shoot ’em here. Now get your rope out and tie their hands.”

The preacher was roused with a kick to his ribs, then he and Travis were forced to kneel with their hands behind their backs. While they were being tied, the smaller brother maintained a steady stream of one-sided conversation.

“Billy, what about them shiny guns? Can I have one of them, Billy, can I have one?”

Billy had set down his older model shotgun and was attempting to figure out the action on the M16.

Travis looked up at him. “If you’ll untie me, I’ll show you how that works.”

Billy looked at him disdainfully and pointed at his brother. “He’s the idiot, mister, not me. I’ll figure it out. Until then, you just shut up and do what you’re told, or I just might let Walt have you.”

Seconds later they were dragged to their feet and pushed along the trail by Billy and his brother, who reminded Travis of a sadistic Howdy Doody. As they walked, the preacher related what had happened.

“The sons of bitches caught me by surprise. One steps out onto the trail and says, ‘Howdy, stranger,’ just as polite and friendly as can be. The other one sneaks up on me, quiet as a cat, and clubs me with the butt of his gun. When I came to, they wanted to know who I was, how I got there, whether or not I’m with the boats in the bay, and the moron keeps wantin’ to know what kind of goodies I have for him— whatever
that
means. When they didn’t get the answers they wanted, the pair decided to bounce me around a bit. Somewhere along the line, they hit me too hard. Thereabouts, I guess, you came into the picture.” The preacher paused to catch his breath. “Wasn’t long ago a buddy of mine was telling me about some of the backwoods families in the wilderness area along this here southern Mississippi–Alabama border. There’s a handful of people who live back in the swamps and lowlands that ain’t had much truck with the outside world. Some of them have been known to be less than hospitable to strangers; that is to say, people sometimes disappear in this area—hikers who get a little off the beaten path, hunters who just never come home— situations like that. Even the law don’t get back here much. First off, these people, with the exception of our little buddy here, ain’t that stupid. They ain’t gonna leave anything for the sheriff to find. Secondly, sometimes even the lawmen disappear. I hate to say it, son, but I’ll bet you fifty bucks to a hatful of shrimp that’s exactly what we’ve stumbled into here.”

“You don’t paint a real encouraging picture,” Travis said. “Reminds me of a movie I once saw. I can almost hear the banjo music in the background.”

The preacher smiled. “Yeah, I remember. But this ain’t Hollywood, son, and if we don’t pay attention, these sons of bitches are gonna kill us. Let’s just keep our wits about us; maybe we can catch them with their guard down.”

“I hope they untie our hands first,” replied Travis dryly.

They walked for about an hour on a rough and winding path. The land became higher and drier with more pine trees. Finally the path opened into a hummock of oaks and pines. On the far side of the hummock sat a small wooden house, smoke curling out of the chimney. There was a well-maintained chicken coop, a handful of pigs in a small pen, and a narrow barn-like structure in the back of the compound.

They were being forced across the clearing toward the barn, when a woman emerged from the house. She could have been any country boy’s mother. Her graying hair was pulled back in a bun. She had a cherubic face flushed from working near the stove, and a chubby but solid body with strong-looking shoulders and arms. The only things out of place in that picture were the two wolf-like dogs that came out of the house behind the woman and moved up, one on each side of her.

Dressed in a gingham dress with a cooking apron, she smiled when she saw her boys, and waddled over. “Well, well. Looks like we have guests,” she said amiably as she studied Travis and the preacher. “You boys wouldn’t be from those boats over yonder in the bay, would you?” Neither the preacher nor Travis said anything. “My, looks like the cat’s got you fellas’ tongues, huh?” she added, the grin fading a little.

She turned quickly to Billy, who flinched involuntarily as she swung her heavy body towards him. “Take ’em to the shed and wait for me. I gotta get a pie out of the oven.”

“Yes, Ma,” Billy said dutifully. Little Walt hung in the background and said nothing, following Billy as he walked with the prisoners. As they walked toward the shed Travis noticed the stump of an old oak about two feet high and two feet across in the center of the clearing. From a distance it looked like someone had coated the top and most of the sides with a reddish-black paint. Buried in the center of the stump was a short-handled axe.

The barn—or shed, as they called it—had a large open area at the entrance, and a couple of stalls for domestic animals, though Travis could see no cows or horses. Various types of farm equipment lay stored against or hung on the surrounding walls.

Once inside the building, Travis and the preacher were pushed to the ground. While Travis sat there on the hay-covered floor, he observed something unique about the two brothers—both were missing fingers. Billy was missing an index finger, and little Walt was lacking an index on one hand and a little finger on the other. Travis wondered what they did that was so hazardous to the hands.

Walt seemed to be more animated now that Ma wasn’t around. He slid up to Travis with that goofy, malicious smile of his and put the barrel of his shotgun in front of Travis’ face. “Open your mouth, Mister. I wanna see if my gun fits in it!” When Travis didn’t respond quickly enough, he pushed the barrel against his face hard enough to split his lip. “I said get it open or I’ll shove this gun into your mouth and out the back of your head!”

Billy stood to one side, smiling, a sadistic glint in his eyes.

Travis looked up at the little moronic monster. Blood was running down his chin from the lacerated lip. “First chance I get, I’m gonna kill you, you retarded little prick.”

Walt’s eyes grew wide at the insult, then narrowed to brutal slits as he drew back his gun, preparing to thrust it at Travis. Just then there was a hoarse shout from the door. “Walter!”