by A. American
“Let’s get to it then,” Ted said.
They all started hauling stuff out to the boats. Sarge had two aluminum flat-bottomed boats—great for a river that was full of old snags and submerged logs. It took another couple of hours to get everything loaded, but they even had enough room to bring some of the batteries and a couple of solar panels for power.
Every firearm Sarge had was loaded in, along with every round of ammo. They even took all the captured gear from the trio spooning in the back bedroom. There was still a lot of gear that Sarge wanted; he knew he would never be coming back to his house.
“Let’s go next door and see if the neighbors are there,” Sarge said. Picking up his M4, he headed out the door with Mike in tow.
Cutting through the woods to his neighbor’s, he knocked on the door. “Phil! It’s Linus. You home?” With no answer, he pounded on the door. After no response, they walked around the house, shining their weapons’ lights into the windows. “He ain’t here. Must be up in Tennessee with his daughter,” he said. Turning, he headed for the river, with Mike covering the rear. Just like at Sarge’s, Phil had a dock on the river with an aluminum boat in a manual hoist.
“Let’s lower this thing and take it over to the house,” Sarge said as he started to crank the handle on the hoist, lowering the boat into the water. It took a few minutes to get the outboard started after sitting for so long, but they finally got it to fire, and the two of them headed back up the river to his house.
Pulling up to his dock where the other two boats were, Ted called out, “Nice, I thought that’s what you were doing. We already carried the rest of the gear down here.”
With all four of them at the dock, it didn’t take long to get the third boat loaded. When everything was on board, Sarge headed back to the house while the guys went over the boats, ensuring everything was ready for the ride upriver. Back in the house, he headed for the bedroom and found the trio right where he left them. Mr. C was coming around but not enough to be mouthy.
“All righty, boys, we’re out of here. I assume your folks will be here soon enough. You guys need to think about which side of this fight you really want to be on. It isn’t too late for you. If we ever meet again, I’ll kill you on the spot.” Sarge turned and walked out of the room. He walked slowly through his house, taking it all in for one last time. Stopping by the fridge, he pulled out the case of Sam Adams he had put in earlier and headed for the boats.
All three boats were idling at the dock. Sarge handed out the beers and climbed into his boat with Mike. “Well, boys, y’all ready?”
He was answered by the sound of outboard engines dropping in gear. Everyone pulled down their NVGs, moving the boats out into the center of the river, and headed toward the gulf.
• • •
There were so many cars on the road, on the shoulder and sitting across the lanes, that Thad had to turn the headlights on. Crashing into a car at forty-five or fifty miles an hour in the dark just wasn’t an option. Taking Highway 40 hadn’t been his intention, but here he was. It was probably ten miles or better to the intersection with Highway 41; ten miles through a relatively populated area.
The sight of headlights coming down the road brought some people out to the side of the road just to watch the truck pass by. He passed a group of three boys on the shoulder; they were pumping their fists up and down like kids do to get truckers to blow the air horn. It brought a smile to Thad’s face as he passed. He did not, however, deliver the horn toot they wanted.
The road rolled by, and things almost seemed normal; if it wasn’t for having to weave around stalled cars, it would’ve been. The farther west he went, the fewer cars were on the road; he was able to speed up and relax a little. He covered the fifteen miles to the intersection with 41 in about twenty minutes.
“Homestretch,” he quietly said, making the left at the intersection. His reverie was short-lived. Almost as soon as he made the corner, there were people all over the road. It was probably ten at night, but there were a lot of people out. Letting the truck idle up to the group, he saw that they were coming and going from a large church. Some were carrying plastic bags away, and others had paper plates.
A man in a yellow reflective vest and a flashlight stepped out into the road and waved him forward. Thad eased up. As the man approached the truck, he laid the shotgun on his lap.
“Hi, there,” the man said, shining the light at the driver’s door, keeping it out of Thad’s eyes.
“Hi,” Thad replied with a nod.
“Looks like you got lucky,” the man said, looking at the old truck.
“Yeah, it’s still runnin’.” Thad was looking in the side mirrors and past the man at some of the people starting to gather around.
“Do you need anything? We have hot food and drinks,” he offered with a smile. The last thing Thad wanted to do was get caught up owing anyone again. The last time that happened, he didn’t want to think about it.
“No, sir, I’ve got everything I need. I just want to get home. It’s taken a long time to get here, and I have a long way to go yet,” Thad answered.
“Okay, then, where you headed? Maybe you can give some of the folks we have stranded here a ride. I’m Roger, by the way.” He stepped forward to offer his hand to Thad. As he got close enough to see into the truck, Thad raised the shotgun so he could see it. Startled, Roger jumped back with his hands up.
“I ain’t going to hurt you. Put your hands down. And I ain’t taking anyone with me either. I’m sorry, but I’ll be on my way now.” Thad laid the shotgun down on his lap.
“Sorry, didn’t mean no harm. We’re just trying to help people and thought you might be able to help,” Roger said.
“I don’t mean no harm, but trying to help people has caused me a lot of grief. Good luck to you.” Thad let the truck start to ease forward. No one tried to stop him or even said anything. He got glares from some of them, but he passed through without incident.
A couple of miles past the church, he passed the burned-out shell of a Winn-Dixie store. The parking lot was littered with trash and the remains of burned-out cars. Thad tightened his grip on the steering wheel and pressed on into Dunnellon. Seeing the destruction, he was nervous. It was the first time he had seen anything like it, and it didn’t bode well for the kind of folks that lived there. A little farther on, he passed a Walmart. It sat too far off the road to see clearly, and he wasn’t about to go in for a look. Passing through the business district, he saw several people out, hanging around some of the stores, drawing many leering looks.
What looked like an old Ford Fairlane passed Thad going the opposite way as he came into the heart of the little downtown area. He couldn’t see into the car, but it did a slow roll as they passed one another. Thad watched the car in the side mirror; it slowed to a stop and then started a U-turn. Thad immediately floored the truck. The tires on the old Fairlane squealed as it accelerated in the turn.
Passing over the Rainbow River, he saw the Fairlane’s headlights gaining on him. The pedal was to the floor; all he could do was hope. The two vehicles raced down the road, the Fairlane slowly gaining on the truck. Thad had his eyes glued to the mirror and had to swerve a couple of times to avoid colliding with stalled cars.
As the car caught up to him, it moved over to the left like it was going to pass. Thad cut it off; it jinked to the right, trying to come up on the passenger side. Thad closed the door again. The next time the car tried to come up on the left, Thad slammed on the brakes and the Fairlane flew past him, sliding as its brakes locked up.
Thad made a quick right onto a dirt road. Hell, it wasn’t even a road; it was a power line right-of-way. The truck bogged down in the soft sand a couple of times, but he was moving fast enough that he didn’t get stuck. There was no way that car could follow him down this damn thing.
In the mirror, Thad saw the Ford back up and stop where the right-o
f-way crossed the road. He continued to bounce down the sugar-sand path. The Ford sat there for a minute and then squealed its tires as it accelerated down the road. The path Thad was on made him slow down; the soft dirt prevented him from going too fast, not to mention banging his head on the top of the cab as he rumbled over the bumps and humps.
Thad crossed two paved roads but stayed on the right-of-way. He was passing behind some houses but never saw anyone. As he was crossing the third paved road, the headlights of a car caught him broadside in the center of the road. He stomped the pedal again and kept going down the dirt path.
Looking over his right shoulder, Thad saw the Ford making another U-turn, the tires screeching in complaint as the car was forced around. A few minutes later, he saw the car was keeping pace with him, about a block away, on a road that ran parallel to the right-of-way on his left.
“Shit!” Thad shouted, banging the steering wheel. The Ford suddenly stopped. Thad kept on down the track. He crossed two more paved roads but stuck to the dirt. That damn car couldn’t follow him on it. “What the hell do y’all want?” Thad muttered as he rounded a small bend on the right-of-way. Up ahead was a four-lane road he had to cross. The Ford came flying up the road and stopped in the center of the crossing. Four men climbed out of the car and started to spread out in front of him.
• • •
Coming out of the brush on the side of the river, I realized real quick I picked a bad, really fucking bad, spot to cross the river. What I couldn’t see from the other side was the series of long, low buildings sitting behind a small berm. Several Hummers and other military vehicles sat around the buildings; even worse, there were sentries.
I stayed behind the berm and skirted the river, moving to the north. South was the bridge, and I already had seen what was there. Slipping down the bank, the ground started to get mucky. I stepped out of my left boot and had to stop to get it back on—laced them both up and tied ’em tight. Kneeling in the muck, I looked down the bank and saw nothing ahead of me but swamp. It looked like the little strip of land I was on was quickly running out.
“Shit, fuck, shit!” I cursed under my breath. “What the hell am I going to do now?” It was about five thirty and the sun would be rising soon; there was no way I could get caught out in the open here. With limited options, I opened the pack and pulled one of the drum liners out and took a tie wrap from the little bag. Pulling the sleeping mat out from under the straps, I put the pack in the bag along with the little bag, after putting the XD in my waistband. I took off the Carhartt and stuffed it in the bag as well. Lastly, I dropped the NVG case in and tied the bag closed.
Belly crawling to the river, I was covered in stinking, slimy muck. Dragging the bag behind me with one hand and the carbine in the other, I was trying to get to the river. Stripping down this time was out of the question. I could just imagine getting myself shot ’cause the moon glared off my bare white ass as I swam across.
Finally sliding into the water, I used the rolled-up mat to keep afloat, by lying across it, and holding on to the bag—all while trying to dunk the carbine to get some of the stinking-ass muck out of it. Naturally, the current wanted to carry me toward the bridge, so I also had to try to swim; staying near the edge of the river, I could kind of walk and grope my way along the water plants.
The river looked like it intersected with another. Off to the right was actually a man-made canal. This whole structure I had stumbled into was an abandoned lock system that was never finished. Continuing to go upstream, I finally came to a sandbar and was able to drag myself out of the river.
Now that I was out of the water, I was cold. I needed to warm up, but first I had to get the hell away from the river and fast. The eastern sky was already starting to change from the inky black of predawn to the cobalt blue of early morning. Soon the sun’s rays would pull back the veil, and I needed to find a hidey-hole before the curtain went up.
Pulling my pack and coat out of the plastic bag, and being in a hurry to get moving, I stuffed the liner in a cargo pocket. Checking the compass, I oriented myself in a southeasterly direction. After putting on my coat, I stumbled and splashed through the swamp for what seemed like an eternity. The cold was taking its toll on me. I was starting to feel a little delirious. Just when I thought I couldn’t go any farther, I found a high dry spot with palms and palmettos on it.
Dragging my ass out of the cold water and up the high ground, I collapsed. I had to force myself to get back up. Opening the pack, I pulled the waterproof bag with my clothes in it out. Stripping down till I was naked, I pulled on a clean set of skivvies and pulled the sleeping bag out. Using the light coat, I sort of dried off and then climbed into the bag.
Once I was in the bag, I managed to pull the woobie out and drag it into the bag with me and roll up inside it. Making sure the carbine was beside me and the XD was in the bag with me, I was out like a light.
A very low-flying helo jolted me awake. Opening my eyes, I just sat there not moving. I felt punch drunk, and my eyes didn’t want to focus. Listening to the ship—the canopy was too thick to see through—I could tell it was close. After a couple of minutes, it sounded as if the ship moved off. After listening for a minute and not hearing anything close, I crawled out of the bag and dressed in some dry clothes. Squatting under a cabbage palm, cradling the carbine, I started to figure a way out of here. East was my only option. Due east should keep me away from the road and anyone on it. Knowing which way I was going, I started to get ready to head out; but, damn, I was tired.
I had a pile of wet clothes to deal with. Stuffing them into the drum liner, I rolled it up and stuffed it in the pack. From my clothes bag, I pulled out a pair of dry socks and put them on; then I stuck my feet in the cold, wet boots. Ah, that sucked! The helo came back around. It flew almost overhead, but I still couldn’t see it. If they had a FLIR on board, I was seriously hosed. Each time the bird came around, I would sit still and not move, hoping they wouldn’t find me.
The bird moved off again, and I started to think about what I may have done that could have turned them onto me. Then it hit me—the sliding down through the muck to get to the river. I was sure that left a hell of a trail. Maybe they would just think it’s a gator slide, and then that little voice popped into my head. “It ain’t always about you.” There’s a lot of truth in that. Why in the hell would they be looking for me? I’m nobody. Certainly they had bigger fish to fry.
After packing the sleeping bag and the rest of my gear, I pulled an MRE oatmeal raisin cookie out for breakfast. Shouldering the pack, I started to pick my way very slowly through the swamp. I didn’t want to get soaked again, so I was going slow; plus, I was eating a cookie and was damn hungry. The helo eventually moved off; I hoped that was good news. I crossed several small creeks; some of them I was able to step over, and some I crossed on downed cypress trees.
After about an hour of slow stumbling, I reached the edge of the swamp. I came out into a nice area mixed with oaks, pines, juniper, and palmetto. Peering into the woods, it appeared that it opened up a little ways ahead. This was less than ideal; I wanted to break out into the scrub and quickly put some distance between me and Uncle Sugar’s finest. The other side of the little hammock I was in butted up to a chop where the timber had been taken a year or two ago.
Some scrub was out there, but it was short. No way in hell I was going to try to cross this patch in the daylight. Instead I looked for a place to bed down till dark; I was tired as hell anyway. Finding a nice juniper tree, I crawled under it and laid the sleep mat out and pulled the woobie out too. Taking the wet clothes from the bag, I hung them in the branches of the tree to let them dry as much as possible. Using the pack as a pillow, it was time to snooze for a while.
• • •
Dale and Phil had been lifelong friends. They grew up in Dixie County, and neither one of them had ever been more than a hundred miles from it. When things went to shit, th
ey naturally got together to take care of each other and their families. The problem with these two was that they always lived life just outside of the law.
Numerous arrests, none major, and the constant threat of jail kept them from turning into hard-core felons. Still, they were two of the most notorious poachers in Dixie County. Both of the FWC officers knew them by sight, boot track, and for one officer, smell. Dale never did let Phil live down getting caught and fined for turkey hunting on private land, when the game warden smelled his way to him and his can of sardines in hot sauce.
Dale was the brains of the operation, and Phil was his faithful understudy. Between the two of them, they poached more gators, deer, and turkeys, and snuck more submerged one-hundred-year-old cypress logs out of the Suwannee River valley than any other fifty men combined. They did it to feed their families and provide a little cash money to boot.
With the threat of the law now a mere memory, they decided to up their game. Spending so much time on the river, they knew it like the backs of their hands. In the days following the event, in the course of their regular work of poaching the river, they started to notice the boat traffic picking up. It was Dale’s idea to set up on the river and “tax” folks. They never cleaned anyone out, but Dale was the one who decide when sufficient tax had been paid.
Being as notorious as they were, most folks they stopped on the river handed over what they were told to. The fact that these folks also knew that Dale’s boy, Tim, was on the bank covering them with a rifle, not to mention the AK that Dale held on them, guaranteed no one would put up a fight.
The folks around the area were smart though and soon figured out that these two would-be pirates only operated during the day. So most everybody switched to night travel on the river. Dale was pretty sharp too and picked up on the change. So tonight they were sitting on the river, just around a bend down river from Fanning Springs. Phil had his pontoon boat anchored on one side of the river, and Dale was in his skiff, tied to the side of it.