Copperheads - 12

by Joe Nobody

  “Alright. We’re done here. Let’s get back to Texas,” Bishop said after a moment. “Grim, take point. I’ve seen enough for one morning.”

  Butter pushed back from the table, almost forgetting to use the napkin spread across his lap. For the fourth time, he complimented May on her cooking. “That was so tasty. Growing up in the desert, I’ve not had the chance to eat much seafood or fish. What did you call those yummy, little morsels again?”

  “Mudbugs,” May declared with a content smile. “Crawfish. Cajun Crays. They’re like freshwater shrimp. Very popular in Louisiana, even considered a delicacy in New Orleans. My father used to take my sister and me with him on business trips. I learned to love Creole cooking.”

  “And the rice was so different from what I am used to. What did you call it?”

  “Dirty rice. I don’t have all the ingredients to make it the right way, but I did the best I could with the wild onions and the few veggies we can scrounge.”

  “Mudbugs and dirty rice,” Butter repeated, shaking his head. “The guys back at the ranch will never believe me.”

  His reaction seemed to please the young girl, her smile beaming widely. It was the perfect time to suggest what she had planned next. “Want to take an after dinner stroll along the shoreline? The sunset should be gorgeous this evening.”

  “That would be great!” he responded cheerfully. “Grim says I’m starting to put on weight, and that I’ll be fat by the time I’m 25 if I keep eating so much. Walking off some of that wonderful meal is probably a good idea.”

  “Give me a few minutes to clean up these plates,” she said, starting to stack the dishes.

  “If we’re going to leave the area, I have to get my rifle. Mr. Bishop said no one is to wander off unarmed,” he said shyly. “Sorry to ruin the mood by having to carry around a weapon.”

  Much to the big kid’s surprise, May seemed reassured. “No problem. After what we’ve been through, I’m glad to have a super-sized escort with a nasty-looking gun. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  True to her word, May appeared a short time later, finding Butter standing outside with his rifle slung over one shoulder. “Do you remember what it was like to go someplace without a weapon?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Those were better times for sure. That’s why I like working for the Alliance. People like Diana and Nick are determined to get us back to that place.”

  For the next 20 minutes, they wandered and chatted, May pointing out features of the lake and delighting Butter with witty stories. “My sister and I used to sneak down to this cove and go skinny dipping,” she confessed at one point. “My daddy never knew. He would have probably grounded both of us for the rest of our lives if he had ever found out.”

  Butter seemed perplexed, turning to look back at his new friend’s nearby home. “Your house isn’t that far. Why didn’t you just run and get your suits?”

  May tilted her head, eventually smiling at his innocence. “Because we wanted to get away with something. We were teenagers and wanted to assert our independence. Rebel against authority a little bit. You can’t tell me you never did anything shifty or broke the rules just to see if you could get away with it.”

  It took him a while, but eventually a wide smirk crossed Butter’s face. “One time, when my friend Slim was using the outhouse, I picked it up and turned it over,” he admitted. “Then I ran like hell. He’d been making fun of me all day, and I was tired of it.”

  Smacking him playfully on the chest, she said, “There you go! I knew you weren’t a 100% Mr. Goodie Two Shoes.”

  Now feeling like a member of the club, Butter seemed pleased with himself. “I get in my share of goofing off. Why just the other day, Kevin and I were pestering Grim. We were doing cannon balls off of the bridge … but then that didn’t turn out so well,” he chuckled.

  “Life is kind of like that,” she laughed. “Sometimes things come around and bite your backside.”

  “Yeah. It’s always good to blow off a little steam. Unfortunately, the guys tend to get even with me for my pranks, but I have no regrets,” he agreed.

  May noticed a dark cloud brewing behind his eyes, and for a second she thought she had done something wrong. “What’s the matter, Butter?”

  Shaking his head as if to clear bad memories, Butter’s voice was sad. “My buddy Slim died in Galveston a while back. I really miss him.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean.…”

  May never got a chance to finish her apology as Butter recovered quickly. “It’s okay. He checked out doing what he loved best and for a very good cause. He saved Miss Terri’s life that day. He saved all of us.”

  They continued walking for a bit, the mood still somewhat soured. Butter decided it was his fault and rushed to change the subject. “You mentioned earlier that you have a sister, but I’ve not seen her around. Where is she?”

  The look that raced across May’s face told him instantly that he’d made a mistake. “Oh, no, I’m sorry, May,” he tried to recover. “Dang it. I’m always saying the wrong thing. I should just keep my mouth shut.”

  “It’s okay, Butter,” she said sweetly. “I think my sister April is still alive … at least I hold on to that hope.”

  “You think she’s alive? You’re not sure?”

  “Yes, my heart says she is still living, but I can’t be positive,” she admitted, contemplating how to explain. “I’ve not seen her in over two years.”

  “Where is she?”

  “That’s a long story, and I wouldn’t want to bore you with it on such a lovely evening.”

  Butter might have been young, naïve, and lacking worldly experience, but that didn’t mean the lad was completely without perception. “I am a great listener,” he coaxed his charming companion. “I want to hear. You obviously miss her dearly. She’s your sister … she’s important to you. Please, tell me.”

  The couple meandered in silence, approaching two large rocks perfectly suited for lakeside seating. Only then did May tell her story. Kicking off her sandals, the young girl picked a familiar perch and seemed to briefly enjoy dangling her feet in the cool water. A heavy sigh signaled the start of her tale, her voice a monotone as the narration began. “It was within a week of the last terrorist attacks, when the gangs of raiders started roaming around the lakeshore. My father loaded me, April, and mom, along with as many supplies as we had, onto our biggest houseboat. When the electricity failed and didn’t come back on, we motored away from the marina. It was sad, really. This was the only place our family had ever known.”

  “Sounds like your dad was pretty smart,” Butter commented. “Sounds like he was really intent on keeping you guys safe.”

  Nodding, May continued, “Several smaller vessels joined us. Our little flotilla anchored in the middle of the reservoir, as far from any shore as possible.”

  May’s eyes drifted over the lake’s surface, her glazed expression evidence of her mind’s transport back in time. “The escape worked perfectly for the first few weeks, our small community of boats well away from the violence that ravaged the shore and Del Rio. I can remember many nights sitting on the bridge, watching the fires burn into the night sky, knowing that people’s homes … and lives … were being destroyed. Occasionally, if the wind was just right, the distant sound of gunshots rolled across the water. There were a few times I swear I could hear people screaming, like they were being tortured or something.”

  The recalled memory compelled a shiver down the woman’s spine. Butter took her hand, trying to provide comfort. The act produced a smile, but it was fleeting.

  “Now I realize we had it pretty well out on the water,” May continued. “The big houseboat had a built-in purification system for drinking water, and most of the smaller vessels had BBQ grills or gas stoves to boil additional amounts when needed. Everyone had packed as much food as possible, and there were constantly lines and bait in the lake trying to add fresh fish to our tables.”

  May
chuckled just then, some image from the past bringing the relief of humor. “My father,” she began, shaking her head. “He was a creative guy; I have to give him that. He supplemented our dietary intake even further by figuring out how to trap ducks. We were all so tired of fish, and the change really helped improve everyone’s morale. Occasionally he would allow us to launch a raft or dinghy and sneak toward the shore. We would gather cattails and other greens from shallow areas. Always at night. Always under heavy guard.”

  “Smart,” Butter nodded, trying to conjure up the images with her.

  “You know, looking back now, I’m still not sure exactly what caused our small, waterborne community to fall apart. I guess we didn’t realize how good we had it.”

  “What happened?” he asked, now fully immersed in her story.

  “Mr. Johnson became ill, his supply of insulin exhausted after just a few weeks. His wife and son begged for some of the men to go ashore with them to see if they could find medical help or additional medication. No one wanted to take the risk. There were still fires and gunshots. All of the men were certain that pure anarchy ruled the entire area. I think that’s what started to divide us. It was as if our group split into two camps.”

  Butter had heard it all before. Some of the stories detailed while he was working as a bartender at Pete’s Place were enough to tear out a man’s heart. Still, he could sense the agony in May’s voice. The collapse had left a deep wound, and for a moment, he wondered if she would ever heal.

  “Mom wasn’t in much better shape,” May began. “Her supply of cigarettes had run out days before, leaving her sullen, withdrawn, and unreasonable. Initially, she had been the optimistic matriarch of Fiberglass City. When her smokes were gone, the resulting negativity and her short fuse seemed to affect the entire community’s spirit.”

  The couple was brought back to the present when a large fish broke the surface nearby. After straining their necks to catch a glimpse, the story continued. “One day the Howards from Austin got into an argument with the Greenhills from Dallas. You know, today, I can’t even remember how the quarrel began. I will, however, never forget the memory of Mr. Greenhill’s dead body floating across the lake after Mr. Howard shredded his chest with 12-gauge buckshot. The next night, Mr. Howard’s sailboat mysteriously caught on fire.”

  “Oh, no,” Butter whispered. “Not good. Not good at all.”

  May agreed with her new friend’s assessment. “We residents of Fiberglass City began to suffer paranoia, which soon manifested into squabbles, distrust, and a general lack of cooperation. Yet, despite all that, the vast majority of us still felt it was far safer in the middle of the lake than being on land. The arrival of the first raiders changed all of that.”

  Butter could have almost guessed it. Desperate people, desperate times, no fear of punishment, and empty bellies. The lake wasn’t large enough to hide Fiberglass City forever.

  Now May’s voice was distant, reliving a nightmare that she knew was as real as the warmth of the sun. “They came at night, three rowboats gliding silently. The water was smooth. We didn’t hear them coming. Each little boat was full of men with pitchforks, axes, clubs, and a few guns. I can still hear the screams, the fighting, and the sound of people dying. With the sun’s first light, I counted 25 bodies bobbing on the surface. There were small pools of crimson running like little mini-rivers through the clear water. Two of our boats were burning; a third was taking on water. Half of the men of Fiberglass City were dead or badly wounded. Only a handful of raiders managed to limp away. They left empty handed.”

  For the first time during her story, Butter spied a tear rolling down May’s cheek. Gently, he reached to wipe it away with his thumb. “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he softly reassured his companion. “I wish I could have been there to help.”

  “My father had led the defense against the boarders. We found out later that he had been one of the first to die. April helped me fish his body out of the water. We wrapped him in a white bed sheet and used an anchor off the sinking sailboat to bury him out in the lake. That’s where he loved to live. That’s where he died, and that is where we decided he would be happiest in the afterlife.”

  “What happened after that?”

  Sniffing back the emotion, May continued, “Some of the Fiberglass City citizens blamed the attack on the burning of Mr. Howard’s boat. Others thought argument was meaningless. After all, the community’s discovery was inevitable as Amistad simply wasn’t that big. Whatever the reason, our floating village disintegrated. Everyone was sure the pirates would return with more men. Most of our leadership and able-bodied males had died in the fight. The survivors, mostly widows and orphans, began untying their boats and either sailing or using the last of their precious fuel to head back to the shore. After nearly everyone else had left, Mom felt like we didn’t have much choice. We three returned to the marina and home.”

  Butter understood, and given what he had learned about those days, he thought Hannah had made a very wise decision. The raiders would have returned. They would have brought more men and weapons.

  May’s voice interrupted his thoughts, “I remember that first step back on dry land. We were so scared, sure that the devil himself was going to rise and drag us down into hell. I felt so exposed. We were no longer protected by the deep moat of water that had surrounded us for months.”

  Scanning the marina, Butter observed, “It looks like your place didn’t suffer much damage while you were gone. Either that, or you’re secretly a master carpenter.”

  His attempt at humor worked, at least for a moment. “Yeah, our property was relatively untouched. Someone had raided the residence, but it hadn’t been torched. We found the marina, toolshed, office, and almost all of the docked vessels were mostly unscathed. Someone had broken into the vending machines and made off with all the sweets and chips. The supply closet was missing all of its toilet paper. There wasn’t a drop of gasoline anywhere, even the old push lawnmower having been drained bone dry.”

  “So you guys were all right? No roving gangs of black hats? You had a roof, your old beds, your clothing.”

  May’s eyes became sad again. This time, her reaction seemed different. “We were okay after settling down and getting our land legs back. Those first few days back on shore are a bit of a blur now. It was later that week that the wind shifted, moving around the compass all afternoon. The arrow landed where it normally does, blowing from the southeast and bringing in the humidity from the Gulf of Mexico. It also blew in the corpses.”

  Butter’s eyebrows rose, as May’s account increased its pace. “April and I were fishing down at the pier when the most grotesque odor came rolling across the water. Ten minutes later, April gagged, pointing and turning away. When I stepped over to see what had grossed her out, that’s when I spotted the first rotting body. There it was, bobbing gently into the marina, covered by a thick, black, layer of flies.”

  Again, she laughed. “We hightailed it back to the house, screaming like a couple of little girls who had just seen a rattlesnake. We were so freaked out, that we forgot our fishing poles. All that afternoon, the stench got worse and worse. It finally reached the point where mom was considering abandoning the house.”

  May pointed toward Butter’s rifle. “You never go anywhere without that, and I can certainly understand. We were the same way, only with our fishing poles. The day the bodies began washing up, we started worrying that someone would steal our primary source of catching food. Anyway, Mom made us go out the next morning. We all were holding makeshift masks over our noses. The sight was bizarre. There were at least seven bodies pinned against the marina’s bulkhead by the wind. The flies were swarming in dense clouds. There was an armada of vultures circling overhead. The smell was nearly unbearable.”

  “We had to pull them out and bury them,” Hannah said, her face twisting in disgust. “We needed the fish to eat and the water to drink and wash. It was too dangerous to wander further around the lake t
o get more water. We had no choice.”

  Grimacing, Butter said, “That would not have been any fun. Even with everything I’ve seen since the collapse, I think I’d still want to toss my cookies.”

  “April took it the worst,” May grinned. “She kept saying, ‘Do you really expect us to eat or drink anything out of that water? Ever again?’”

  Again a chuckle at the memory. “Mom let her rant for a little bit, but then the protests got old. Mom kept asking her, ‘Do you want to live?’”

  The storyteller’s voice took on a dark and despondent tone as she described the body recovery. She recounted how the next morning, with sheets of painter’s tarp and homemade masks smeared in vapor rub, the three of them began the task of fishing out the dead and dragging them to the shallow graves as far away from the house as they dared venture. Some of the deceased were reasonably fresh and whole, other bodies shredding into small pieces or losing entire limbs as the women struggled to pull them ashore.

  It was amazing to Butter that May could retell the story, even adding a bit of humor in now and then. He sat and listened, letting her get it all out. Then, after a pause to point out a good-sized turtle surfacing nearby, the young woman’s voice turned low and serious. “For the rest of the summer and into the fall, we survived on a diet of fish, roadside greens, and whatever other wild harvest we came across. We never ventured far from the marina, rarely saw any other human beings. When other people did wander down the road or drift by in a boat, we would hide.”

  “I bet you guys were scared more than not,” Butter added, amazed that three, lightly armed women had survived that period.

  “We never ventured out at night. From dusk to dawn, we huddled together behind blackened windows and heavily barricaded doors. We spent the time reading or talking by candlelight. It helped keep the fear away.”

  “How old is April?” he questioned, trying to paint more details into the picture forming from her story.

  “April had just graduated from college and landed her first job as an elementary school teacher when chaos exploded in our little world. I was about to become a freshman at the local community college and thinking about joining the Army after I graduated. Both of us were avid readers. Like so many sisters, we were polar opposites when it came to boys, politics, music, and literature. I remember those nights. Sometimes we would fall asleep debating each other over the smallest thing.”