The Drought

by Patricia Fulton

  Murphy pulled out the bottle of Jack Daniels and took a long swig. Clenching his teeth against the bitter fluid he barked. “Damn, that’s good shit.” He wiped his sleeve across his mouth and offered the canteen to Rodney.

  Rodney took a long drink, winced and drank again.

  The combination of heat and alcohol took its toll. They sat in the shade, half dozing, until Rod, slightly buzzed, pulled a javelina call out of his hunting vest and started blowing. A high pitched cry that sounded like a newborn baby emitted from the device.

  Murph snorted in disgust. “That shit don’t work. Hell, you’re more likely to scare them off with all the noise.” He grabbed the bottle of Jack from Rodney and took another long swig.

  “Ah, what the hell do you know? I’ve got a friend out in Arizona who swears by this little baby.” He held up the J-13 javelina call and waggled it in front of Murph’s face. “You’ll see a whole herd’ll be showing up any minute.”

  Murph gestured toward the horizon, still holding the canteen in his hand. “Yeah, and I bet they’re just going to line themselves up right along that ridge so you can pick ’em off one by one.” He was referring to the crossbow his friend was carrying.

  Ignoring Murph’s sarcasm Rod stood up. He left the shelter of the trees stumbling a little as he crossed the dry grass looking for a place to take a piss. He blew on the J-13, broke into drunken giggles and called out, “Here piggy, piggy.”

  Murph heard him snorting laughter and thought, some guys just can’t handle Jack. Rod snorted a few more times and made a noise that sounded like, “woof.”

  The last noise caught Murph’s attention. He peered in Rod’s direction trying to catch a glimpse of him. Rod was standing with his back to Murph, swaying precariously. Damn. I better not have to carry his ass back to the truck. His eyes drifted past Rod and Murphy noticed there wasn’t even the slightest breeze. Not a single blade of grass was blowing. This heat was the damnedest thing. His lids started to close and the urge to curl up in the shade for a late morning siesta was too strong to ignore. He was just starting to doze when he heard the scream.

  Murph’s heart froze in his chest. A second scream cut through the hot air. Murphy was getting up but it felt like he was moving in slow motion, like he was in a dream. Everything felt like it was going in slow motion. But he was moving because the next thing he knew he was coming in on Rod and he could see why the man was screaming. He had one javelina gouging through the flesh on the back of his right leg and another had a hold of his right hand.

  Murph didn’t hesitate. He pulled the pistol from his waistband and fired. Drunk as he was, he was a good shot. He plugged the one hanging on Rod’s leg and it fell to the ground, dead. He wanted to yell at Rod. You see, this is why you don’t bring a crossbow. You never had a chance. He fired again. The second javelina dropped to the ground and tried to run away. Rod screamed. “He’s got my finger!”

  Murphy squinted. He could see the little shit had something in his mouth. He fired again. Squealing, the javelina dropped the finger and stopped moving. Another javelina ran over and picked up the severed finger. Murphy was about to plug him too when he realized something was wrong. The javelina weren’t running away. The little shits always disappeared at the sound of a gun. Someone forgot to send this bunch the memo: “When you hear gun shots, run.”

  Instead of scattering, the little bastards were starting to circle around like they were going to attack again. Murphy tried to get a good look at Rod. The J-13 was still dangling from his lips, his fly was open and the back of his pant leg was growing darker from the gouge in his leg. Rod remained completely motionless while blood continued to spout from his missing digit and the dry dirt around his feet slowly turned red. Two of the javelina were already rooting around the blood soaked area.

  Murph licked his lips and tasted salt. He could feel the sweat beading up around his hairline and dripping down his face. He only had three shots left and by his count there were at least seven javelina circling Rod. Circling? Murph shook his head, trying to clear the Jack induced haze. He couldn’t make sense of it. He’d never seen a pack of javelina acting this way. He’d been on hunts where they tracked javelina for an entire weekend and never saw a single one. For Christ sake, they were called desert ghosts, when they were scared they were supposed to disappear.

  Murph licked his lips again, and called out in a low steady voice. “Rod. I’ve got a plan, but I need you to throw the J-13 to me.” One of the javelina looked up at the sound of Murph’s voice. It watched Murph intently, like it was following every word he said. “I saw something up river, when we crossed over, a car,” he licked his lips again, “or maybe a truck.” His voice cracked. “It was stuck in the mud. I’m going to distract our little friends here, and when I do, you gotta run like your life depends on it.” Murphy thought, because buddy from the shape you’re in, I’d bet it does.

  “Now reach up, real slow, and grab the call from your mouth.” At first Murphy didn’t think it was going to work. Rod looked like he was in shock and couldn’t hear anything let alone act on a plan, but then he saw Rod’s left hand moving slowly up toward his mouth.

  “That’s it, nice and slow.”

  Rod grabbed the J-13 and clenched it in his hand.

  “That’s it buddy. Now give it a good throw.” Murph could see Rod’s hand shaking and wondered how far Rod could throw with his left hand.

  Rod’s arm extended in an arc over his head and the J-13 sailed through the air and landed three feet from where Murphy was standing. Murph sighed and took a step toward the J-13, when the little shit javelina that had been listening to his plan trotted over to the plastic device and picked it up with its mouth.

  Murph raised the pistol and fired. “Meet God, you little shit.” The report whistled through the dry air and the other javelina turned toward Murphy. Well, that wasn’t part of the plan. Holding the gun out, he squatted down and reached for the javelina call. Down here he felt more vulnerable. He knew the six remaining javelina could be on him within seconds. He pried the dead Javelina’s snout open, reached past the long teeth and grabbed the smooth plastic call that had been the cause of all their problems that day.

  The other javelina watched him with beady eyes, uncertain whether they should stay with their wounded prey or come after this new threat. Murph stood up slowly and spoke in a low voice to Rod. “I’m going to back up, give myself a head start and start blowing on the J-13. When the bastards start running for me, you run for the river.”

  And that was the extent of Murph’s plan. He didn’t know if he could outrun the javelina or not, but he figured he had a better chance of doing it than Rod. Rod was losing blood by the second and even if they made it to the abandoned truck, they still had to make it back out to the road. Murph figured he’d head for the truck too, he’d just take a longer route and hope Rod got there first.

  Murphy took twenty steps backward spun around and began to run. He took a deep breath and blew the J-13. He ran past the two tangled oaks, his orange vest which held the rest of his ammunition and the bottle of Jack Daniels. Still running, he blew the call again wondering if they would follow. Then he heard them. He heard their hoofs hitting the ground and their angry grunts, more of a woof than a snort. Damn it, Rod, you better make it to that truck.

  *

  When the last of the javelina disappeared, Rod stripped off his shirt and wrapped it around his bleeding hand. The white T-shirt turned crimson. Favoring his injured leg, he moved through the long grass until he was standing near the bank and had a view of the muddy riverbed. He squinted. Something large was lodged in the mud. Cradling his injured hand to his chest, he stumbled down the bank and headed upriver. As he got closer, he could see it was a truck. Relief flooded through him. All he had to do was climb into the bed of the truck and wait for Murphy. He was only six feet from the truck when his left leg gave out. Stumbling he fell into the mud.

  *

  Murphy was still running. His heart felt p
inched in his chest. Each breath came in as a wheeze and left in a ragged exhale. He didn’t know which was going to take him out first, a stroke from running in the heat or the heart attack his doctor had been warning him about for years. Either way, he didn’t see how he was going to make it to the truck. His face was burning, his pulse erratic, and damn it all he could think about was if he was going to die, he wished he could have grabbed the canteen of Jack Daniels. He still had two shots left. If he was going down, he was going to take two more of those little shits with him.

  He could hear their small hooves hitting the ground right behind him and he knew there was no way in hell he was going to make it. Desperate, he veered to the right and headed back toward the trees. One javelina made a lunge; hit his boot and fell back to the ground. He didn’t make it back to the twisted oaks. He heard a series of snorts and woofs coming from the tall grass to his right and realized he was being routed. The damn things were communicating. They were hunting him. A few yards ahead, Murph saw a Y-shaped tree. Praying to an often ignored God, he asked for enough strength to make the tree and when he got there, the ability to climb.

  Like ghosts, four javelina appeared, two on either side of him, and paced him as if the whole afternoon had been a game. He lunged for the safety of the tree. He was reaching for a branch sturdy enough to hold his weight when the high pitched squeals of the javelina surrounded him.

  *

  Rod couldn’t move. He was lying face down in the mud, his leg was aflame with pain, and his missing finger was itching as if it were still there. He didn’t have the courage to look at his makeshift bandage or to know how much blood he had lost. He knew one thing. He didn’t have the strength to stand up and climb into the truck.

  He was drifting, almost unconscious when he heard a voice. At first he thought it was Murphy and somehow he had managed to ditch the damn javelina and circle back. But the voice was softer and a bit more refined. “Come on Rod. A few more feet. That’s all. You’ve got to move, they’re coming back.”

  He whispered through chapped lips. “Can’t. Can’t make it.”

  The voice came again. “Sure you can. They’ll tear you apart, Rod. You don’t want that. You’ll still be alive when they start to eat you. Come on, take my hand. I can help you, but you’ve got to get up.”

  Rod looked up. He could see a shadowy figure leaning over him but the sun was high and the figure remained dark.

  Rod pushed at the ground and came up on his knees.

  The voice coming from the shadowy figure urged him on. “That’s it Rod. A little more, stand up, lean on me.”

  Rod stood up and swayed in the hot afternoon sun. He reached for the shadowy figure and took a lurching step toward the truck.

  “Just like that Rod. One step at a time.”

  Rod squinted at the figure and took another agonizing step. He recognized the voice but he couldn’t remember where he had heard it.

  In the tall grasses above the bank he could hear the strange woofing noise. He had time to think, they’re after Murphy. Then Rod stumbled to the ground again.

  *

  Murph got his grip on two sturdy branches, wedged one boot in the Y of the tree and hoisted with all his might. He felt one of the javelina brush against his leg as he was pulling himself up. He jerked his leg up and away so quickly the motion almost sent him straight through the Y of the tree and back down to the ground. Shaking, he started to laugh. He made it. He fucking made it.

  “That’s right you little bastards. I may be old, out of shape, and drunk but I beat your asses!” The javelina waited below the tree, occasionally circling. Once in awhile one would look up and the sun would reflect off the surface of its small pig eyes. They couldn’t speak but Murphy saw the intelligence in those black eyes, and knew they were laughing at him. After all, who had been treed?

  They remained in stalemate for over an hour. Murphy kept shifting his weight, trying to find a comfortable way to lean against the tree. The center wedge was smaller than his booted feet and he was having a hard time finding a comfortable position. He found himself balancing, with one foot in the wedge, his arms extended holding on to either side of the Y. He wanted to sit down but if he was seated, his legs would dangle within reach of the javelina.

  Added to his discomfort was a desperate thirst. He kept trying to lick his lips but there was no saliva in his mouth. The skin around his mouth felt like it was on fire. Through it all, the javelina remained at the base of the tree watching him with small, beady, black eyes.

  Murphy shifted. He had his back against one limb, one boot in the wedge and the other braced against the far limb. This position took a little pressure of his back but he was starting to realize he was in serious pickle. If the damn things didn’t get tired of waiting around and catch a different scent he didn’t know what he was going to do. He had already dozed off once and had snapped awake when he felt like he was about to fall. He looked down and squinted his eyes. Murphy counted. There were only five. One was missing.

  A low unmistakable woof came from the distance. The remaining javelina pricked up their ears and turned toward the sound.

  They had sent out a scout.

  And the scout had found Rodney.

  The javelina grunted and circled the tree.

  Murph laughed. “Quite a dilemma huh guys? You got one in a tree and another one out there somewhere wounded. Whata’ya going to do, boys?”

  The woof came again. This time the javelina trotted off toward the tall dry grass as if summoned. The last one looked over its shoulder at Murphy as if it wanted to let him know they were coming back for him, too. Then they disappeared into the grass.

  Murphy waited ten minutes. Part of him thought it was a trap; they were laying in ambush just waiting for him to get down from the tree. Because, let’s face it, he didn’t have a chance of making it back up there if they came back for him. But the other part of him was worried about the time it would take them to get to Rodney. If they got there and Rodney had made it to safety, how long before they would come back to see if they still had something treed? Damn it, Rodney, you should have made that truck by now. No way you should still be out there wandering around.

  Murphy climbed down from the tree. He stood there for a minute, afraid to step away from the safety of his perch. He kept expecting the javelina to come charging out of the grass. But the grass didn’t stir.

  He took a deep breath and started walking back toward the bank. Every time he heard a twig snap he stopped, feeling like his heart was way up in his throat and waited, listening for the distinctive woofing sound. But the source of the sound was usually just his own boots snapping a dead branch on the ground.

  When he reached the embankment, he could see the truck resting in the mud like he remembered, but he couldn’t see Rod. Starting down the slope, his heart sank at the possibility Rod hadn’t made it.

  The first one hit him so fast, he never even heard it. Its long teeth sank through his calf muscle like a hot knife going through butter. Murphy didn’t stop. Wheezing, he half ran, half stumbled down the embankment, dragging the javelina with him. He knew if he stopped to knock one off, the others would be on him in a second. When he hit the bottom of the embankment, Murphy reached down and smashed the javelina’s head with the butt of his pistol. It released his leg and let out a high-pitched cry that did indeed sound like the J-13 javelina call. The second one hit him as he made a lunge for the bed of the pick-up truck. It ran up the back of his leg and sank its teeth into his lower buttock. Murph fell into the truck and rolled onto the squealing pig but it wouldn’t let go.

  A weak voice said, “Stand up.”

  Without questioning, Murphy did as he was told. He felt a thump as something hit the back of his leg and he heard the javelina squeal again. Murphy turned and saw Rod, holding a piece of driftwood awkwardly between his good hand and his bandaged hand. He swung the driftwood down again and smashed the javelina’s head. Exhausted, he let the wood slip out of his hands, l
eaned against the cab of the truck and collapsed down into the bed.

  The dying javelina kicked its leg and Murphy kicked its small body against the inside of the truck. When it lay still, he picked it up by its back legs and chucked it out toward the bank of the dried up river. The other five javelina, scurried over to the dead body to investigate.

  Murphy sat down next to his friend and looked around. The entire truck was rusted out and the bed was filled with driftwood. He wondered how long the truck had been sitting at the bottom of the Llano River and sent out a silent thank you to the Gods of chance or fate or whatever had put the truck where it was today. Murph noticed the fresh quarter size blood splatters that had fallen across the driftwood and thought, we need to get back… I got to get Rod to a hospital. Then his head rolled back and he fell asleep.

  The sun acknowledged the silent thank you by rolling across the late afternoon sky and settling over the men at the hottest hour of the day.

  Murphy’s sleep was fitful, filled with images of Junction covered in the white dust that filled the bed of the truck. When he awoke, every portion of his face was burnt, including his eyelids. Pain, fresh and different from the ache coming from his legs flowed across his face as he opened his eyes. The pain invoked a moan and the slight movement of his cracked lips caused them to bleed. He reached out to find Rod and was relieved to find him still breathing.

  Rod was rambling in his sleep. Or a fever induced hallucination. “Hey Murph, you remember Robert Riley? Disappeared about ten years ago?

  Murph rubbed his hands. “Yeah, Beth’s old man, the one who skipped town.”

  Rod shook his head. “… Didn’t skip town.” The effort to speak was difficult and Rod stopped talking.