Cries Of The World

by Boyd Craven III

  “That’s on the list,” Martha said from amidst a pile of junk.

  “Hey Martha, I didn’t know you were up here,” Blake said.

  “When I heard there was ice cream to consider, I traded my shift with one of the younger girls. Besides, there’s got to be some heifers out there still who are in milk, and the kids here could really use it,” Martha said, coming out from a pile of old rusted junk holding a large scrap of insulation.

  “Oh nice! That should fit around the outer tub well!”

  So went the afternoon. A box was built around the old tub, and it had insulation all around. It didn’t look as ridiculous as Blake thought it would. The handle and spinner ended up being the old churn handle as nothing else would fit. They decided to just be careful and test it before going on a search for something in stainless steel. All in all, it would work and, with the springhouse complete, they could keep milk cool for a time, enough to allow the cream to separate. If only Martha could find him some cows…

  Chapter Seven

  Michael & King

  Two days of travel and refueling had made them both tired and sore. The bone jarring ride of the tractor had become almost painful to them, but they had covered a great deal of distance. They’d had to refuel two to three times a day, but the breaks were longer and longer as their bodies needed time to heal up.

  “Want to spend a day or so here?” King asked, looking at the place they’d stopped at.

  “Not out in the open…” Michael said and then laughed at himself.

  They hadn’t been. They’d pulled the ignition wire off the tractor at night time and made a crude camp in the woods. They didn’t know how the terrain was going to be and Michael complained that if they only had google maps with satellite view…

  “Don’t know what that is, kid. Google was a new thing when I went to jail,” King told him when he mentioned it.

  “See it’s on the website, you could pick your directions and zoom…”

  “Kid, when computers work again I’ll have you show me,” King grumped and Michael stopped and nodded, grinning.

  It felt weird to have King with him at times. When he stayed with John, he felt close to him, more like they were on even footing. Somehow with King, it felt more like he did when he was with his father on long hunting or fishing trips. That thought sent a pang of guilt and regret through his system. Still, King was treating him like a son, even if his words were short and he was abrupt. It was just his nature.

  “You coming?” King asked.

  “Yup.”

  They gathered their supplies and headed into the brush, pushing their way until the woods opened up, with the larger trees forming a perfect canopy against the hot sun.

  “Let’s rest today and tomorrow. Get back on the road the day after. Sound good?” King asked.

  “Sure. I’ve got enough water for that.”

  “Me too,” King said, “But I think we can find something close. I remember the other night you told me about the trick the kid did with the yo-yo; will you show me?”

  Michael proudly showed King away from the camp over a game trail. Tie off the yo-yo, and pull the length of line out until you were where you wanted the hoop of the snare to be. Michael then took a long steel leader and put the line through the swivel snap, making a hoop. He then hooked it up to the swivel on the yo-yo’s line and used sticks pressed into the ground to push the animal towards the opening that was trapped. Michael was just finishing things up when King asked him something.

  “What holds the loop open? It’s falling down all the time,” King asked.

  “Grass,” Michael told him.

  He tied a six inch piece of grass loosely where he wanted the loop to be. He demonstrated by putting his wrist into the loop and pulling. The grass ripped and the snare slipped over his hand easily. King laughed at the kid’s ingenuity and they reset it. In all, they set out five sets before almost stumbling into a small pool of water.

  “We’re in luck.” King said, bending over until his nose was almost on the surface of the water.

  “Smells fresh. Spring?” King asked.

  Michael shrugged; most of his experiences with water were rivers and lakes. Not a random ten foot diameter body of water in the middle of nowhere. Still, there were frogs at the edges and Michael looked for fish. Not seeing any, he followed King back, using his knife to hack away at the bark, always on the same side.

  That night, they didn’t have a fire and laid out under the canopy of the trees. It was silent and, in a world gone slightly crazy, it was comforting not to have the loud din of civilization. Michael didn’t even miss it. He was falling asleep when King spoke up.

  “When I was a kid, I was always picked on. Segregation was done and over with, but the South is the South, where ignorance is accepted. I wanted nothing more than to escape and go live somewhere else. My parents were poor share croppers. I grew up on the same farm they did, but we had modernized equipment. They always knew when I came home bloody that it was the kids at school. I tried to get good grades, but I kept getting thrown out for fighting.

  “Then one day, a recruiter came to our school. I was maybe, 8th grade? I don’t remember. Told us all about the Army. Finish school, join up. Travel the world, get a better education. It sounded good to me and that was what I did. I worked hard in school, lifted weights hoping to play for the Crimson Tide if the Army thing fell through and life was good. When those two assholes kicked in my door, my life changed. I assume John shared that part with you?”

  Michael looked at nodded.

  “The Army stuff, I don’t talk about that. It was uglier than this world we’re in now. I don’t talk about that to nobody.”

  “OK,” Michael said, awed by the speech.

  King wasn’t known to be a big talker, even in prison, but he’d been opening up more and more. One word sentences were becoming full sentences with fleshed out thoughts. Michael had no doubt that the big man was smart, deadly smart… and as he thought on that he realized that he was also guarded. His thoughts, his past, his emotions. Maybe that’s what prison and murder do to a man.

  Michael had to check himself there; he’d killed also. He felt horrible about it. Brett and Linny’s father, the man who’d tried to steal his bike and strand him in the woods, was the first of several.

  “Figured you should know. Never know about tomorrow.” King told him, then rolled over and seemingly fell asleep instantly.

  “Wow,” Michael said to himself.

  * * *

  Dawn was breaking and King was starting to wake when Michael heard thrashing down the trail. He pulled his .45 and stood on shaky feet as the adrenaline pumped through his veins.

  “What is it?” King asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “Think we have breakfast,” Michael said, a little breathless from the excitement.

  “Good. I’m hungry.”

  That was the running joke, King was always hungry and most of his pack contained food. Nothing gourmet, but more along the lines of MREs and food bars he’d gotten from John before departing. The amount of food the huge man could consume was… huge.

  The first two traps were triggered, but no animals were in them. He let King reset them both. The third one contained a flopping grouse, somehow snared by its leg. It kept trying to fly away but the line pulled it back. King walked up and grabbed it, twisting its head off and unhooking it. Michael smiled and started to set that one to rights as he watched the big man take the skin by the neck and pull. Feathers and entrails came steaming out in one big yank. From start to finish it took him less than a minute.

  Michael stood there awestruck.

  “Told you, grew up on a farm,” King smiled, the white of his teeth shockingly bright.

  The next snare didn’t have anything, but the last one had a fat rabbit. It had strangled, the wire around its neck. Even in death it had been pulling away from the line. King watched as Michael cleaned it and they both walked back to camp, their stomachs rumbling for fr
esh meat. Michael laid out a quick fire pit dug into the ground and they used a 12x12 grill grid they had taken. They cut sticks to lay across the corners of the pit, to help hold the grate level. The sticks would eventually burn, but not before the cooking was done.

  Michael watched as King used a jackknife to cut the cleaned grouse in half and throw both sides of them on the grate to start cooking.

  “Wish we could change the height some,” King said after a minute.

  “I can scare up some rocks?” Michael asked as the fire leapt towards the grouse.

  “Naw, this is good. Might be a little overdone when it’s ready. Should have waited for coals, but I was hungry,” King smiled at Michael a little sheepishly.

  “Me too,” Michael dug through his pack and came out with two treasured items. Salt and pepper shakers, each in their own Ziploc baggies.

  “Use some of that?” King asked.

  Michael nodded and handed them over. King liberally sprinkled both over the grouse before turning the bird over with his fingers and repeating the operation. When it was done, Michael threw the pieces of chopped up rabbit on the grate. As that cooked, King handed him half a bird.

  Surprisingly, the meat was pretty good. Not like chicken, but flavorful. A lot better than the MREs or the canned food he’d been eating. When the rabbit was done, they split the food again. Michael couldn’t finish his half, and gave the rest to his new found friend. King ate it gratefully and, when the fire finally died down, he pushed all the bones into the fire after removing the grate. Kicking the dirt back in the hole, he laid back contentedly.

  “Good times,” King said.

  “Yeah, I just wish I knew for sure whether my Mom was OK.” Michael said.

  “She’ll have to be, or we’ll burn the joint down,” King said simply.

  They took turns keeping an eye out and napping. Something that Michael had learned early on, was that a body can’t operate at peak performance when fear and uncertainty saps your energy. Soon, you lose your edge, and the only way he’d found to fix it was sleeping. A person couldn’t operate the way they did when the world was simple, and all you worried about was getting grounded for feeling up the chief’s daughter…

  A snapping twig had King on his feet immediately. He held a finger to his lips, and Michael nodded. They grabbed their packs and faded back into the woods as a figure slowly worked itself into the small clearing. Michael tensed as he crouched, the old carbine ready to go. King pulled his .45 and waited. At that point, moving fast to escape would make noise, noise they couldn’t afford.

  “… I could smell cooking and fire.”

  “Yes, yes, but I must get to the Louisiana facility. I don’t have time to waste on your fruitless search for—“

  “Sir, with due respect, I’m not leaving a raider to ambush me at my back. Be silent and let my men work,” the voices were Eastern European, and Michael swore he recognized one voice in particular.

  King motioned for Michael to get even lower. Luckily, the extra clothing they’d taken was from the soldiers at the last FEMA camp. They were decked out in the same CAMO as the men combing the woods. Maybe they could slip out in plain sight? They’d leave the snares behind, but not having a shootout was higher in Michael’s priorities than the yo-yos.

  “I am the ranking officer here. You have no business talking to me—“ Lukashenko said, now visible to Michael and King.

  Michael took the safety off the gun, his hands starting to shake. King put a comforting arm on Michael’s shoulder. The anger, the hatred… The man in front of him had killed his Father and sent his Mother away to God knows what. Michael’s finger tensed, but he waited as the man spoke.

  “Comrade,” the man Lukashenko had been talking to pulled a knife and held it under the officer’s throat, “You are a prison warden. I am a true soldier. I did not get my commission because of family ties. You make more noise and get us discovered or killed, I’ll cut your fucking throat and leave you out here. Are we clear?”

  “You can’t… when central command… You’ll hang,” Lukashenko shouted.

  Shots rang out from further back in the woods than Michael and King had camped. Voices screamed warnings, and the man holding Lukashenko at knifepoint went through with his promise, ending half of Michael’s mission in one bloody swipe. Michael almost cried out at the loss, but buried his head in the soil for a moment. The man who had killed Lukashenko pointed further into the woods, 180 degrees way from where Michael and King were hiding. The direction the shots had come from. They took off, hardly giving the area more than a look. Gone. Half the reason for this bloody trip and he’d been robbed of his revenge.

  Slowly, King motioned for Michael to stand and reached over, clicking the safety on the pistol held by the shaking man-child. He approached Lukashenko, noticing that the blood was still flowing. He wasn’t dead. King used his foot to roll him over. Lukashenko tried mouthing something, but blood bubbled out of his mouth and he jerked a couple of times before dying. His last sight was Michael and King, two people he remembered well.

  “Hurry,” King said and they moved in the direction the men came in.

  “Steal their truck?” Michael asked.

  “Stealing will get you put in jail, kid,” King said stone faced.

  Considering the timing and history, that struck Michael as funny and he had to bite his cheek in order to not laugh out loud. They paused to look around and found the APC almost immediately. It was parked a quarter of a mile away. Barely able to make it out, Michael pulled the binoculars and handed them to King. Standing beside it, a man was smoking a cigarette. The men must have driven north to pick up Lukashenko when they either smelled or saw the smoke from the small fire.

  “You know how to drive one of those things?” Michael asked.

  “Nope. Lucky, that one is just a transport. No guns. Gun ports, but no big guns like John used.”

  “Why is that good?” Michael whispered as they moved parallel through the woods.

  “If there was guns, a gunner would be left behind, probably more than one. Then the driver. If they have the same basic squad size and no guns, there should only be the one man. I’m going to get in close and take him out silently and check inside.”

  “How are you going to get close?” Michael asked.

  “We wear the same uniforms,” King admitted, showing Michael he’d had similar thoughts to the one’s he’d had earlier.

  “No way. I didn’t see a big black dude with them. They’d shoot you on sight if they saw you in that uniform.”

  “That’s racist,” King said deadpan and then smiled when Michael looked at him in shock, “Kidding. You’re the same size as them, but I don’t know if you’d be—“

  ‘I can do it,” Michael said stoically.

  “Good. Hand me your rifle and pack. Don’t talk if he calls out to you. If things go south I’ll hit them from afar and come up with a new plan,” King said, checking the rifle over.

  “Ok,” Michael said, feeling for his Colts and then checking the small of his back for the bowie knife.

  * * *

  The beauty of the plan was that people see what they expect to see. The soldier gave Michael one glance and then went to the other side of the APC. Michael closed the hundred foot distance quickly, without jogging or running. He got close and heard water running and saw the growing puddle from the side of the APC. The man was taking a break to urinate. Knowing he had a second or two, he glanced in the gun port and saw the interior empty and lit from the open hatch above.

  “You hurt?” the man asked, his accent so slight that Michael couldn’t make out what it was.

  “Nyet,” Michael said, knowing his accent and language would give him away.

  He already had his .45s in his hands when the man stepped around the corner, his eyebrows raised. They almost touched his forehead as he looked into the bores of the handguns.

  “You’re not one of us,” the man whispered in barely broken English.

  King br
oke cover from the woods and ran up, his arms laden with gear.

  “Zip tie?” Michael asked.

  “Let’s conk him and boogie,” King said, dropping the gear and cracking his knuckles.

  “He knows the way, I’m sure. Plus, he can drive this.”

  King grinned. The man blanched under the giant’s smile. He only trembled a little when King disarmed him, even removing the thin bladed stiletto in his left boot.

  “You’re going to drive, got it?” King said, holding the man at gunpoint while Michael threw the gear in the hatch.

  The soldier nodded.

  “You turn, or if you run or try to attack the kid inside, we’ll splatter your guts all over this fine piece of equipment.”

  Again, the toothy grin unnerved the man and he scrambled up into the APC like the devil was after him. The man had no idea how close to death he had been. If he’d kept looking at Michael, he would have made him out to not be one of theirs and Michael’s knife would have had to come into play. The man’s weak bladder gave Michael ten seconds to check out the APC, and had given the man a chance to live. If he listened. It was luck, Michael was sure.

  “We closing this?” King gestured towards the hatch, and Michael shrugged.

  King closed it anyways and took in the darkened surroundings. The man was already sitting in the driver’s seat, half turned to look at them.

  “How far are we from the Louisiana Camp?” Michael asked, a .45 loosely aimed at the soldier.

  “A day’s travel,” the man stuttered.

  “What should we call you?” King asked.

  “Chad, sir. My American name,” he stammered.

  “Chad it is. Take us that way, Chad, and you better be forthcoming with your answers,” King said, pulling a wicked knife out of his pack, unsheathing it.

  “Answers?” Chad asked, trying not to gulp.

  “Yeah, cuz you’re about to sing like a bird. One way or another,” King said, grinning again.

  Michael realized that the toothy grin intimidated the man more than the knife or the gun. King would obviously get the information, but Michael wanted to drive the vehicle if they had to kill and dump the man. He started studying and watching how things worked as the APC rumbled back to life and left the area.