Trouble's Always Watching Volume 1: Volume 1 (The Trouble Series)

by Courtney Smith

  Several alabaster men knelt as they stared at shiny, black barrels inches from their faces as though they were staring at Hell. A few of the men behind Reverend Stevenson shifted their eyes from behind their rifles to their prisoners to their self appointed leader. The finger Reverend Stevenson once used to turn his bible’s pages clutched a trigger. The coffee-grounds man had a deep furrow upon his eyes with slightly pink scleras. He held the rifle over his captives’ heads as images of his son and wife with ropes around their necks danced in his mind. The pastor gritted his teeth before a high-pitched voice broke the tension with a sharp, piercing cry.

  “Stop!” Reverend Stevenson turned his head with his rifle remaining aimed at the opposing group to see a familiar, cherubic woman staring at him with grave concern in her eyes. His followers kept their rifles raised as they turned their heads in the direction of the voice.

  “Dorothy, this really not the place fo’ you ta be right now!” asserted Reverend Stevenson.

  “This the perfect place for me to be, right now!” screamed Dorothy. “Do ya really want ta sacrifice fifteen years o' bein' a reverend jus' so ya c'n spill uh drop of blood dat would result in rivers of it flowing through Louisiana! Do you want to be known as the reverend with an ocean of blood following him 'fore ya drown in it an' pull Reynaldo an' I in it wit' ya?!” pled Dorothy Stevenson.

  “How ya suppose we stop it from expandin, and what guarantee we got dey won't do dis, again'?” inquired Reverend Stevenson with furrowed brows and squinting eyes.

  “I don’t know how we c’n encourage all other people to stop fillin’ it, but I know you c’n start by droppin’ yo' bucket and tellin’ yo’ followers to do the same thing,” answered Dorothy Stevenson. Reverend Stevenson stared solemnly at his wife, and he turned his head toward the captive men.

  “I think my rifle jammed, and my aim is off, anyway!” shouted Reverend Stevenson. The captive men exchanged puzzled stares.

  “That means ya free to go, and I’ll deal wit' da consequences!” clarified Reverend Stevenson as he lowered his rifle. The captive slowly lowered their hands and stood upon their feet, except for Montgomery. Montgomery started to walk toward Reverend Stevenson very slowly. Reverend Stevenson raised his rifle in his direction, again.

  “Don’t get the impression that I trus’ you jus’ ‘cause I spared yo’ life!” clarified Reverend Stevenson through pursed lips.

  “I understand,” replied Montgomery, “I jus’ wanna express my condolences and ask what could poss’bly be done to rectify this wrong.”

  “Can ya resurrect Trouble’s parents? Can ya resurrect Trouble? Can ya ‘liminate tha pain that he has suffered since his losses? Would ya be able ta give ‘im an opportunity to succeed?” asked Reverend Stevenson, rhetorically. “I still don’t trus’ you, but even if I believed you were truly sorry, there wouldn’t be anythang that ya could do to compensate for tha lives that you have taken. I thank the best thang ya could do fo’ any of us right now is ta jus’ follow yo’ fellow heathens and leave.”

  Montgomery hung his head down and politely obliged. Reverend Stevenson watched Montgomery as he walked off into the distance. Dorothy wrapped her arms around her husband's waist and nuzzled his ear.

  “I didn’t want to tell ya this in the beginnin’ ‘cause this would only cause mo' conflict, but I got news that would make you feel much better. Trouble is alive, but I don’t think it be uh good idea fo' everyone ta know 'bout his apparent resurrection. Many people, includin’ those who tried to kill ‘im and us, believe dat he’s still dead. If Trouble’s alleged death in the fire and the pit is enough ta greatly reduce an’ end conflict, I don’t see any reason for him to disappoint anyone.”

  Reverend Stevenson raised his left eyebrow with a blank expression. He grunted and returned his glance to his wife.

  “Ya know we gotta funeral ta plan; otherwise, his death will not convince 'nough people ta believe it. It’s rumored dat he fell into the pit wit’ a burning forest surrounding it, so no one's gonna look fo' uh body, especially if da eyewitnesses say dat they saw ‘im fall into da pit wit’ alligators while the forest was burnin’ with dense smoke,” suggested Reverend Stevenson.

  “That’s very clever, but we still have a problem, Solomon: how are we gone prevent people from seein’ him while he is supposed ta be dead? People ’re nosy and they like to look. We can’t keep ‘im in the house, forever: he has ta go to the outhouse, sometime. Eyes are everywhere, and there is almost no such thang as privacy. I hate ta say it, but we may have to keep ‘im a secret from many of our own people because they talk too damn much.”

  “I already know what has to be done,” declared an assertive, serious voice.

  Both Reverend and Dorothy Stevenson’s heads turned in the direction of the voice. They saw the subject of the discussion standing before them. The young man looked at the Stevenson couple and solemnly affirmed, “I gotta leave: that’s the only way fo’ me to ensure no violence ‘gainst you’ll ‘cur as a result of my presence. If I stay, I know that I’ll only get involved wit’ mo’ trouble ‘cause I’d only be inclined to fight against ‘em. I know I have the ‘bility to overcome a great deal of ‘em, but that wouldn’t change tha fact that many would be killed in the process.”

  “Trouble, I know that you a very strong, courageous, an’ powerful boy, but ya still a boy, nevertheless. I can’t let ya go knowin’ that we‘re parents an’ what we may poss’bly do if Reynaldo decided dat he wanted ta take off. I really hate to thank ‘bout what may possibly happen to ya,” expressed Reverend Stevenson.

  “The same thang that might happen if I stay wit’ a much greata chance of bein’ killed, anyway,” answered Trouble.

  “What woulda dearly departed friends an’ church members Gene and Monica thank of me if I let they only survivin’ son go ‘cross tha country by ‘imself to God-knows-where ta encounter God-knows-who or God-knows what? I can’t do it, Trouble,” declared Reverend Stevenson as tears filled his eyes. “I just found out you weren’t dead, but that may be short lived if I ‘low ya ta take off without any hesitation, whatsoever.”

  “Reverend Stevenson, I, among many other people, may die if I stay here. Besides, there some thangs that I was told ‘bout my purpose after the ‘tempt to kill me ‘long with my parents regardin’ my destiny on this planet. I cannot stay ‘cause I have been charged to carry out assigned tasks concernin’ penitence. In other words, it’s not a choice. If I don’t make an attempt to fulfill the tasks, I don’t have to worry ‘bout someone attemptin’ ta kill me ‘cause the job’ll already be done. I can’t igno’ dis assignment without endurin’ severe repercussions, anyway. I know this is not gonna be easy, but you don’t have a choice but to let me go. I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, but ya can’t stop me, no way,” informed Trouble, politely. The Stevenson Family looked at Trouble, and he returned the glance, respectfully.

  The sky was nearly black with a sliver of moonlight illuminating fallen leaves blown by an occasional wind and silence smothering the area. The faint light clearly revealed the outlines of three young men placing their footsteps on the ground as cats creeping through a kennel of sleeping dogs. They traveled quietly toward the edge of town where the railroad tracks were located. Eric La Feat, Reynaldo Stevenson, and Trouble maneuvered stealthily through the dark night like thieves in the middle of a heavily guarded bank. The trio looked in all directions to make sure they were by themselves. The occasional draft brushed their faces and caused them to wear wary glances around them.

  “Why we creepin' around when no one —?” asked Reynaldo Stevenson. Eric La Feat immediately put his left hand upon Reynaldo’s mouth, lifted his right hand, and pointed quietly in front of him. The finger led to a man walking with another tall man having alabaster skin, ragged clothes, and shotguns aimed in the direction of anything moving. Eric La Feat immediately pushed Reynaldo’s head downward, as the man approached their area. Reynaldo drew in breath as though he had just surfaced from being in the bottom of a
lake for an unusually long time.

  “Reynaldo, you need ta be quiet and calm down; otherwise, we gone ta get caught,” whispered Eric La Feat.

  “Too late,” responded a voice behind them. They turned around to see a man with worn overalls, small dusty hat, blonde hair, blue eyes with a rifle pointing at them.

  “Now, why you boys wanna wander ‘round these parts fo’?”

  Chapter 7: Trained for Hell

  Three pairs of eyes stared at the long, black barrel aimed ominously in their direction as though the Second Coming were upon them. Reynaldo and Eric gazed upon the black, metal tube similarly to being held by a single thread snapping over a rocky cliff. Trouble cocked his head to the side and drooped his shoulders like he was about to sleep. Reynaldo glanced at the boy with wide eyes and a blank expression. The armed man aimed at them and slowly squeezed the trigger before a rock struck the back of his head. The man's awareness slipped away before his face hit struck the gravel.

  They looked several feet behind the unconscious man to see another more familiar one with a light, vanilla tone with a reddish tint. A pair of worn black, leather boots moved toward the boys, while a dirty hand stroked its owner's red, goatee. Montgomery stopped in front of the adolescents.

  “My reasons ‘re different, but I’m inclined ta ‘gree wit’ him: you boys really have no business wanderin’ ‘round here at dis time of the night. Ya have no business here in da first place, but nighttime ‘specially bad fo’ you boys of uh…darker persuasion.”

  “We know what we doin’!” asserted Reynaldo.

  “I see. So, you perfectly fine wit’ committin’ suicide,” retorted Montgomery. The middle-aged man wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt and lowered his rifle.

  “Ya really don’t have uh reason ta trus’ me, but I’m here to help ya. It’s the least that I’m able to do considerin’ my involvement with your parent’s death,” offered Montgomery as he stared at Trouble.

  Trouble closed his eyes before images of his parents and himself hanging from the tree flooded his mind. He inhaled deeply before opening his eyes and looking at Montgomery.

  “You’re right an' I don’t have uh reason ta trust you, an' I am goin' ta—.” Reynaldo’s fist was an inch from Montgomery’s nose before Trouble caught it in mid swing. Reynaldo glanced at his former nemesis and asked,

  “Why’d you stop me?!”

  “Don't ask me how, but I know we c'n trust him. Besides, I think he has somethin' fo' me!” acknowledged Trouble. Reynaldo and Eric exchanged puzzled glances between one another. The middle-aged man's eyes widened, and his face tightened up before he walked toward a bush and quietly removed a black blanket of tightly wrapped items. The wizen man returned to the trespassers with the package.

  Trouble accepted the package, placed it on the ground, and extended his hand to shake the man's hand. Montgomery grasped the teenager’s hand, firmly yet respectfully.

  “How’d you know I had somethin’ fo’ ya?” asked Montgomery.

  “Da same way I knew I could trus’ ya,” replied Trouble. Reynaldo and Eric observed with bulged eyes and open mouths.

  “Yeah, dat really clears up uh lot,” blurted Montgomery.

  “I wish I had the ‘bility to jus’ know when someone out of da blue gone give somethin’ ta me,” marveled Eric. Trouble closed his eyes as his mind displayed his mother being hoisted up by a rope.

  “I don't know what you were thinkin', but I fo'give you…” Trouble held the man's hand until he noticed subtle trembling entering wrist. He released his grasp only to find Montgomery's shaking body resembled a person struggling during an earthquake. Montgomery leaned away from Trouble.

  “What da heck was dat, boy?!” informed Montgomery with his eyes fixed upon the young man.

  “Don't look at me! You know as much as I do!!” explained Trouble with his gaze to his hand. The man took a deep breath and exhaled, very forcefully.

  “That’s no problem: I’m sure that I’ll live...I think?” addressed Montgomery with toggling eyes and gasping breath. He stopped shaking before standing to his feet and slowly walking, away. Trouble watched the apologetic man's moonlit silhouette moving along the railroad tracks until it was no longer visible. He carefully balanced his right sandal upon the steel beam. He followed with his left foot until he walked steadily upon it. Reynaldo and Eric stared at their newfound friend without blinking.

  “Hey! Trouble! The least ya c’n do is say, ‘goodbye.’ He turned around and shouted “good—.” Both Reynaldo and Eric ensnared him within their arms before he finished his words. Both of the young men experienced the same, sudden, frenzied shaking that Montgomery had from touching the powerful teenager, moments ago. Both Eric and Reynaldo released their embrace of Trouble, collapsed, and took rapid breaths.

  “Why’d y’ all do dat?! Ya saw what happened ta Montgomery! He seems fine, but we don't know how long dat gonna last. I don’t wanna be ‘sponsible fo’ hurtin’ or killin’ anybody. Ya already know that I have uh reputation fo’ bein’ ‘bad.’ I’m supposed ta be dead! This might ruin my chances of stayin' dead ta this town, and put us in mo' trouble. Thank ‘bout what would happen if yo’ paren’s found out ‘bout what happens when someone touches me an’ it turns out ta be deadly. My reputation fo’ bein’ ill-mannered would take on a whole new life, and da recent amends that I have made with yo’ paren’s would fly out da window!” exclaimed Trouble with his finger extended toward Reynaldo.

  He inhaled quickly and paused with silence completely surrounding them, briefly. His new friends thought about what their departing friend had said, nodded regretfully at each other, and then nodded at Trouble. The beginning traveler looked at his new friends’ faces and nodded in a curt yet forgiving manner.

  “I do not know what ya gonna do, but please take care yo’self!” pled Reynaldo as Eric nodded in agreement. Both Reynaldo and Eric walked away backwards from their new friend as they waved, solemnly. Trouble looked upon the two and returned the greeting.

  “I will.”

  He walked into the morning blackness upon the steel railing. Subtle trembling in his feet gradually increased until they felt like rushing water, flowing through truck-sized pipes beneath the ground. Trouble continued walking along the tracks, squinting and straining his eyes in the direction he traveled. He walked forward until he faced a white glimmer gradually sparkling in his eyes.

  The dim light expanded in the dark horizon's center and illuminated the surrounding trees, grass, and rocks. The focused wanderer started running toward the increasing brightness. It blinded him with a fifteen-foot silhouette following closely behind. Trouble's pupils shrunk as it came closer.

  He instinctively dodged the towering structure within milliseconds before it could strike him. The massive form rushed past Trouble with the force to uproot several trees. A current slapped him as it passed. His feet began sparking before a throbbing, golden glow surrounded them. He strode quickly to match the vehicle's speed before clutching a handle attached to it. His contracting muscles resembled steel cables, which kept the vehicle's power from tearing his arm off.

  The other arm tightly held onto the sentimental package that was delivered by his former adversary. His body appeared stiffer than a plank as his hand prevented him from shattering his bones onto the passing trees, rocks, and hills like glass. The wanderer dangled on the door's side like a scarf tied around a running girl's neck until he maneuvered himself into an opening on the side of a car. The stowaway tumbled across the floor like a ball with the massive vehicle’s movement pushing him to its rear.

  His body struck a wall like a pancake before he slowly slid to the floor. Trouble felt sharp pains beneath his right elbow. He winced before glancing down at his right forearm to see two, large splinters had lodged themselves beneath his skin. A quick snatch removed the splinters from the arm with a slight grimace. The stowaway felt as though his abdominals were being squeezed by a giant hand before feeling his lunch reemerging in the back of his
mouth.

  The unauthorized passenger bent over before realizing the contents were not moving any further. Trouble sat upright near the back of the car as the cool, night air grazed his skin and massaged his scalp with its gentle breeze. He slowly glanced at the moonlit trees, hill, and plains rushing by him. He turned toward another beam for half a second to see another young man with black hair, staring at him from the other side of the car.

  The curious teenager leaned in the other young man’s direction, but the passenger flinched before leaning away from his despite their distance apart. The recent stowaway very slowly moved away from his observer. A scared White boy in da end of da car revealin' my location is da perfect end to uh perfect day. A thick, familiar scent burned his nostrils with disgust as he held back some tears.

  Complete stillness aroused the awareness of the unauthorized passenger, which let him know the train had stopped moving. He slowly opened his eyes to see the morning light had completely filled the car like a sponge that could not absorb, anymore. Dry skin felt the still, warm air surrounding him like a coat. He could finally see what was surrounding him last night. A quick stare downward revealed the poor condition of the worn, rotten floorboards. No wonder I got those splinters in my arm!

  The stowaway slowly rose to his feet before outside noises startled him into silence. Trouble heard voices outside of the car. He glanced in the direction where the other boy was to notice an empty space. Good! Less fo' me ta worry 'bout!

  “We need to check the compartments for stowaways,” declared a voice outside of the car. A large man with a mild, ivory tint and large muscles jumped into the compartment in an attempt to surprise to any unwanted guests only to stir up dust and scare some flying bugs. The man released a moan before cracking his knuckles and stepping off of the car without realizing his head was only three feet below the face of a thin, African American stowaway hiding on the car's roof. Trouble rolled from above the vehicle when he did not see any dusty cowboy hats walking along the cars' sides. The wanderer trotted along the side of numerous cars.