by David Achord
Somehow, I got to my feet, pushed acne face away, and began running. It was more stumbling than running and I even heard them laughing at me. I tried running faster, but even with the ringing in my ears, I could hear at least one of them gaining on me. He tackled me as I reached the edge of a bluff overlooking the Tennessee River. It was a long drop straight down, maybe twenty or thirty feet. I fought and kicked. When I got away from him, I ran and jumped. It seemed like I fell forever before hitting the cold water.
The smack of the water hurt like hell and it was so cold it took my breath away. I sank like a rock. Fortunately, I guess, I only went down maybe ten feet before hitting the soft, muddy river bottom. I pushed up with my feet, losing my shoes in the effort, and struggled upward. When my head broke the surface, I gasped for air, taking in a fair amount of water before I went under again.
I’d never been a good swimmer. Hell, there wasn’t any fancy Olympic pool in those government housing projects I grew up in. But, there was one summer when I was about nine or ten. I got to spend two weeks at an FOP youth camp. They had a pool at that camp and a couple of those cops taught us to swim. The first thing they taught us was how to hold our breath when we went underwater and how to push off of the bottom and come back to the surface. The second thing they taught us was how tread water, and the third thing they taught us was how to dog paddle. It seems like there was some other stuff they taught us, but that’s the only things I remembered at the moment.
All of my splashing around drew their attention, and even though it was dark, gave them an idea where I was. Some gunshots rang out and I could actually hear the zips of the bullets as they entered the water around me.
“This is what you get when you mess with Big Sandy!” one of them shouted in between gunfire.
I took a deep breath, went under, and stayed under until I thought my lungs were about to burst. When I broke the surface, I tread water and tried to be as quiet as I could. I could see the beams of flashlights pointed down at the water from the bank, but the current had carried me far enough downstream where they couldn’t see me.
I continued treading water and let the current carry me, but I was colder than I had ever been in my life and quickly losing strength. Eventually, I saw the dim outline of dry land. As I got closer, I could see it was one of the many islands in the area. I dogpaddled as best I could to it and crawled up the muddy bank, whereupon I puked up all of that river water I’d swallowed.
I had to do something. If they realized our fishing boats had electric trolling motors on them, they could come looking for me. I crawled further up the bank, wondering if I was going to crawl on top of a snake, and tried to hide myself among the reeds and bush. I was so cold I was shaking uncontrollably, but the moon was out now, and as my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I saw some cattails. My brain was working in slow motion, but I knew if my body lost its ability to heat, my heart was going to stop and I was going to die. I grabbed a couple and chewed on them. It tasted awful, but I forced it down and started on the second one.
As I chewed on them, I spotted something at my feet, and although it was dark out, I could see enough to tell it looked out of the ordinary. I put out a shaking hand and tentatively touched it. After feeling it for a few seconds, I realized it was a tarp. Part of it was buried in the muddy bank, but there was enough to grab ahold of. It probably had a nest of copperheads living under it, but I pulled it out of the water and the mud and gathered it around me. It was foul-smelling and muddy, but if I wrapped myself in it, I figured I might be able to warm myself up a little.
And then, as if things couldn’t get worse, it started raining again. I worked the tarp over my head, and sat there, shivering like one of those religious nuts who was feeling the spirit.
I was all done in, helpless. If they found me now, they had me. I was utterly exhausted, cold as hell, tired beyond belief, and my eyelids were damn near impossible to keep open. But, I’d had cold weather training, back when I was active duty, and I knew my core body temperature had dropped to dangerous levels. If I fell asleep, I would certainly die of hypothermia.
I pulled my knees toward me, which caused a shooting pain to my side. That acne-faced asshole probably broke a rib or two when he was kicking me. I was having a hard time thinking. I forced myself to think and take stock of my situation. In addition to the pain in my side, my ears were ringing and my head hurt like hell. I had a spark in my brain. It told me when I puked earlier, it was a sign I had a concussion. There was only one way I was going to live through this and that was by sheer willpower.
“Stay awake and live,” I whispered to myself. I repeated it over and over throughout the night as I constantly rubbed my hands up and down my arms.
I have no idea what time it was when I crawled up on the island and wrapped myself in that tarp. All I know is I kept repeating that mantra over and over, maybe a million times, until at some point I realized I was hearing the morning birds happily chirping away. I stuck my head out and saw the sky was gray. My brain was having a hard time deciphering what that bit of information meant at first, but then I realized the sun was coming up. I warily looked around, but I didn’t see any people or boats. I kept listening. A casual conversation, the lap of a water against the bow of a boat, sounds like those traveled across the water and were easily heard, but I didn’t hear anything, other than the birds.
“Stand up and live,” I whispered. Easier said than done. Standing was sheer agony. Every muscle in my body ached and it felt like somebody was thumping on my head. I was still cold down to my bones and I seemed to be hurting worse than last night. I started softly kneading the cramps out of my muscles while I tried to figure out what I was going to do next.
The first order of business was to look for snakes. I didn’t like snakes. I’d sooner fight with a horde of zombies than come across one single water moccasin. I didn’t see any, but that didn’t mean anything. Those evil bastards were experts at hiding.
The second order of business was try to figure out exactly where the hell I was. It wasn’t until the sky started turning a pumpkin orange that I saw the old earthen embankments for the Civil War era railroad tracks. I almost smiled to myself then. I’d run many a trot line in this area with Lee and Jinni. I was on an island in the middle of the channel. On the east bank was Old Johnsonville State Park. That was a good thing. Back when my three buddies were still alive, we’d made up several caches in old rusty barrels and stored them in the area. One of them was in the park.
All I had to do was swim across the channel, but that wasn’t going to be easy. It was almost a hundred yards wide with another thirty yards or so of shallow water. The rain was gone, and the sun was warming things up, but it didn’t help my state of mind much. Getting back in the river was going to plunge my core body temperature down again and I wasn’t sure my body could take it.
“Damn,” I muttered to myself as I stared at the far bank. Back behind me on the west side, I could wade through some backwater to a larger island that extended south. If I took that route, it’d eventually lead to the Highway 70 Bridge, but it’d take hours of slogging through muddy marshland that I knew from personal experience was filled with snakes. I hated snakes.
“Damn it all to hell,” I muttered again.
I might’ve said it four times or forty times, I wasn’t sure. I took my muddy clothes off and tied them in a ball. Getting back in the water was pure sack-shrinking torture. I would’ve cussed again, but I was too busy gasping for air and trying not to drown. I kept pushing my ball of clothes along as I dogpaddled, but they became waterlogged and I soon lost them.
It seemed to take an eternity and there were a couple of times when I almost went under, but I finally made it to the shallows. I slogged along until I got to the bank, crawled up, collapsed, and stayed that way for a long time. The aches, pains, the pounding in my head, the hunger, all of it had intensified, and once again, I was shaking uncontrollably. But, the sun was up and I could feel the warmth on m
y back.
I eventually rolled over and let the sun warm the front of me, and after several minutes, forced myself to stand. I was stiff and ached all over, but I was warmer now. I ran my hands all over my body, trying to rub some more warmth into the muscles. Looking around, I nodded to myself.
“Yeah,” I muttered. I recognized familiar landmarks and once my slow-moving brain worked it out, I knew exactly where I was; the old Johnsonville State Park. It was a small town once, back before they put in Kentucky Dam. I seemed to recall that man they called the Devil Forrest blowing up the town or something during the war and they never rebuilt it.
I wasn’t far from the cache now, but the problem was, my bare feet had been wet for several hours. The soles looked like shriveled prunes. Walking was going to be painful.
“The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step,” I whispered to myself. Ole Mister Johnson liked to quote dead people, and he liked to use that one. Some Chinese dude said it, I think. So, there I was, buck naked, barefoot, beat all to hell, and shaking like an alcoholic in need of a drink. I got my bearings and started off, taking one gentle step at a time.
I got disoriented a few times before I found the replica Army garrison, which only consisted of some small, cheaply made log cabins that were barely large enough to hold two people. The old barrel was over by the fake outhouse. I would’ve run to it, but my feet hurt too much.
The lid had to be pried off, but that wasn’t a problem. When we put the barrels out here and there, we hid a screwdriver near each one of them. The one I hid at this location was inside the outhouse. I found it and worked the lid open as quietly as I could and dug in.
There was a poncho on top. I pulled it out and spread it on the ground. Then I found a gallon jug of water. I set it aside for the moment, pulled out the musty-smelling clothing, and began putting them on. Pulling the socks over my feet was painful, but I suffered through it and put three pairs on. It was an old set of my combat utilities, but I’d lost so much weight the past few weeks, they hung loosely. I finished by donning a wool-knit cap and then helped myself to some water.
After drinking a couple of swallows, I found a Tupperware container sealed with duct tape. I used the edge of the barrel lid to hack at the tape and was soon rewarded with some salty hardtack.
Hardtack was kind of plain-tasting normally, but under these circumstances, it was like manna from heaven. I sat on the poncho and chewed on it slowly and washed it down with water. When I’d finished everything, I even licked the sides of the container, getting as many calories as I could inside me. I then took stock of the rest of the contents. There was a schoolbook-sized backpack, two more Tupperware containers, another gallon jug of water, and a 38-caliber revolver with six bullets. I put everything into the backpack and lay back, enjoying the morning sun and a full belly.
I still hurt, but I’d finally warmed up and the shakes had stopped. Even so, I was exhausted. I picked up the poncho and backpack, and headed to one of the little replica cabins. They had wooden bunks inside, no mattress or pillow, but I was so tired it didn’t matter. I closed the door and lay down, wrapping myself in the poncho.
I didn’t even remember falling asleep, but I awoke sometime during the night to the sound of something walking along the road. I cautiously peeked through the cracks between the wood slats. It was dark, but there was no mistaking the smell and raspy breathing. It was a small group of zeds, six or seven of them. Too many for me to take on.
I stayed quiet as a church mouse. If any of them opened the door, I’d have to get the revolver out of the backpack before they could get to me. Thankfully, they never sensed me and kept walking. I think I lay there for two hours, wondering if they were going to come back, but exhaustion took over and I fell back asleep.
The next morning, I enjoyed another gourmet meal of hardtack before making the trek back to the marina. It was slow going, because even though I had on three pairs of socks, I still didn’t have any shoes. I kept the revolver in one hand, just in case.
The boat marina and campers weren’t far, maybe five hundred yards. Nevertheless, I walked slowly, and when I got close, I hid behind a large oak tree and scouted things out. There was no movement. No sounds. The only things of note were the smoldering RVs.
Seeing nobody, I walked in. It was then I saw the bodies. All of them had been lined up and all of them had been decapitated. I found a chair, turned it upright, and sat there, staring at what was left of my pseudo-family. A cold rage coursed through my soul as I stared at Sandy’s head.
“Y’all are gonna pay for that,” I mumbled.
I sat there for I don’t know how long, thinking about how I’d gotten myself into this mess. I guess it had to do with the women. We were three lonely men, and the women attached themselves to Blake and BC immediately. BC hooked up with Kathy Ann. She wasn’t a bad-looking gal, but Lee once told me she was an easy lay, back before. He said she’d spread her legs for anyone with free drugs. Since I knew he was a meth cook, I asked him if he had ever taken a turn with her. He refused to answer, but the big shit-eating grin said it all.
Sandy latched herself onto Blake on the second day, and I thought I was going to be all alone until one night she knocked softly on the door to my RV and made a pass at me.
After that, it didn’t take much for the three of us to be sucked into their lifestyle of raiding and marauding. We’d blindly, maybe even willingly, accepted Gavin as our leader. He was mean as a snake, cold, cunning, and ruthless. He loved to go out, find other survivors, and steal what they had. If they resisted, we killed them. He loved that part. He often bragged about spending time in prison for murder, like it was a badge of honor.
Like I said, we probably deserved this. It was only a matter of time before someone we’d wronged came looking for revenge. I might’ve understood better, but there was one thing they shouldn’t have done. Prairie was missing. She had either burned up or they had taken her. Either way, I was going to pay them back.
Before I realized it, the sun was setting. I stood stiffly and made my way over to the boat docks. They had set them on fire too. Several of the boats had burned, but one of them, a houseboat, had broken free and had somehow lodged itself on a mooring.
It was Gavin’s boat. We didn’t have gas anymore, but he kept it up and during the summer he and Leslie lived on it. I took my clothes off, waded out to it, and crawled on board. As I suspected, there were some mason jars of food, some toiletries, and some shoes. They were a size larger than my feet, but that was okay. All I had to do was wear extra socks.
I got a rope and secured the boat on the bank before drying off and putting my clothes back on. I stayed the night in the cabin. As I lay there in the musty-smelling bed, I knew what I was going to do. I was going to find those people. If they had Prairie, I was going to get her back. In spite of the circumstances, I’d come to love her like she was my own daughter. She was a beautiful little girl who looked at the world in wide-eyed wonder and would grin and giggle at the drop of a hat.
Ultimately, Prairie was the reason Sandy and I stopped sneaking around. Or, maybe it the final reason Sandy needed to break it off with me. It hurt like hell, but I accepted it.
I lay there, thinking about Sandy’s body and her decapitated head. I wondered what happened to Prairie. There were only two possibilities really; she burned up or she was taken. I didn’t know which, but I knew I was going to hunt those sons of bitches down and take out as many as I could before they got me.
I woke up early the next morning and helped myself to a jar of applesauce I found in the cupboard. As I ate, I remembered back to the time when Leslie and Sandy spent the day mashing up apples and then using the pressure cooker to can a dozen jars. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
I finished the jar, used a toothbrush that I really hoped belonged to Leslie instead of Gavin, and then walked over to my burned-out RV. The RV was nothing but a shell of burned and warped metal, but the round behind it was undisturbed.
; “Y’all missed something,” I muttered.
I couldn’t find a shovel anywhere, but I found a small garden spade. It took a while, but I finally got the footlocker dug up. Opening the lid, I looked in and gave myself a nod.
It was the M60 that Zach had given us, a little over five years ago now. We’d never used it and I still had the five hundred rounds of ammunition. I had put grease all over it before hiding it. Breaking it down, I used a piece of somebody’s shirt to clean off the excess grease before reassembling it and storing it all in a musty-smelling canvass bag.
I took one final look around before heading out. I didn’t bother burying the bodies. Didn’t see any point.
Our cars and trucks didn’t work no more because the gas was all bad, and none of these west Tennessee people had ever learned how to ride a horse, which I thought was strange. We rode bicycles or used a sailboat whenever we traveled, but I guess they took the bikes because I couldn’t find a single one.
So, I loaded up the M60, put some mason jars in my cargo pockets, and walked. The ribs were still tender, but I could handle it.
It wasn’t hard to find them. When that knucklehead yelled out about messing with Big Sandy, he wasn’t talking about a person; he was talking about a small, rural town that was a little over twenty miles north of Johnsonville.
It took me two days of walking to get there, and then it was only a matter of remembering how to get to where they lived. We’d raided them a few months previous. They lived in a big farmhouse nestled in a valley near the Big Sandy River. There were two additional house trailers, all of which was encircled by barbed-wire fences and tanglefoot.
I found a spot on the side of a small hill five hundred yards away from them and dug out a spider hole under cover of darkness. Then I started watching them. Tactically speaking, it was stupid. From my vantage point, I had a clear target.