Uncharted Territory

by Betsy Ashton

  “I wonder,” Johnny said, “if it’s harder to build a civilization from scratch or rebuild one after it was destroyed.”

  “It’s gotta be easier to start from scratch,” Whip said after a few moments.

  Emilie joined in. “If you don’t know what you’ve lost, you’re grateful for everything new. But if you know what’s missing, you have expectations of getting everything back the way it was.”

  “Good point, Em.” Ducks polished off his steak and swung around to straddle the bench. “Have we seen angry frustration from those who lost their homes?”

  “Only in New Orleans.” Alex said. “Plenty of news stories on television about rioting and people killing each other.”

  “You’re right. Anger is boiling over there. People who have nothing could be willing to do anything to improve their lives.” Whip’s words sounded ominous.

  I listened to the men discuss the overwhelming problems facing our country in Katrina’s aftermath. Would we begin experiencing thefts and attacks, like the residents of New Orleans were facing daily? Would the region descend into lawlessness? Would attacks on the road crews increase in frequency? In intensity? Would the police run or stand and help? Were all police as disinterested as Sheriff Hardy, with his prejudice against Hispanic outsiders?

  If anything threatened the kids, I’d turn into a raging three-toed bitch kitty to protect them.

  Regardless of what happened that was out of our control, we had to understand the spirit of the place. Or the spirit of what this place used to be. We might be able to influence what it became.

  A flood of warmth bathed my body. Something soft brushed my cheek. I was used to Emilie’s way of reassuring me. The touch on my cheek was new. I looked at the men, but no one gave any hint of responsibility.

  The next day Whip and Johnny drove their trucks to the work site, shotguns on racks in the rear windows.

  ####

  Our first weekend together brought perfect beach weather. The kids and I finished our chores and rode our bikes five miles to a clean, mostly white sand strip. Ducks disappeared into New Orleans, and my men were out on the road putting in overtime. I brought towels, a blanket, and sunblock and looked forward to a swim. I warned the kids about getting sunburned.

  “We’re still brown from Peru.” Emilie was having nothing to do with my warning.

  The water was warmer than anything the kids had experienced off the Outer Banks where I’d taken them on vacation the previous summer. Even though I slathered them with lotion, I lost track of how much time they spent in the water. We all swam, and when I grew tired, I went back to my blanket. Emilie soon joined me on her towel. She lay on her tummy and asked me to rub the scent of summer on her back.

  “We need boogie boards,” came a shout from the water’s edge.

  “Great idea.” Perfect way to get more exercise too.

  A dirty tan pickup backfired its way along the sand close to the road. It slowed when it passed us. It repeated this down and back two more times. The passenger aimed a finger like a gun at us.

  The next day I frowned at a slightly crisped nose tip where I hadn’t applied enough lotion. The bottom of Emilie’s feet got burned, disproving a myth. And Alex? His shoulders and ears were blistered and sore. He promised to be more careful next time.

  One thing had struck me while we were lying in the sand. The day was gorgeous, but no one but us was on the beach.

  Where were other children?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Mississippi, week of October 3

  When I called the family to dinner, the atmosphere around the table was weird. No other way to describe it. The day began with heavy cloud cover and got worse. An aluminum foil sky hung over the compound, driving the air from lungs, but no rain fell. I struggled to breathe. The humid air was like inhaling wet cotton.

  I set the table, all the while paying close attention to the group dynamics. Alex was his normal chatterbox self, oblivious to everything but what was important to him. Emilie and Ducks were preoccupied and silent; secretive looks passed between them but no words. Whip and Johnny were brooding lumps, worried enough to spook me but not about to tell me what was going on.

  I clapped a large colander on my head before walking to the common area with a tray of food.

  “What are you wearing, Mad Max?” Alex looked up long enough to register my odd hat.

  “Just something to keep the aliens out of my brain.”

  “Not working, is it?”

  I wanted to smack my grandson but settled for a groan instead.

  “Okay. Enough of this silent crap.” I plunked a salad bowl on the table and held it. I’d pass it after someone filled me in. “Talk.”

  “Something odd happened on my bike ride this morning.” Ducks ran a hand over his beard. “I headed toward the bayou to check on those birds. I was almost there when a ratty pickup crowded me off the edge of the pavement. Two guys in the cab shouted at me in Spanglish that if I knew what was good for me I’d go back where I came from.”

  Johnny and Whip glanced at each other. A ratty pickup? I’d seen one recently. Emilie played with her food; Alex chomped his hamburger.

  “When I answered in English, they started to drive away but stopped.”

  “What’d they say?” Whip leaned over to stab an ear of late summer corn. We wouldn’t be getting much more.

  Way too casual. What the hell was going on? I looked at Emilie who bobbed her head an inch up and down. Johnny discovered his plate and refused to meet my questioning frown.

  “They wanted to know if I was Mexican, as if I look Mexican.” Ducks shook his head.

  “Not a chance.” I slathered mustard on my burger. “There were two of them?”

  “Four, actually. Two in the bed, two in the cab.”

  That didn’t sound good. Had our two original men in the truck at the beach turned into a pack of human predators?

  “Were Goth Boy and Spot in the truck?” Emilie had an edge to her voice.

  Ducks looked at her and nodded. If I hadn’t been staring right at him, I would have missed the exchange.

  “Goth Boy?” Johnny hadn’t heard Emilie use the nickname before.

  “I met him a few days ago. Talks trash and wears dirty black clothes.” Alex wiped ketchup off his chin. “All Marilyn Manson.”

  “He was in the cab with an older guy I’d never seen before. I’m pretty sure one of the boys in the bed was Spot, but he kept his face turned away.”

  “Spot?” Johnny flipped a second burger onto a bun.

  “He has really, really bad zits, Uncle Johnny.” Emilie pointed at her own smooth cheeks. “He’s the one Alex thinks is, um, slow.”

  “Gotcha.” Johnny smiled for the first time since he sat down.

  “What about the fourth guy?” Whip pushed his plate aside.

  “I’ve never seen him, either. Older, maybe mid or late twenties, black. Very muscular like he lived in a weight room.”

  “Did he have tattoos?” Alex’s eyes widened.

  “He did.” Ducks tried to eat, but Alex kept interrupting him.

  “I’ll bet he was in jail.” Alex’s vivid imagination pushed reason aside.

  “I don’t know about that. The driver was mid-twenties, also black. He had a shaved head.”

  “Crap,” Whip said.

  Alex finished his corn. His eyes sparkled. “Maybe they broke out of jail.”

  I could no longer keep my mouth shut. “Just because a man has tattoos doesn’t mean he’s a convict.”

  “I know, but…”

  “No buts. You watch football and basketball. You know most players are covered with ink.” I couldn’t let this teaching moment pass.

  “It’s just, like, it’s much more fun if they’re convicts.” Alex thrust his jaw out.

  I thought only the women in my family inherited the stubborn jaw. Not so. Convicts running around on the loose was fun? Probably was to an eleven-year-old. I shut up.

  “Were you sca
red?” Alex’s eyes all but bugged out of his face.

  “I wasn’t scared, but I was bloody well pissed. When they ran me off the road, they almost wrecked my bike.” Ducks drew his eyebrows together in a single continuous red caterpillar. “It wouldn’t be easy to replace out here.”

  “Hate to think what they’d have done if you’d been Mexican.”

  Why the hell did Whip have to say that? Nothing like overstimulating Alex’s already vivid imagination. I tried to send a shut up message by glowering at Whip. A glower doesn’t have any effect if the gloweree isn’t looking. I wasted my time and a perfectly good silent warning.

  “Are they the guys who’ve been spying on us in the afternoon, Mr. Ducks?”

  “Who’s spying on whom?” Johnny wiped his buttery hands on his napkin.

  Alex reached for the last piece of corn but drew back his hand. “Does anyone else want this?”

  No one claimed it. The boy was learning, even if some of the lessons took longer than others. Alex buttered the ear and crunched the juicy kernels.

  “I’ve seen the boys before,” Ducks said, “but not the men. The kids have followed Em, Alex, and me when we go out together.”

  “They hang out over in that shack. They watch us a lot during the day,” Alex said over a bite of steak. He jerked his chin toward the east.

  “So, Goth Boy and Spot were in the truck.” Emilie stared at her plate before raising her eyes to meet mine. Not good, her look said.

  “Spot’s, like, really spooky. He pops up everywhere. He rides this rickety old bike, but mostly I see him hiding behind those trees.” Alex pointed at the remaining live oaks half a mile away next to the tumbledown shack. “Goth Boy watches us too. They’re both creepy.”

  “Spot follows me when I go running. But don’t worry. He’s harmless.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. Emilie hadn’t mentioned anything about being followed. I guaranteed we were going to talk about this later. “Can you remember anything else about Spot?”

  “Dirty. Like he hasn’t had a bath in forever. Like he lives in that shack or sleeps out in the open. He always wears the same filthy jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers.” Emilie closed her eyes for a moment. “He’s kinda got a beard, but it’s not very thick. Not like yours, Mr. Ducks.”

  “He’s not much more than fourteen or fifteen.” Ducks stacked Alex’s empty plate atop his. “I tried to talk to them once, but Goth Boy dragged Spot away.”

  “Stay away from them.” I put on my sternest face. I fussed with empty bowls to keep my hands busy.

  “Don’t worry. I am,” Emilie said.

  “What do you remember about the truck?” Whip turned to Ducks.

  “Faded yellow, maybe light brown at one time. Ninety-five or ninety-six Ford F-150. Dent in the passenger door. No license plate.”

  “Sounds like the beater is the one that one of the missing men drove.” The men warned Johnny to be on the lookout for this truck right after we got here. It belonged to a man that had disappeared a couple of days before our arrival. His body hadn’t turned up.

  Emilie and Alex cleared the table. Ducks half rose. I held up a finger and pointed to his chair. He blinked once before returning to his seat.

  “Okay, what’s going on?” I wasn’t about to let the men weasel out of satisfying my curiosity.

  “What do you mean?” Johnny’s fake innocence earned a napkin draped over his head.

  “Don’t give me that crap. Two guys in the same pickup cruised past us several times at the beach. They’ve threatened Ducks. And you two.” I pointed at Johnny and Whip. “You came back from work and were little pods of brooding isolation until Ducks told you about his strange encounter.”

  I walked around the table and sat next to Johnny. “Do you think the stolen truck is linked to the bodies you found?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Is that why the men are all jumpy?”

  ####

  Normal evening sounds included chatter and laughter from the workers’ side of the compound during the dinner hour, followed by guitar music and singing later. This night all we heard were low murmurs. The camp was unnaturally quiet.

  “Yes.” Johnny opened his second Coors.

  “And this is why I see shotguns in your trucks?”

  Johnny and Whip glanced at each other. Both men walked to their trucks and returned with shotguns. Johnny’s was an old wooden stock Mossberg; Whip’s pump-action was newer.

  “I loaded bird shot in one side and slugs in the other.” Whip looked at Johnny. A nod from the older man was all the proof I needed that they felt threatened.

  “Why bird shot and slugs?” Ducks asked.

  “If bird shot doesn’t stop someone, slugs will,” Johnny explained.

  “Permanently.” Whip snapped his jaws shut.

  “Any similarities among the missing men?”

  “All vanished after payday. Could be someone is robbing them and driving them off.” Johnny made sweat circles with his can on the tabletop. “Could be someone’s killing them without bothering to drive them off.”

  “Were they all Hispanic?” Ducks fit more pieces of the puzzle together.

  “All but the truck owner. He was Chippewa.” Johnny continued playing with his beer can.

  “But they all look Hispanic.” Ducks picked at a speck of dirt on his jeans. “That’s why they asked if I was Mexican.”

  Ducks wore a safety helmet when he rode. With his red hair covered and his head lowered, could he be mistaken for a Latino, even from a distance? No flipping way, not even if you shut one eye and stared directly into the sun with the other.

  “Probably.” Whip nodded.

  “Do we have racists running around loose? Maybe trying to chase strangers away?” Ducks walked toward the bus. It was his turn to help with the dishes.

  “Could be. We’re strangers. The problem could be us versus them, not necessarily black versus white or Hispanic versus white,” Johnny said. “This was pretty much a closed society before the storm. We’ve upset the balance of nature. Someone doesn’t like it.”

  “Has anyone talked to the police?”

  “About what?” Johnny’s neck artery pulsed. “Some guys clearing out after getting paid? We have no proof anything’s wrong.”

  “We have two dead bodies.” I remembered that the sheriff said something about someone doing him a favor. Was he involved with the missing men? Was he killing them? Or encouraging the attacks? I shook myself to chase the bogeyman away.

  “Don’t you or the kids ride your bikes, run or skate alone.” Whip rose. He headed toward the dorm. “I don’t want anything happening to you.”

  Johnny put his arm around me. I got the message.

  ####

  I shut the door to my bedroom before I dragged a locked box from under the bed. Inside was my new thirty-eight caliber revolver. I’d upgraded after I realized my trusty thirty-two-caliber snub-nose had all the stopping power of a fly swatter.

  I had a concealed carry permit from Virginia but not from New York. No way could you get one if you lived in the five boroughs. I tucked the gun into my shoulder bag. I figured if anyone found it, I’d plead ignorance. Regardless, I’d be able to protect myself and the kids if need be.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Mississippi, week of October 3

  I’d been in Mississippi long enough to be bored out of my flippin’ skull. Cooking and cleaning and writing and reading weren’t hacking it.

  Just before dawn, I sat in the gathering place, sipped coffee and listened to the stirrings of the still-sleeping camp. A sliver of light in the east obliterated stars for another day. They’d return, but as they winked out, I lost old friends.

  Lights popped on in the boys’ dorm and the bus. Ducks emerged in bike shorts and a tight shirt, hard-soled bike shoes clicking on the metal steps from the bus door. Bed-head hair disappeared under a helmet. He pushed his bike toward the gate. Without a word but with a flap of his hand, he pedaled off alone in
spite of Whip’s warning.

  Whip emerged moments later, ready for work. Another door opened. Johnny walked by and didn’t acknowledge me sitting in the dark.

  I was homesick. I missed the Richmond suburbs. I missed the canyons of New York. I missed the noise of a city crowded with too many cars. I was like Goldie Hawn in Private Benjamin. I wanted to wear sandals. I wanted to do lunch.

  I missed color. My Technicolor worldview wasn’t compatible with a monochromatic landscape. I wanted one tiny flower, even a weed. Barren earth and piles of man-made rubble troubled my soul. I made a mental note to buy flowers every week for the dorm. Anything to hint of nature’s rebirth.

  I even missed Starbucks, or at least the concept of Starbucks, where people could laze away an afternoon, reading and chatting with friends.

  Most of all, I missed people. Lots of people. Our small camp of workers was friendly in a distant sort of way. Though I knew each worker by name, we didn’t socialize. Even on weekends, those who stayed in camp kept to themselves. I hadn’t talked to a single person face-to-face, outside of my extended family, about anything important.

  Early morning in the camp was never silent. People belched, sneezed, coughed, and farted. I heard it all. A mosquito buzzed past my ear and made the mistake of landing on my arm. Slap. Gotcha.

  My first mosquito. Hope I didn’t kill the last one on earth. No chance of that, but they should be everywhere. I was in the South, after all. It was autumn, but it was still warm and humid. I shouldn’t complain, but it seemed darned odd not being serenaded by high-pitched whines day and night.

  Now that I thought about it, I hadn’t seen many insects of any kind. The first flies appeared at our dinner table as soon as we arrived. Ants carried provisions to their nests. They had to rebuild after the flood exactly like the people did. Now, a mosquito scouted for food. Squashed on my forearm, it wouldn’t be reporting back to the swarm that dinner was served.

  What else was missing?

  Birds. On the way down, our RV startled flocks of seagulls, which squawked skyward. On any gulf coast, gulls were ubiquitous. Wherever they could scavenge for garbage or dead animals or fish, there they were. Crows followed. Of course, there were the buzzards. After a disaster like a hurricane, scavengers ate well.