Going Home (45 page)

Then he thought about Sarge and the guys. He had been talking to the old man for about a year on the radio, and they had met a couple of times. He was a hell of a good guy, and he hoped he was okay. Then Jess came to mind. He never realized that he left so quickly that he never said a proper good-bye. Thinking on that for a minute, it saddened him. She was a pain in the ass and beyond naive, but she was funny, and he liked her.

The trees and fields rolled by in rapid succession and then another indication that he was getting closer to home—Culbreath Road turned into Bellamy Brothers Road. He didn’t even notice the change at first, and when he did, it brought a smile to his face. Aside from the change in name, there was no difference in the road—same trees, same fields, and still no people to speak of. Approaching a small bridge, Thad’s knuckles once again tightened around the wheel. There were two or three—he couldn’t tell yet—people standing on it. As he got closer, he saw it was three kids, boys about twelve or thirteen. They were fishing from the bridge and shooting what looked like a rifle into the trees along the bridge’s edge.

Thad slowed the truck as he approached the span of concrete over the little creek. The boys, seeing the truck approach focused on him. He saw them elbowing each other, pointing at him. He reached across the seat and pulled the shotgun into his lap. The three boys were sitting on the concrete barrier as he drove the truck onto the span. He slowed the truck to a stop as he came abreast of the trio, looking out the passenger’s window at them.

“Catching anything?” he asked.

“We got two cats, nice ones,” a redheaded kid with a face covered in freckles replied, squinting one eye against the sun. He had a Benjamin air rifle lying in his lap.

“Good deal. Wha’cha using for bait?”

“Night crawlers,” the youngest of the three, or at least the smallest of the three, replied with a hillbilly drawl that was out of place in Florida.

“Good.” Thad was nodding his big head. “Y’all seen any trouble?”

“Naw, ain’t no trouble around here. No power or cars or anything, but everything’s been okay,” the freckle-faced kid replied.

“Well, good luck with the fish,” Thad said as he waved at the boys and started off down the road again. The boys gave him a wave as he pulled away.

Thad drove on. He didn’t encounter anyone until he got close to Highway 52. There, on the northwest corner, was a small building with several people standing in a line out front. The sign over the door read, No Name Pub. More people trading away supplies they may actually need for a drink. As he came by the bar, more heads swiveled to look at him. No one made a move toward him, though.

Thad scanned the crowd, looking for any faces he may know. He was close to home and knew this little watering hole well. The truck was sitting at the intersection like it would have during normal times, waiting for the light to change. Most of the people in front of the bar were looking back at the truck. It was the same old assortment of stuff—some junk, some guns, and others with nothing in their hands. A couple of other cars were in the lot and an old pickup. Leaning against the bed of the truck was an old man in overalls; he had a Ford cap pulled down low over his eyes. Even without seeing his face, Thad knew who it was. Mr. Jackson lived just down the road from him.

Thad pulled the truck into the parking lot and up beside the old man. The old man didn’t even move; he was still leaning against the bed when Thad eased the truck up beside him. He reached up and raised the bill of the cap, pushing it back on his head.

“Lookey, lookey what found its way home,” Mr. Jackson said, pulling a toothpick out of the side of his mouth.

“Hey, Mr. Jackson, how you doin?” Thad replied.

“Oh, I’m fine. You know she’s been worried about you. She knew you’d make it home, but she’s been plenty worried,” the old man said.

“I been worried about her too. What’re you doing up here? You don’t drink?” Thad replied.

“Oh, I’m jus’ lookin’ over what folks is bringing up here fer trade,” he said.

Mr. Jackson was a notorious countywide wheeler and dealer. He bought and sold, or bartered and traded, for anything and everything. He hadn’t worked in years, many years, but he made enough money through his “dealings” to live comfortable in the house he owned outright.

“Whur’d ya git the truck Thad?” the old man asked.

Before Thad could answer, a shot rang out and then several shots. The people in front of the bar started to scatter, and then more shots. Thad looked over his shoulder as he raised the shotgun from his lap. Mr. Jackson didn’t even move. “Don’t worry about it, Thad; second time this week. Somebody prolly tried somethin’ inside.” Thad looked back at the old man, who was still leaning against the bed of the truck.

Shouting from the front of the bar brought his attention back around. Two men were carrying another out by his arms and legs. He had several obvious gunshot wounds and was bleeding heavily; he was limp and not responsive to the jostling. The two men carried him out into the parking lot and just dropped him. They were followed by another man with an AR-15. The man with the rifle looked around. The people who had been standing in front of the bar were peeking from around corners or from behind cars in the lot.

“Let this be a lesson to anyone who thinks they are going to steal from me!” he shouted. “I make fair trades with y’all, but if you try’n steal from me, I’ll kill your ass!” With that he turned and went back inside.

Thad looked back at the old man. “Exciting times, huh?”

“Naw, things are just going back to the way they was meant to be. You steal from someone, they might kill ya. You offend a man, he might break yer jaw. Ain’t no more panty-waisted lawyers to get in the way,” the old man responded.

“Believe me, I know,” Thad said. The old man just looked at him for a moment.

“You have trouble getting back?” he asked.

“Some more than I wanted. I’m gonna head on home. I want to see Anita and Tony,” Thad said.

“You do that. I know they is waiting on you. I’ll stop by later,” Mr. Jackson said.

“Okay,” Thad replied as he dropped the truck into gear.

He crossed over Highway 52 and continued down Bellamy Brothers Road. Up ahead, it would make a hard right-hand turn. After the turn, it was just over a mile to Swiftmud Road. Thad rounded the corner and floored the gas. Talking to Mr. Jackson, he knew his family was okay. He hadn’t said any different, and he wanted to get home to them. Home, the odds had been against him that he would never see it again, but now he was less than two miles away. He made it to Swiftmud in no time and rounded the corner.

One more mile, one more mile, and he’ll be there. Thad pushed the old truck hard, slipping on the curves. He had to tell himself to slow down. It would be a shame to kill himself in a crash after all the shit that he’s been through. He eased up a bit but still slid into the driveway in a cloud of dust and gravel. The dust was still rising when he jumped out of the truck. He was rushing toward the house when a shot rang out; he dropped to the ground as a shrill voice screamed out, “Don’t you move, or I’ll kill you!”

Thad was on the ground with his face in the dirt. The dust was starting to settle, “Anita! Anita, it’s me!”

“Thad? Is that you?” came a cautious reply.

He stood up and saw her on the porch, a pistol in her hands. “Yeah, baby, it’s me. Now don’t shoot me. I done had enough of people shooting at me.” He stepped toward the house. Anita saw him and dropped the pistol on the porch with a yelp. She ran down the stairs and into the big man’s open arms.

After they passed, I stepped out of the tree and checked on my clothes. They were drying nicely, so I flipped them over, trying not to touch any part that was still too wet—don’t want that crap on your skin. Sitting back down, I started to think about home. I was so close now. One, maybe two more days and I would be there; that is, if there weren’t any more problems. I pulled the map out and took a look at it. I would need to modify my route, more south-southeast; but even in the dark, there was no way I could get lost out here. Even if I lost my compass, I could still find my way home.

My biggest concern was those damn hippies up the river. I was sure there were more of them in the forest. Add to that the countless rednecks I could potentially run into; there was still plenty to be cautious about. I was orienting the map with my compass when a shot rang out up river. Immediately my eyebrows went up. I was still hunched over the map. All of a sudden, it sounded like the streets of Fallujah. All hell broke loose.

I made myself a little flatter. Damn that gut keeping me away from the ground! I could tell it was several different caliber firearms—some shotguns, and certainly some handguns. Several people were shouting and screaming. It was definitely more than the five guys I saw come past a while ago. Then, to add to the mix of sound, I heard the unmistakable whining ring of a VW start up. The engine raced with its high, chirpy, whirling sound. I listened as it faded away; sounded like it was heading out toward Highway 40.

The shooting died down to the occasional pop. I was lying under the trunk of the old tree listening—a couple of more shots and then more yelling. The shooting picked back up again for a minute before dying out. Not knowing what in the hell was going on, I just lay there. I didn’t have anywhere to go anyway. I rested my head on my arm and closed my eyes; no one could see me under here; besides, I had the AK in my free hand.

Splashing caused me to open my eyes. I just barely saw the heads of two men in a canoe paddling furiously down the river. One had on a boonie hat that I remembered from earlier. I got a bit of a chuckle thinking about these guys thinking they would go up and take on that bunch of hippies. While most of them were just people disenfranchised with the modern world looking to live in a simpler way, their ranks were full of lowlifes. I was certain that the hippie crowd had some firepower. Now it was confirmed.

I wasn’t thirty feet off the river and heard them as they came by. “Man, that was a bad idea. I told him that wasn’t going to work,” the one in the boonie hat said.

“Well, you damn sure ain’t got to worry about him no more. They shot the shit out of him. Who would have thought them damn dirty hippies had that many guns?” the other one replied.

“No shit, right?”

The two men paddled on down the river out of my sight. At almost the same time, I started to hear the banging of the campground’s metal canoes coming down the river. It would appear that the hippies were in hot pursuit of their attackers. They should just cut their losses. They were making so much noise they would be easy to ambush. It wasn’t long before they came into view. I propped myself up on an elbow to get a better look at them. They were in two canoes, three men in each one. They looked just like you would expect, too, long hair and beards and dirty-ass clothes.

“I’m gonna kill those redneck bastards—they killed Moon Dog,” one of them almost shouted.

“Don’t worry, man; we’ll get ’em. An’ we still have one of them back there at camp. He can pay for all of ’em,” another answered.

They continued on out of my sight, and I went back to dozing in the midday warmth. I pulled the poncho liner out of the bag and draped it over me; it was comfortable, and I felt like a nap. Lying there, I started to wonder what they would do if they knew I was there. I mean, I haven’t done anything to them; but if they saw me, I doubt they would be very welcoming. I lay there dozing for some time, not asleep but not fully awake, until the banging of the campground canoes started again. I sat up and watched them as they passed.

This time, they passed in silence, except for the banging of paddles and branches on the canoes. After they were gone, I decided to tend to a couple of things I had neglected for a while. I hadn’t cleaned my pistol since all this started, so I pulled it and the Otis Tactical kit out of the Devildog bag. Laying a bandana down on the ground, I stripped the pistol and thoroughly cleaned it. Satisfied with it, I set my eyes on the AK. I know it had been fired and not cleaned since, so I proceeded to strip it down and clean it.

My kit doesn’t have a thirty cal brush, as I don’t have any thirty cal weapons; but I pulled several patches down the bore, cleaning it as best I could. It was surprisingly clean, aside from the general crud of me pulling it through the bush. After that was done, I set about cleaning the carbine. It took me a minute to remember how to field strip the thing. It had been many years since I had held one of these, let alone took it apart. Once all the weapons were clean and the kit was stowed back in the Devildog, I leaned back against the tree.

There was no way in hell I could go back to sleep. I was awake for the duration now. Instead I got the solar panel out and set it up and connected the battery. I should have done this earlier. After it was set up in a sunny spot with the tree between it and the river, I sat back down in the hide. I was still antsy; I needed something to do. I pulled the ESEE4 out and my knife kit.

Looking it over, there was some discoloration starting on the blade and even some very light rust. My field kit for the knives was kept in a small Maxpedition pouch designed to hold a battery carrier, but it worked better for this for me. In it was a Rust Eraser, a medium and fine four-inch diamond hone, a DMT fine diamond card, and a fine ceramic tri sharp. With these tools, I can maintain my blades to shaving sharp in the field, so I set about dressing up the blade. Using the eraser, I cleaned all the discoloration off the leading edge of the blade and the laser etching and then used the card to dress up the edge on the blade.