THE TRASHMAN (20 page)

Because of so much rest, I awoke with the sun. My side was still sore, but pressing the wound with my fingers did not bring much pain. I decided to leave well enough alone and keep the same bandage in place. I did take a dose of Keflex before packing camp.

I kept to the forest until I was positive I was well past the Clan’s sign. This day was warmer and I felt better. The miles seemed to flow by. I only passed one house. I stood in front of it, shouting, but no one came out. I went closer. The front porch was littered with windblown pine needles and leaves. The debris leading to the door hadn’t been disturbed. I climbed the steps and went to the door. It was locked.

A look through a window into the living room made me leave the porch. The rotting body of a young child was on the couch.

The sliding door to the garage wasn’t locked but it was heavy. I managed to lift it in stages, being careful not to overly strain my injured side.

The people who lived here had a fairly new Ford F150. The keys were in the ignition but all the starter did was click. The battery was too drained.

If it had been later in the day, I would have slept in the garage. I wish I had. The rest of the day was uneventful, trudging one foot in front of the other, constantly shrugging the straps of my pack hoping they’d settle into a more comfortable position, wishing my heavy shotgun had a sling.

The narrow two-lane led through lush splendor, the green of the tall spruce, hemlock and pines, the thick undergrowth of mountain laurel, rhododendrons, and stunted cedars in such profusion to obscure the barren limbs of the hardwoods. At heart a tree hugger, my eyes were drawn to the beauty the earth displayed. It did much to calm the feelings that had overwhelmed me while viewing the murdered couple, their bodies left as little more than litter on the pavement.

Toward evening, as the sun dipped to the tops of the trees, I set camp. My side was sore, but so was the rest of my body. I was unused to walking and my legs, especially my calves informed me of this. My shoulders were raw. I had the idea to wrap the straps of the pack with cloth to provide padding, but it could wait until morning.

My morning came early just before dawn. I awoke to the sound of the wind trying to uproot the tent, rain blowing in torrents beating against the thin fabric of the tent, breaching the weave and entering as a fine spray. Moments later a flow of water topped the lip of the tent’s floor at the entry. My shelter became a shallow swimming pool, soaking my sleeping bag and the clothing I’d kept on when I climbed into it.

I squirmed out of the sleeping bag, startled by, yet thankful for the frequent flashes of lightning that illuminated the inside of the tent, allowing me to see what I was doing. I collected my pack and shotgun, and then sat in soaking wet misery with them in my lap above the freezing cold puddle soaking my butt.

The storm stopped as suddenly as it began, the wind and rain tapering off and then gone, leaving behind a man shivering cold in the glow of the rising sun.

I was stunned by my circumstances, angry with the gods for dumping this calamity on me, but when my teeth began chattering and my legs started cramping I knew I had to leave the tent and do what I could do to improve my condition.

I found I’d rescued my backpack in time to prevent the contents from a soaking. Stiff and chilled to the bone, I worked my way out of my soggy clothing. There was no dry place to sit, and I know I made a comical scene as I staggered with poor balance out of my clinging wet pants and into a dry pair. I peeled off my tee shirt and put on a new one and then a sweater.

By luck last evening, I’d thrown my coat on top of the pack. Except for one wet sleeve, it was dry.

My boots were soaked. I poured the water out and took them, along with my backpack and wet clothing, back through the woods to the asphalt roadway.

The energy expended to dress and then the trek to the road had warmed me. The sun topped the trees and the sky was full of broken, scattering clouds as though to give lie to the tempest I’d endured. The black asphalt already showed dry spots. I set my pack down and sat beside it.

My wrung out tee shirt served as a first rag to dry the insides of my boots. I used a towel from my pack to finish the job before putting on socks and pulling the still damp boots onto my feet.

I went back to retrieve my tent, poured the water out and then spread it on the pavement to dry. After that, I sat and cleaned the shotgun, drying it with my towel.

My hands were busy but my eyes were free to roam. Despite the last miserable hour, I was once again enthralled by the beauty of my surroundings. The thought crossed my mind; my newly reinforced love of nature was an attempt to escape the harsh realities that had recently visited me. I rejected the thought and reveled in the brightly enhanced colors the wetting rain induced to the world surrounding me. Even the pavement glowed, seeming to urge me to get moving.

I spread the wet tee shirt and towel on the pavement to soak heat. An hour later, worried the patrol might arrive before schedule, I deemed my belongings dry enough to repack and gave into that urging. After ripping the tee into strips to wrap as padding for the straps of my backpack, I hoisted it to my shoulders and headed south.

I spent the next night under the sheltering roof of a pole barn. I set my tent behind a tractor to hide it from view of the road. Another small rainstorm came during the night and wakened me. It was only a drizzle and my tent was on a high spot so no water was threatening a repeat of the night before.

The sun was up and it was much colder when I crawled from the tent. At some time during the night, the rain had turned to snow, coating the ground an inch deep.

I ate a can of stew, broke camp, and went to the road. The snow was mostly melted on the asphalt. Every day, my side was feeling better. I thought I might risk looking at it and change the bandage when I made camp again.

By noon all the snow had melted. After lunch, two cans of Vienna sausage and a small box of cheese crackers, I topped a rise and saw a house with smoke coming from the chimney. I felt no need to communicate with the occupants, but instead felt a serious need to avoid them. I left the road and kept to the trees until I was past the house.

Several hours later, I descended a long slope. At the bottom was a sign for the junction with the road where the bait and fishing gear store was located. I continued on, rounded a curve, and saw the building.

Before, when we’d stopped there to eat, there had been no vehicles in the lot. Now there were two. One was a blue Toyota, and the other a Ford Caravan. I almost fled to the woods again but curiosity took control. I did take to trees, but only to approach the building without being seen. I went to the nearest side. There was a window which I peered through.

I saw a man at the service counter. He had a propane stove sitting on it and was warming something in a small pot. I knew there had to be other people. I crept to the back of the building. There were three windows. I mounted steps to a covered porch to access them. It seemed every board I stepped on screamed for attention.

The first window had the blinds down but a small gap allowed me to see a kitchen. I wondered at that. I didn’t remember a door leading into a living area. The next window was too heavily draped to see into. The third window was easy; the slatted blinds had been raised to let in light.

The purpose of the light was to allow the man the ability to see to commit his atrocity. Lying on a bed, her hands tied to the headboard and her spread legs tied to the footboard was a slim, blonde woman. The low sun shone directly into the room. I could see her battered face and bruises on her naked body.

Shocked, not only by what I had seen, but because I felt by looking, I was in a sense violating her too, I jerked back from the window.

I felt a rage overtake me that made me shake. I could feel my hands clenched tight to the shotgun.

I left the porch and went back to the side window. The man was still at the service counter, preparing his supper, for all appearances a completely normal person who didn’t have a woman held captive in another room.

The animal in me aimed my shotgun at his head and pulled the trigger. At such close range the hail of buckshot barely spread. The man’s head seemed to burst as the force of the blast slammed him back to collapse behind the counter.

Not positive the man was alone, I dashed back to the window of the room holding the woman and used the stock of the shotgun to smash the window. The woman’s terrified eyes were on me.

I shouted to her, “How many men were there?”

My panic must have been evident because her answer was prompt.

“One. Only one.”

“Stay there, I’ll be right in.”

As I raced to the front entrance, I thought how stupid my words must have sounded to her. Pistol in hand, I stopped at the counter and leaned over it to see the man. Almost headless, I knew he was dead. I slowed down and searched for the door I’d not seen the first time I’d been there. It was located by the door to the restroom. I may have simply written it off because most places have a men’s and women’s restroom.

The door let me into a small living room. It was the room with the heavy drapes covering the window. I knew the door to the right led to the bedroom. I went to it and knocked.

“Who’s there?” The woman asked.

Caught flatfooted by the question, I stuttered my name, “Ralph.”

“My name is Wanda. What do you want, Ralph?”

Again, I was at a loss. “Lady, you’re confusing me. I thought I’d untie you.”

“Well that makes us even. Stay there, my ass. How the hell did you expect me to go somewhere? Yes, please come in and untie me.”

I opened the door and entered, trying not to look at her. The woman’s eyes were on me as I approached.

“I was never so glad to hear a gunshot in my life. I admit I was worried you might be as bad as him, but bad people don’t knock.”

I stumbled on the carpet and had to jog a step to keep my balance.

“Christ, Ralph, you’ve already seen me. Pay attention and stop trying to avoid looking at me. Do my hands first. He tied them so tight, they’re numb.”

Despite her admonishment, I still avoided looking at her as I undid the tight knots on the ropes binding her hands to the thick wooden slats of the headboard.

“What’d you use on him, it sounded like a cannon.”

“A twelve gauge shotgun loaded with buckshot.”

Her hands freed, she spoke again. “That’d do him alright. Now you can leave the room. I can get to the ropes on my feet.”

I stood and went to the door. She said to my back as I left the room, “Ralph. Thank you for being a gentleman. I’ll be out as soon as I’m dressed.”

I went to the counter and looked into the pot sitting on a burner atop a small, squat propane bottle. The man had some sort of stew cooking and a delicious odor wafted to my nose. It was gently boiling, bubbles rising to the top to raise small domes in the thick broth. I turned the control off and went to the shelving of the store to find plastic bowls and spoons.

When Wanda came from the room, I had two bowls of the stew cooling on the counter.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

“Hell yeah, but I need to wash first. I can feel the bastards spurt on my thighs. You got any water? This place is bone dry.”

She must have seen me blush. “Damn, Ralph. Were you raised in a convent?”

I slid my backpack to the floor and fished for a bottle of water. “No, but I was raised in a home where people, especially women didn’t use foul language. Would it hurt you to tone it down?”

“For you, Ralph, my savior, I will. Where’s the bastard’s body?”

So much for her ‘toning it down’. I pointed over the counter. She stepped to the edge and looked over. “You blew his fucking head off. Jesus Christ, are you going to eat standing here?”

I didn’t have time to answer.

“You know what, it doesn’t matter does it. He’s dead and we’re alive so that means he doesn’t exist anymore for us. I’m eating here, too.”

The truth in her words struck me. “You’re right. His kind needs to be dead. Once dead, better forgotten. The only dead ones that matter are the good people who are gone. They deserve to be remembered.”

“Good for you, Ralph. I think you and I will get along for the short term.”

“Short term?”

“Yep. I don’t have need for company, man, or woman. I travel alone.”

“Don’t you think you’ll be safer with other people?”

“I made a mistake trying to rest in comfort. I got soaked to the bone the other night and last night I thought to ride out the rain in here. From now on, I’m sticking to the forest. No more people places.”

“Where are you headed?” I asked.

“North. I have people in North Carolina I want to check on. Then I’ll mosey south down to the Georgia line just north of Tallassee. I have folks down there and some over in Alabama.”

“Are you planning to use Highway 129?”

“I am, why? Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”

I began to tell her about the Bradford Clan.

“Hold up, Ralph. I really do feel funky. I’ll duck out of sight and wash. You can tell me about that gang of trash while we eat.” She took the water bottle from the counter. “You seen any paper towels?”

I pointed to a row of shelving.

When she returned, I saw she’d managed to clean most of the blood from her face, but the meager supply of water wasn’t sufficient to wash what had run from her nose into her hair.

“The sonofabitch broke my fucking nose. Thirty-two years of beatings and now my face is disfigured. Ralph, after we eat I’m going to have you pull it back as straight as you can. Now tell me about the Bradford Clan.” 

I told her about the young dead couple and about the Clan members I’d seen patrolling.

“They’re claiming an awful lot of land,” she said, referring to the sign I told her about. If they’re patrolling the roads so regular, there have to be a lot of them. I understand you wanting to kill them, but you’ll likely change your mind once you get all the way to South Georgia.”

“Maybe, but I don’t feel like I will.”