The Obligate Carnivore
Beads of rain like cut glass slammed his cheek. Littlefield cracked open the door to his motel room and slithered inside. He slammed it before the night rain and the dirty amber light from outside had a chance to expose the worn, low pile carpet and the pilled bedspread on the lumpy mattress. He turned the bolt in the door, fastened the hasp, fumbled for the light switch. He walked to the bathroom, grabbed a bath towel and came back to the door. He sealed the crack at the bottom to keep the air in the room inside, and to keep all the other air outside. Littlefield ripped open the drape and made sure the windows held their seal. He pulled duct tape from his medical bag and sealed the edges of the windows, just to make sure. He drew the drapes shut and taped them to the walls. He taped the heat registers and the intake on the air conditioner. He exhumed wads of cotton from his bag and plugged the faucets, then taped them, too. Littlefield stared in the mirror. Yoke-colored eyes followed his gaunt fingers as they swept his dirty gray beard. The hair swirled out of his nose and ears. The dewlaps and goiters and pock marks, the ochre-yellow parchment of his skin no longer disenchanted him. He hadn’t bathed in years but he’d long ago grown immune to his own stench. It kept people at bay; people who might ask questions. He’d grown calloused to the motel clerk’s flinch or the little girl’s point and whisper in the line at Walgreens where he’d go for hydrogen peroxide and cotton and duct tape. Littlefield no longer craved the company of the human, much less their approval. Luxuries like reputation and companionship mattered nothing when you scrapped for your soul every day, when you fought for the soul of every man, woman and child on the planet. # Littlefield sat on the edge of the bed and listened to rain thrum the window while the wind shuddered the door. He waited for Koinet, his Spotter, and sometimes he would wait days, weeks. A Spotter’s methods were obscure and tedious and the Spotter could not be rushed. The Spotter’s quarry, the geist dieb, was extremely difficult to detect. In different cultures, that quarry went by different names. In Peru, the shaman called it el ladron de la alma. The Romans called it anima praedonis. Each of the 7,000 tongues of humanity had its own name for the soul thief. To distinguish the matured organism from its nymph stage, some just called it soul-thief. It had spent over a billion years evolving to hide in plain view. 5,000 years ago, humans became aware of the soul-thief, first along the East African rift, then along the Yellow River, the Indus River Valley, and the Nile. Men devised means to detect their ancient enemy. A special caste of mystics, the Reclaimers, rose up to hunt them down. Reclaimers were either Spotters, like Koinet, or Deliverers. Littlefield was a Deliverer. Each Deliverer had a Spotter, and only death would separate them. While he’d still been a boy, the elders of his Maasai tribe had selected Koinet to learn the divining method by which he could detect a soul-thief. It had taken 25 years to perfect his craft. The Spotter seemed a cross between a spy’s handler and a shaman. He combined the methods of a tracker with the rites of a witch. He kept secret the ceremony he used to find his prey. It remained arcane and foolproof. Koinet could not be rushed. And once Koinet found his victim, he contacted Littlefield. No matter what continent Littlefield happened to trek across at that particular moment, Littlefield had to go. “Professor Littlefield,” Koinet would say in his fluid African English. “We have found a target for you.” That invitation filled Littlefield with terror no matter how many times he heard the words, for Littlefield knew what came next: he would rendezvous to the safehouse where Koinet directed him. And he would bring his duct tape and his cotton balls and his disinfectant and especially, Littlefield would need to bring his killing tools with him, the ones with which he had liquidated many thieves of the soul. The duties of a Spotter included keeping a kill count for his Deliverer. The medieval English had called it a devil’s tally. To the ancient Han, it was a ghost count. The pre-colonial Hindu called it the unnumbered unborn. All of today’s Spotters, no matter their culture, called it a kill card. But Littlefield did more than kill. He liberated. He delivered. His act was at once destructive and creative. When a Deliverer liquidated a soul-thief, the Deliverer reclaimed the soul of the host. The Spotter then released it according to the strict prescriptions called for by a secret Book of the Dead shared by all cultures for over 5,000 years. Because of this release, Spotters and Delivers called each successful hunt, a reclaim. Littlefield, now the oldest and so the loneliest and wildest of all the Deliverers, also owned the longest kill card. In a world where the humans whom they parasitized didn’t know that soul-thieves even existed, his feat earned him neither accolade nor recompense. Littlefield roamed his world as an alien. Over time, a Deliverer suffered dilution effects. He had difficulty recognizing his own reflection. His signature bore no resemblance to itself from signing to signing. Fingerprints and even DNA became indistinct. So much the better, in case he ever was caught. But the soul of a Deliverer leeched away. His personality spread thin across his face until he neither smiled nor grimaced. Food became tasteless. Color faded from the eye. Music ceased to stir the heart. Littlefield lived only to burnish the hope that one day, he and his kind would eradicate the soul-thieves and their kind. Then, his own dark caste would have saved the human soul from a perpetual parasitism. And so, as Littlefield hunched at the foot of his bug-riddled bed and his dirty pewter skin met no boundary with the darkness which devoured his vision, he kindled yet a stick of hope. The phone rang. Littlefield flinched and his limbs felt pricked by a million needles from the shock of the blare. "Hello?" "It’s me," the caller said. "Where?" "Just outside." Littlefield hung up. The knock came a few moments later. Littlefield wouldn’t have opened the door unless the call had come first. He cracked open the door. Koinet, ‘the Tall One,’ in Maasai, occupied the whole doorframe. He walked in without invitation. Spotters didn't need inviting. Koinet dropped down into the pea green chair in the corner. His huge palms splayed on the armrests and seemed to read the pilled texture like Braille. His dreadlocks, tinged with the rusty hue of the soil from his homeland, swept over his rippling, weathered forearms. Those hands had once hunted a lion as Koinet's rite of passage into manhood. But something had gone wrong during the hunt. Koinet's lion, a prideless, two-year male with a scruffy black mane, had wandered the veldt in a sibship coalition of two other males. That lion had killed and eaten his own brother. Then, the lion had nestled at the base of an acacia tree and made itself easy quarry. Someone from the right-handed side of the Maasai people, the Enaloishi e taene of the six clans, competed with Koinet's hunting party and killed the young male before Koinet had a chance. This someone, Simel, did a bad thing after he killed the lion. He sold the carcass to a poacher for bushmeat. Koinet and his clan were left-handed side people. They would never do such a thing. All those who ate the meat of that lion became cursed. For the lion Simel killed had not been a real lion after all. It was a demon, a soul-thief, and its whole end and aim within the body of that lion was to see itself captured, killed, and eaten. Then, it became the creatures that ate it; from the inside-out. Cell-by-cell, it became the men who partook of its flesh, beginning with their hearts, turning their blood to a soulless and tepid soup. Then it moved up, washing out the tints of their eyes, rewiring their neurons, reordering the hippocampi and amygdales in their brains, recreating in perfect symmetry the ability of the brain to perceive a world in color and in three dimensions, yet not one of beauty or ugliness. Nerve cell by nerve cell, the infection worked from the bottom up to reconstruct an olfactory sense that sniffed at almonds but could not work up a desire for them. Those who ate of the lion became men without souls, and so men without any desire but one: to hunt down and kill and eat another man as their own rite of passage. They became carnivora obligata, the obligate carnivore. The soulless thing, the creature in its inchoate phase, had various names. In the days before science, they called it a foundling. Today, ‘nymph’ was a more popular term, borrowed from the word used to describe the pre-adult stage of some insects which underwent an incomplete metamorphosis. The nymph searched out another of its own species and consumed it. It assumed the soul of that animal which it killed and ate. Then, it worked its way up the food chain by allowing itself to be eaten by animals more highly evolved than itself. When the nymph, maybe in the body of a lion or a cow, permitted itself to be consume by humans, it became human. Then, inhabiting the body of a human, it ate another human to acquire its soul. It became a soul-thief. From the day when he’d witnessed the curse take hold among those who ate the meat of that lion, Koinet’s life changed. He would do anything to prevent more soul thieves from entering the world through the bodies of men. # Dr. Benjamin Littlefield had tried for tenure at Columbia University 30 years before, but a professor needed to publish, or perish. With dueling PhD's in evolutionary biology and cultural anthropology, Littlefield attempted a great synthesis of the two fields. He pioneered the field of evolutionary anthropology, yet no one ever saw his work. Thirty years ago, Littlefield studied traditional medicinal practices along the Albertine Rift of East Africa. He had paid a tribal elder so that he could witness a ritual of which he had heard rumors, but that no outsider had ever witnessed; at least not one that the outsider had survived to tell others of. Back then, Littlefield had received a night message from a boy who had run many miles to deliver it, along with a package. “I don’t eat bushmeat,” Littlefield told the child after he opened it. “He says you must,” the boy told him. “Or you cannot see what you wish to see.” Littlefield sniffed the meat. It was just a small strip, a few bites worth. He knew it was duiker, an antelope. Its dark color suggested it was fully cooked. “It is safe to eat,” the child insisted. “Okay,” Littlefield replied. “I’ll have it a little later.” “He says I must watch you partake of it.” And he stayed until Littlefield pulled at the delicacy with his teeth, straight from the cloth wrapping. He chewed the tough steak, swallowed, pointing to his throat in an obvious way. Then the boy took the cloth and ran off into the night. Littlefield then drove far west, to a village in the Congo basin that sloped from volcanoes separating the Great Lakes like beads along the Rift. Littlefield parked his Rover. A man leaned beside the door to a grimy hut, dangling an old revolver from the colonial era, a ten-shooter. The man stood guard against hyenas which may come in the night to pick through what lay inside. It didn't take the nose of a hyena to smell the rot of meat on the other side of the door. A film of blood cast over the guard’s eyes. On his breath rolled a storm of gin. The empty bottle leaned against his gym shoe. His angular body wasted away. In form and in function, he seemed more scarecrow than man. Littlefield heard the chant of a lonely voice from inside the single-room shanty. Iron grating barred the only window. The guard opened the door, a heavy, steel-plated panel out of place on the hut. The chanting stopped. He ducked in past the guard and saw the body laid out on the table, candles casting its shadow against the white-washed wall. The dancing flames made the profile of the face seem to gesticulate, its lips to protest. But the face had no eyes; the ocular regions wiped to black spaces, just apertures with striated tissues embroidering the edges of the sockets, caused by a violent lobotomy. Through the eye sockets, the space inside the skull floated dank and empty like the ruins of an abandoned church. A blowfly crawled out from the socket and flew off. The chest of the corpse bore a long and wide wound from the Adam’s apple down through the genitals, enlarged into a valley where the heart had once beat. The region between the legs was a bloody hole. Someone had gelded the corpse. Littlefield spotted a shadow in the corner and wheeled quickly. A man sat in dirt, a dirt wetted to paste by a goo which dangled from between the man’s fingers. The man kept his face down. His jaws balanced over his hands. The man chewed on the organs exhumed from the corpse. Littlefield stilled his breath, his body. He closed his eyes, swallowed, a little boy hiding from a monster in the insufficiency of shadows. He glimpsed the monster’s face. The candles' amber flickers painted the gray matter and blood smeared across the lips the uniform color of bile. The eater hunched with a plump belly, and didn't even seem to notice him. Littlefield reached into his pocket, pulled out a notebook and wrote down everything. He described in detail the strange, claw-like tapering of the creature’s nails and the remnants of flesh which still clung to them. Those nails had gouged out the eyes, the brain, and sliced open the sternum of its victim like a crude knife. Dewclaws on the insides of the creature’s wrists made it into a were-thing. After about an hour of writing, as quietly as he could, Littlefield moved to the door and gave it a nudge. It wouldn’t give. Through the crack in the door, he saw that the sentry had gone. Littlefield pushed and pulled on the knob, making more and more noise. The creature in the corner didn’t seem to hear Littlefield shout for help. Someone had paid the guard, not to keep hyenas out, but to lock Littlefield in. That someone was Koinet. Littlefield took up the opposing corner in that shack and kept himself awake that night. Someone had left a pail of water for him to drink. The foundling opposite him fell into a torpor, its head down, its limbs limp. Over time, the claws shriveled and fell off. Flies lit upon the corpse on the table. The reek grew so heavy that Littlefield threw up. The sunrise that flowed through the barred window revealed a dark triangle shape near the door. In the night, someone had slid something under the door: a leather holster, an old, old revolver, the one the sentry had held the night before. Heavy, iron-forged, it felt too big for one hand. Littlefield fiddled with it and opened the wheel and saw the 10 chambers, each with a bullet docked inside. He sighed, relieved. He spent the next three days and nights locked in that hut, practicing how to use it. Littlefield had a watch and he noted the changes like a researcher would describe mold on a petri-dish: the skin of the foundling hardening, desiccating, and waxing over in a thin film. The face and body became blunted. Gill slits slowly appeared, then just as gradually disappeared, on the sides of its throat. The features sharpened into a man again. It was difficult to tell, but it seemed at one point that the body on the table and the nymph in the corner had the same face. Finally, after 73 hours, in a moon that washed through the window and etched the shadows of the iron bars onto the opposite wall, while Littlefield fought sleep, the foundling’s head rose. The uniform gray in its eyes coalesced into irises. The statuesque face came alive with winces of pain, with frowns and smiles alternating in rapid sequence, like a robot testing its equipment. The blind eyes now saw. The ears pricked to the distant bark of a hyena. The face brewed with intention. This marked the final transit of the soul from the corpse which lay on the table into the nymph which had eaten it. This marked the time when the nymph changed from an it into a he, into a soul-thief. The soul-thief’s eyes lit upon Littlefield. His mouth stretched into a leather-lipped grimace. The soul-thief stood. His joints crackled. He walked toward Littlefield in painful steps. He reached down toward Littlefield and grabbed his neck. Littlefield didn’t realize how hard it would be to fire a weapon, even at a monster. The soul-thief strangled him with wraithlike fingers, his lion’s breath heaving in Littlefield’s face. Littlefield jabbed the weapon into the belly of the geist dieb and fired once. The skin split as if the man’s integument had been fabricated of wet paper. Cold, moonsilvered blood leached onto Littlefield’s fingers. Viscera spilled onto the barrel of his gun and lubricated the old metal. The soul-thief fell in a blanket over him, the arms sprawled on the hut’s floor in an unintentional embrace of his own killer. Littlefield pushed the starved body off of him. It seemed flimsy, made of paper machete. Littlefield wondered if he couldn’t have killed the creature with his hands. He tried the door again, cried for help, but only heard the night croaks of giant bullfrogs in a nearby slough, the warping cry of the hyena far off on the savannah. He wiped the flesh of the geist dieb from himself. The soul thief’s body lay on its back, its lower abdomen a concavity. Littlefield thought of all the tales of were-things and vampiric forms, of zombies and golems, which crossed from the deep past into now, migrating from village huts into the cities of men. Men’s minds had dreamed them up. Only myth had dressed the phantasms with muscle and skin. Never had the demons which Littlefield studied stood before him in a scientific sense, and looked him in the eye, and breathed their rancid breath over his face like the kiss of death’s angel. He had to make sure that this creature wouldn’t move against him. He emptied the remainder of the bullets into the corpse’s chest, hoping that the sound of gunfire would draw a villager to the shed. Then, like a samurai in the method of seppuku, he stabbed the long barrel of the ten-shooter into its belly and traced the four sides of a square, excavating wider and wider until he’d eviscerated the creature. Littlefield stumbled to the far side of the shack, as far from either corpse as he could get. In the gloom, he heard carrion beetles scratch across the soil to and from their finds. And, hoping for morning, he curled into a cat’s shape and fell out over a great hole into sleep. Koinet had needed an outsider. He’d needed someone who could comprehend this terrible mystery, and who would join the war against the soul-thieves. On his third fevered night in that shack, Littlefield wrestled back and forth between the hypnogogic remains of consciousness and horrible dreams of dismemberment. He struggled to stay awake ‘til dawn, but the visions sewed shut his eyes and pulled him into their smothering quietus. Shorn images of Littlefield disemboweling the man-thing, holding its heart to the sky like a grail, blood snaking down his arms. The wet sounds of the ravaging of a body, the warping snarls of mastication punctuated the fevered night vision. After a time he could not measure, light pried at his eyes. His fever had broken. Sunlight flooded the shanty. The door stood open. Flies swarmed everywhere in uneasy waves, making chainsaw noise that built into a rile when he rolled onto his hands and knees. He looked over at the body of the cannibal. It was not as he remembered it. Sometime during the night, the hyena had come to do its work. The scavenger had gnawed off the face. The hyena dragged the corpse around the shack, painting a messy trail of blood and remains. The flies flowed in currents and lighted on Littlefield, mistaking him for one of the dead. He crawled toward the day, cloyed at the doorframe, pulled himself up, and shambled into the sunlight. He escaped across the deserted village with his tattered and blood-soaked journal in his back pocket. He had seen all that Koinet had wanted him to see. Through the bloodrite, Littlefield had become Deliverer. # On a cool savannah night along the upland shores of Lake Albert, Littlefield hid in his own hut. He shivered and recollected what he’d seen the nights before. A fever came upon him again this night, and he knew he had caught some disease from the cadavers in the shanty while he’d been prisoner. The nearest doctor was in Goma, a city too far, too dangerous to visit. He drank water and it tamped the heat in him, and he felt a small calm over the fact that he kept the water down. At least he wouldn’t die of dehydration. A wrap on his door and the wind rose and the door seemed to open on its own. So many things acting of their own volition, from the lifeless body of a man to a door in the wind. Littlefield’s science meant less and less. Koinet stood in the doorframe. He walked in without an invite and sat on the thin, plastic mat raised on wooden blocks that served as Littlefield’s bed. “Is it alright with you if I sit here?” he whispered kindly. Littlefield stared at the man. Was he the guard who’d kept Littlefield in the hut the last three days? No. No, this man stood tall and muscled. “I have a gun,” Littlefield croaked. “You will need an army.” Littlefield chuckled in fragile self-defense, too delirious to really care. “Not an army against myself,” Koinet elaborated. “But against what you witnessed over the last three nights.” “What I saw…” Littlefield murmured, fumbling for a response. He suspected Koinet might be a government officer, maybe a policeman investigating cannibalism. Maybe that duiker meat he’d been tricked into eating before the ceremony had been an entrapment. He’d blame Littlefield for setting the whole thing up and Littlefield would die in prison. “What I saw over the last three nights was part of my research.” Koinet toyed with a tassel that hung from the corner of the blanket on the mat. “What you saw was part of something much more glorious or horrible than research, depending on your perspective.” “What do you want?” “It takes two to make one, Doctor.” In his delirium, Littlefield interpreted the cryptic statement as a request for a bribe to keep himself out of jail. “How much? How much do you want?” Koinet laughed loud enough to shake the stale water in the drinking glass on the corner table. “Every Anglo thinks every African is corrupt.” He laughed again, this time softer, getting the last of it out, sending a distant gaze out somewhere through the window into the night. “Once one of them enters the body of a man from a lower creature of which the man has partaken, it destroys. It enters the body of its host in a way that rewrites the soul, and a soul rewritten is a soul erased. Since a body needs a soul to truly live, it eats another man in the ritual way you observed three nights past. In so doing, Doctor, the cannibal acquires the spirit of the one consumed. This transit of the soul from the consumed to the consumer requires a rite, and yet, your science can explain it just as well from the opposite pole of perception,” Koinet said. He betrayed in his erudition a formal education from a South African university. “Only someone with your own background could accept this.” The wind moaned, shaping its fingers around the hut, flinging open the door and bleeding the pewter gloom of night on the dirt floor. Koinet stood and closed it. “Only I would accept what?” Littlefield said. “That the being which you witnessed three eves past is a primordial one, more ancient than man himself. Much older.” “I don’t believe in the voodoo rites,” Littlefield said, ”except as an object of study.” “Then believe in this: a creature that jumps from one species to another by allowing itself to be hunted and consumed by its predator.” “That would be a form of parasitism.” “And is not the parasite an ancient creature?” Littlefield knew that in this part of the continent, a parasitic hookworm stopped children from growing, and turned them into ‘zombies.’ What if other parasites could induce the trancelike state he’d witnessed in the hut? Koinet was dressed in boots and a black leather duster. His clothing marked him as a traveler, not a villager. He pulled out a Meerschaum pipe that he’d strapped to the inside of one boot; a teak-stained, African block bowl carved in the shape of a lion’s head. He retrieved a pouch of Latakia tobacco from inside the other boot. He lit the pipe. The heavy smoke lingered blue in the moonbeams. “The organism has a goal: to become apex predator of each niche it occupies,” Koinet said in crisp whispers that danced in and out of the smoke. “It works its way up, rather than down. It evolves, becoming the creature which consumes it.” “Evolution can’t work that fast. You don’t know. You’re not trained,” Littlefield said, wary of dismissing such a large man. “Evolution can happen in a single generation. You know this.” He puffed on his pipe. “A mutation can. But mutations are random occurrences, and most are selected against. Most mutations are harmful, or at best, harmless. Few are actually beneficial. That’s why natural selection takes as long as it does to produce changes.” “In the way most understand it, yes. In classical evolution. Yet you were chosen, Doctor, you were selected in part because of your openness to new understanding,” Koinet said. He breathed out the smoke which seemed like dust recycled from the floor. “A creature that shifts shape, that assumes the form of the organism which consumes it, that creature simply employs the device of accelerated mutation, which is always beneficial. Bacteria can mutate into new, drug-resistant forms in a few generations. A virus can mutate millions of times within a single host due to its inability to replicate properly from one generation to the next. This means its transmission vector can change from, say, blood-borne to airborne in a few days.” “But that doesn’t apply to multi-cellular organisms,” Littlefield said, relaxing, intrigued, his sense of danger passing. “Open your mind, Doctor.” Littlefield knew that all organisms that possess bilateral symmetry – the trait of identical appendages on both sides of the body – were very similar genetically. In the Cambrian profusion in which these creatures arose, more and diverse life forms came into being that at any other time before or since. The most successful body type to arise back then possessed bilateral symmetry. The bilaterians gave rise to the arthropods, the amphibians, the reptiles, birds, mammals, and fish. They’d been wildly successful. Genetically and developmentally, all bilaterians were closely related. Only a few mutations made all the difference between a spider and a monkey, or between a spider monkey and a man. In the prenatal development of a human, the fetus seemed to undergo the course of the evolution of all of life, even developing what appear as gill slits at one point. A few mutations on key switching genes, called epi-genes, could transform a frog into a horse if it happened at the right phase in the prenatal course. Still, Koinet’s shape-shifting hypothesis fit more into mythology than science. Littlefield shook his head. “Amongst all the creatures,” Koinet said, “human beings possess the impermeable quality of closed-mindedness, be it in their theology or their science.” Littlefield smiled and wrapped his hands around the armrests of the wicker chair in which he sat. “Prove it.” “Ocham’s Razor,” Koinet said. “You are familiar with it?” “What scientist isn’t? The Law of Parsimony holds that the simplest explanation to describe a phenomenon is the most plausible, and is to be applied to explain that phenomenon. The law is medieval.” “The law still holds?” Littlefield gave his acknowledgement with a slight nod. He sat as a one-man peer review committee. He had the power to accept or reject a hypothesis for a change. “The creature of which I speak has existed as a life form since the very beginning of life. It is neither supernatural nor alien. It is wholly ordinary and even commonplace. It has evolved along with us, evolved with and into and out of every life form which has ever existed, creating phantom copies of each living thing. How can you question that which predates you, and that which has been a part of the background of life since its inception?” “And its method of assimilation?” “It invades the body on a cellular level as a strand of RNA coated in material designed to conceal it from the body’s immune system. It hijacks the reproductive machinery of the cell and makes a copy itself.” Littlefield knew that a virus did something similar. So did the ant mimic, a spider which wore the chemical signature of an ant colony as a form of chainmail, then proceeded to devour its hosts, one at a time. “And when did this bizarre ritual of viral cannibalism evolve into the man-eating form which you made me watch?” “It evolved the consciousness of a lion when lions evolved, the consciousness of an ape when apes evolved, and the consciousness of a human when humans evolved. All it need do is be eaten by its host, then eat another of the same species to acquire its soul.” “It doesn’t explain the rite I witnessed back in that hut.” Koinet finished his smoke and emptied the dottle from the heel of his pipe on the heel of his giant boot. He crossed his long, heavily corded arms in front of his chest and put his hand to his chin, propping it up studiously with his fingers. “Oh, but it does explain the ceremony you saw, Doctor. The human needs to eat no less than the ape or the lion. Yet the human designs rituals to go along with the hunt, to assure its success. And the human fashions great ceremonies around the eating of its kill. If human’s need ritual, why wouldn’t something that hunts us and assumes our form and our very spirit also use rites?” “And partaking of a creature’s vital organs to assume its soul? Why would a thing need ritual for that?” “The paramecium, a single-celled creature, may not have a soul, or at least a soul to our way of thinking. But a man is of another order. When the creature of which we speak assumes the form of zebra, becoming it from inside-out, one cell at a time, it wipes away the conscious template of that organism. In humans, this sentient template has assumed its most potent form, a form we call a soul. Without a soul, an organism is no more than a numb and purposeless entity. And so, the creature which you observed in that hut consumed another member of its own species in order to acquire its soul.” “Then it moves up the evolutionary chain,” Littlefield concluded. Littlefield settled into a contemplative quiet after that, fitting together incongruent pieces of knowledge: why those under the spell of what Westerner’s called the voodoo cult became zombies; how viruses took over a cell; how master genes – epigenetic switches – could dramatically alter the form and even the species of a creature simply by turning on and off at the right time in development; how other genes turned caterpillars into butterflies at crucial larval instars; why cannibalism was practiced in almost all pre-agricultural societies since the beginnings of humanity; and why cannibalistic behavior could be observed in many other species. All of this could be explained with what Koinet had told him. It consolidated and synthesized a vast body of disparate phenomenon. Yet the confirming proof for which Littlefield searched had taken place over the span of the last 72 hours, while he watched a spellbound man eat the vital organs of another man and then assume the particularities of a personality. Over the next few days, Koinet would return to Littlefield’s shack many times, bringing fresh water and medicine to help Littlefield over his sickness. When Littlefield returned to America, Koinet visited him at the university, and they had long discussions over pipe smoke and brandy in which Koinet answered every question Littlefield had about the soul-thief. Only Koinet could satisfy Littlefield’s curiosity in fields biological and anthropological. Slowly, he drew Littlefield away from his chosen profession. Koinet then turned him out in the way a pimp may convince a mostly innocent woman to become his whore. # Koinet became Littlefield’s handler, assigning him spook hits all over the world. He provided Littlefield with passports, credit cards, names, addresses. Over the years, the reclaims, and the manner in which he killed the soul-thieves, had whited Littlefield’s hair to ash and flushed his eyes the color of glass reflecting back an overcast sky. A Deliverer could never marry or have children. He could only have his Spotter. He owned nothing except the silver tape and the cotton balls and the disinfectant of which Littlefield always reeked – the peroxides and alcohols and iodines or whatever seemed handy to prevent the infection of his body on a cellular level from microscopic creatures that floated like motes in the blood. More than anything, Littlefield was terrified of contamination, for it was said that, as dementia crept up upon the senile without the sufferer knowing, so the geist dieb took over the body without the foreknowledge of its host. You became it without knowing that you became it. Or rather, you became ‘not yourself,’ as the Reclaimers referred to it. The soul thief destroyed your personality molecule by molecule. So Littlefield prepared his own food. He prayed over it and irradiated it as Koinet had spent hours instructing him to do. He did this to kill off whatever errant rods of RNA may have wafted from a soul parasite onto the sleeve of his jacket or the lash of his eye during a kill. Littlefield’s hanging face, his swollen gums, and yellowed eyes betrayed the lack of meat in his diet. Once the soul-thieves established themselves in the food chain, they became harder and harder to eradicate as one went up that chain. Their RNA became stubbornly embedded into the complex proteins of the meat of vertebrates. The process was called bioamplification. For reasons unknown, plant life remained immune to the virus. As their common name implied, soul-thieves had souls. Filled with intentions and plans of their own, aware of their own lurking status among humans, the soul-thieves tracked and hunted their pursuers, the Spotters and Deliverers, and tried to destroy them before the Deliverers murdered them. To live and move and succeed in such a world, the Deliverers needed to believe they did not wage an unwinnable war. They had to convince themselves that the soul-thieves could be defeated. After all, the geist dieb were just another life form. So the Deliverers lived by an ancient maxim which they chanted before a reclaim: Behold, the parasite dies. While the host survives. How many soul-thieves lived in the societies of people, Littlefield knew not. Their only transmission vector from host to host was through ingestion; the host had to eat the flesh of an infected animal to become infected itself. Soul-thieves entered the human race by ones obligated to consume another human in a laborious ritual of man-eating, then waiting in a vulnerable torpor for three days. The transit of the soul from host to foundling, first described in the Common Book of the Dead, the secret text, was a delicate process. Many a soul slipped off into the ether before it moved involuntarily into the parasite which consumed the body in which that soul rightly lived. And so many of the eaters died in their pupa stage, without ever becoming soul-thieves. For these reasons, Littlefield assumed that the numbers of soul-thieves remained a relative fraction of humanity. After all, he only killed them one at a time, traveling across the globe from one hit to another. He thought of the mantids, the efficient predators of the insect world which had evolved so lethal a method of hunting, and which remained so voracious, that they cannibalized their own species at great rates, leaving their numbers reduced. Littlefield read the papers like everyone else and knew that cannibalism remained a rare practice. He could only guess, but he believed that the soul-thieves concealed themselves in all the other species in relatively low numbers; at bay, but preying upon their hosts nonetheless. The Spotters and the Deliverers arrayed themselves like macrophages in a vast immune system to ensure that the armies of the soul-thieves stayed small. # Littlefield sat across from the Tall One in the cold and murky motel room, the wind a choir of shrieks, the night and storm assuming the forms left to them by more solid things, defined by what the world of matter was not. Koinet dangled in his hands a purse-sized leather bag lined on the outside with chainmail. Littlefield drew back in his chair. He knew that the steel bag protected the world from what it held inside. “Say what you need to say,” Littlefield told him. He hated Koinet for what Koinet had groomed him into becoming. And at the same time, he needed Koinet. He looked forward to seeing him and telling the story of his last reclaim. What else did a Deliverer have? “We’re retiring you,” Koinet said with some reticence. Littlefield’s eyes brightened for a moment before dying down to coals. Koinet fiddled with the end of the bedspread as he had twiddled the tassel in that Lake Albert hut many years before. “We’re not allowed to retire. We’re allowed to die,” Littlefield replied. “I’d rather that.” “What, die instead?” Littlefield nodded. “You know, Ben, you’re the closest thing to a friend I have.” Koinet had never called him by his given name. The uncharacteristic familiarity suggested that Koinet prepared his Deliverer for bad news. Littlefield felt the ire simmer and flush his countenance. Loyalty muddled with betrayal within him, belonging with hate. He guessed that most whores felt that ambivalence toward their touts. “The next kill will be your last,” Koinet whispered. “I promise.” “Well,” Littlefield whispered in the scratch which his voice had become from disuse. “That’s only the second promise you’ve ever made in 30 years.” Koinet reached out with his long arm that seemed to bare the runnels of age despite his young face. He touched Littlefield’s hand, another uncharacteristic charity. “Even old soldiers come to peace,” Koinet said with a smile. Littlefield pulled his hand away and stared at Koinet as if he were soul-thief. The alienation showed itself in the twisted bark of Littlefield’s face. “Where?” Littlefield said. “Chicago.” The storm clawed the roof as it passed over the small town. The Tall One crossed his leg and pulled from his boot legging the same old African block Meerschaum pipe from which he'd smoked the first night he and Littlefield had met. From the other boot shank, he pulled out his pouch of tobacco, dipped the stem inside and fired up. As he sucked hollowly through the stem, the draft hissed the bowl’s fire. He managed a compassionate smile as he drew smoke into his cheeks. “You’re the closest thing I’ve had to a friend, too,” Littlefield admitted. A Spotter was trained not to form an attachment to his Deliverer, but when you worked together for as many years as Koinet and Littlefield had, you couldn’t help developing at least respect for each other, and in some moments more than that. Littlefield had made dozens of kills for Koinet over the years. That reflected well on the Spotter. Littlefield held out his palm, as if begging for coin. Koinet reached into his glittering, chainmail bag and pulled out a wooden death mask in the shape of a skullface. With sunken eyes which reminded Littlefield of the first corpse he’d seen in that Congolese shack, the skin on its cheeks cracked and held tears in its furrows. The red clay surface gathered light in an unexpected way, as if it were a filter that veiled another dimension. The vacuity of the eyeholes held back a dark energy, an anti-soul so cold and dark that it still made Littlefield quiver when he looked into the sockets. The mask maker had outlined the eyelets with coal. “Have you erased its memory?” he asked Koinet. He always asked Koinet that question, even though he knew the answer. Koinet would never give his Deliverer an unclean mask. Koinet nodded and his own face seemed to dissolve in the murk of his smoke. “This will be the last time you’ll need to deploy it.” His eyes peaked up through his curtain of smoke and studied Littlefield’s face. Koinet shrouded the mask back in the mail sack and handed it to Littlefield, who disposed of it in his black satchel, handling it as if it were a poisonous snake. Littlefield’s own eyes darted back and forth between the smoke-shrouded face of his Spotter and the floor. Littlefield’s lips slivered open. “Retirement. What does that mean?” Koinet straightened up to his full height in the chair and dug his hands into the armrests to support his weight. He listened to the wail of the wind and watched it jolt the door, wanting in. “There is an island. It is a peaceful place. Like heaven.” “Heaven and hell are just dreams,” Littlefield spat in a tart murmur. “When a man sleeps, dreams always come." “And you? Do you retire, then, too?” Koinet shrugged. “To be retired is an admission of uselessness.” Littlefield smiled. Better to be useless than used. “You and I are like spent shells – good for nothing,” the Tall One remarked. He shook his head and knocked the mouth of his pipe against his heel, letting the spent shag spill to the carpet. “We have been given the privilege of pulling the trigger one last time.” He held the pipe like a handgun, and it reminded Littlefield of the revolver he’d used back in the Congolese shanty to kill his very first soul-thief. “And then we rest,” Littlefield said, relieved. “Finally.” Littlefield would not look his Spotter in the eye. That would amount to a tacit admission of conscience for all the murder the two of them had conspired to commit. For soul-thieves were humans, of a kind. They’d as much right to life as the other species of hominid. Nature had selected them to live, too, side-by-side with other humans. The life of soul-thieves had roots more ancient than the ancestry of ordinary men and women. Littlefield worked up the spit in his mouth as an oyster would a pearl, drawing up the courage to stare hard into the tender eyes of his handler, a man who at moments like these seemed to read his thoughts. “We were always just following orders,” Koinet replied to the gaze. “Did you ever think about their orders? They have a mandate, too. The geist dieb is just trying to survive, just like us.” “They have a conscience.” “Yes.” “They have feelings.” “Yes. They do.” “They have been around longer than have we.” “Don’t patronize me, friend,” Littlefield said. “Lobsters have been around longer than the human,” said Koinet, “yet we routinely boil them alive and listen to their screams as we wait at table to consume them.” Littlefield felt a fool for ever believing that this war, waged man by man and stone by stone, ever seemed winnable. We were always just following orders. Trapped in the logic of battle which only made sense to a warrior, Koinet’s fatal and twisted rationale took on an internal consistency like a kind of mathematics. Only a philosopher could question the initial assumptions of that logic, and Littlefield knew that he and his tall friend had grown too old and long in the order of battle to question the reasons for war. “We are hereby charged with crimes against the life force,” Koinet whispered. “Being that all life has an inalienable right to exist, regardless of origin or form, we are therefore charged with the crime of extermination of that life force called anima praedonis, also known as the soul-thief.” In announcing his indictment, Koinet had lost all pretense of his usual mordant mien. Now, they looked into each other’s husked eyes as old friends might. “You and I shall prosecute this final reclaim. Then, I’ll meet you on that island, Ben.” # The storm finally passed. Koinet slept in the chair in the corner, covering his long legs with his leather duster. Littlefield lay on the bed, closed his eyes. All he could see were the fires that lapped the bodies of his dead like the tongues of lions. The brightness jarred his eyes open. When he dreamed, it was always of fire. The last winds from the storm rankled the door one more time. Littlefield watched the door. Soul-thieves had their own Deliverers, their own Spotters who tried to slay the Reclaimers before they themselves were slain. A rare meeting between a Spotter and his Deliverer marked a prime chance to kill two for the price of one. # The Spotter tracked the quarry. The Deliverer moved in for the kill. A Spotter spent more time tracking than a Deliverer did in the hit. The foundling, the soulless man, owned neither a name nor a number. He didn’t marry or work. He lurked in alleys, under bridges, squatted in burned out buildings, waiting for his prey - usually a homeless man or a tweaker, sometimes a whore – the kind of people who died anyway, who wouldn’t be missed, at least for a while. The soulless one in his nymph stage stalked the kind of human who didn’t attract much attention. The foundling didn't choose its victim rationally any more than a snake did. A nymph in its instar of incomplete metamorphosis had no logic to deploy. Its brain was offline, awaiting the animating principle of the soul which it hunted. Like a snake, it could only behave according to a preprogrammed survival structure housed in the brainstem. The nymph could detect a victim of its own species. It could “interrogate” a soul in the way a viper could detect the heat off a dormouse with the piths in its cheeks. The foundling then waited until that organism was alone. Then, it liberated the soul of that animal by releasing the force centers – the whorls of energy which corresponded to the crown and third eye chakras, the heart chakra, and the sacral chakra. The chakras had different names in different cultures, but mystical bodies of knowledge in the Dharmic as well as the Abrahamic traditions recognized these vortices of subtle matter. The chakras served as fulcrums of energy. The heart chakra corresponded to the human heart. The crown and third eye vortices corresponded roughly with the brain, the sacral chakra with the genitalia. The brains and the genitals were the rough organ analogues to the chakras themselves. By partaking of these organs in the correct order, the soulless creature liberated the spirit from the man it consumed. And so, its ritual served a logical purpose. The Reclaimer caste learned about the bardo from the Common Book of the Dead. In the various dimensions of the bardo which souls inhabited after bodily death, the disembodied souls searched for new bodies to which to adhere. Some call them walk-ins, others refer to it as possession. The lost soul craves corporeal form. Once the nymph pried the soul from the body of its victim by opening the chakras, that soul transited to the nearest body. The homeless soul, like a homeless person, will seek shelter, and the body of the pre-metamorphic soul-thief was the nearest dwelling. Koinet would provide Littlefield a rough location of the nymph. He would give Littlefield the death mask, and the death mask did the rest of the tracking. By placing that horrible mask over his own face, Littefield could detect the imago – the aura of the human soul - as easily as the soulless one could. During this phase of the Deliverer’s hunt, the mask served as a detector. Through the apertures in the eyelets of the mask, Littlefield saw the auras of normal men. Every living thing possessed this aura, all except for the nymph, the incompletely metamorphosed soul-thief. Only eyes without a soul can detect a body without one. When Littlefield put on that mask, his own soul abandoned him. The terror of that abnegation, of knowing in the pit of your pit that you are no one, couldn’t match anything Littlefield had ever felt. In the Common Book of the Dead, this bardo was described as a dreamstate of hell. Yet, it was the only way. After he’d surveilled his victim, a Deliverer needed only to wait. He appropriated the very method of predation as the soul-thief. He became prey, his own lure. He was the goat tied under a tree, waiting for the tiger. He was the hunter in the blind, waiting for his tiger. A soulless foundling required human bait. Littlefield was that bait. When the Deliverer acted as bait to attract his prey, he was called the Devil’s Decoy. He followed his prey until his prey followed him. He lured the foundling into an abandoned building or under a bridge, always to a lonely place, and waited. When the unsouled creature tried to kill and cannibalize, Littlefield would strike first. Sometimes, Littlefield arrived too late. Sometimes he walked in after the soulless one had already killed someone else, and the three-day transit of the victim's soul had already begun. In that metamorphic stage, the soulless one was called a quiescent. The quiescent would lie dormant in the safest place it could find, usually with its gaunt arms wrapped over a down-dropped head, its legs folded against the abdomen in a protective pose. Then Littlefield would deploy the death mask in a different way, as a false body. The soul would transit from the original victim into the mask instead of transiting into the body of the quiescent. The Spotter imbued the mask with an attractant that made it irresistible to the disembodied soul, and so the mask collected souls like a spider’s web collected flies. The false body held the soul. The false body could create very bad trouble for whoever held it, unless the soul which it trapped was exorcised from the mask. More than a few times, when a Spotter did not correctly perform this expulsion ritual, the soul remained in the mask and killed the Spotter or Deliverer who next put it on. But Koinet was a good Spotter. He performed his expurgation rites with a precision that would impress any shaman. Spotter’s were medicine men. Deliverer’s tended to come from science backgrounds. The compliment to a Spotter’s traditional medicine was the science of his Deliverer. Subjects like anatomy, epidemiology, and infectious diseases came in handy for Deliverers. They needed to honor universal precautions to avoid contamination. They needed to reclaim clean, and a decontaminant death was similar to one which would leave no evidence – cruel and sterile. Since the soul-thief existed – lived its life – on a cellular level as well as on the order of a multi-cellular creature, all of its body, every single cell, needed to be completely eradicated. Several methods existed among the Deliverers to effectuate this: acid baths had been popular in the 20th century. So were explosions which vaporized every cell. In modern times, they'd even experimented with encasement in amber and other hardening polymers. Yet of all the methods tried, the simplest, most effective way to ensure the complete destruction of a soul-thief’s tissues was through immolation. It had remained the most common method of extermination for over 5,000 years. Since the dawn of this ancient war, Deliverers burned soul-thieves as they'd burned witches. A small fraction of witches persecuted since ancient times had, in fact, been geist dieb. Men often laid the bricks of their superstitions over meager laths of truth. Over three decades, the method of Littlefield’s hunt did not vary: Koinet would identify the target and its location. It took a long time to identify the gesit dieb from among the throngs of normal humans. Littlefield would then kill the body in ways that minimized blood spatter and the dispersal of human tissue. Sometimes he'd strangle them; sometimes he'd suffocate them. He'd used poisons, crossbows (too messy). He’d used his old revolver. He’d buried his victims alive, burned them in vats of acid. It seemed cruel, but the stakes were the survival of the human race. The good news for a Deliverer was that the soul-thief did not possess superhuman strength. It had no physical ability that an ordinary human did not. Rarely, Littlefield made of his victims a living pyre. But to burn it alive, the victim needed to be away from combustible materials so that innocent lives weren’t sacrificed in a larger conflagration. Littlefield found live immolation too difficult and he’d only used it twice: once in a desert in Mexico; another time on a Russian freighter in the Southern Ocean. Littlefield didn't know how other Deliverers executed their prey since he'd never met one. Each Spotter made sure that the Deliverer he managed stayed away from other executioners. No matter how Littlefield killed them, the fire always came after. Burning the kill remained as important as the kill itself. If even a single cell survived, that cell might infect a rat, which would contaminate a cat, which would transit up to a dog or a pig, then a man. In the inverse world of the soul-thief, prey hunted predator. So when he’d finished the kill, Littlefield doused his victims with accelerant, usually carbon disulfide if Koinet could get a hold of it. Carbon disulfide had the lowest ignition temp of all the commonly available accelerants, and it had a relatively low flash point. Littlefield hated the smell of it, but every guild had its standards and the Deliverers used carbon disulfide in great quantity. # Ice storms that took out power over hundreds of miles on the Plains battered Littlefield’s Greyhound as it made its way to an abandoned steel town: Gary, Indiana. Koinet had told him of some old ruins in a deserted factory district near the Chicago, Illinois border. There, Littlefield snaked down November streets, turning his collar against the sidelong rain, the heel of his boot sticking now and then into the rebar and cobble that wore through eroded pavement. The tarred edges of rain-soaked roofs rippled where they’d caved and water poured into abandoned industrial graveyards. Littlefield passed the mossy, oblong facades along the de-peopled street. A pre-metamorphic creature, one without a soul, hid in places like these, waiting for a person without refuge to take refuge there. But the lair Koinet had described wasn’t a factory. It was an edifice at the dead end of the street – a church with rough cut limestone walls and a black slate roof. Mullioned glass had long ago taken leave from the sockets of the side windows and clerestory, and stained-glass had flown from the rose window like a butterfly from its chrysalis. The windows were boarded up. There he will be, in the church, the Tall One had told him. And Koinet was never wrong. Littlefield had broken into many such derelict places. He reached into his satchel, put on calfskin work gloves and pulled out a pry bar. In an expert, surgical way, he levered open the boards from an entrance into a side chapel, and stepped inside. Water poured in rivulets from holes in the roof; a barn owl roosting inside flew off through open clerestory, the floor below its nest at a station of the cross spotted with guano and the skulls of pigeons and rats. At the crossing where nave and transept met, a giant aperture opened to gray sky and water dropped in long beads, seeming on a string. Below the hole, a small buckthorn tree grew on the floor of the church in a miasmic mound of mud and tile. Littlefield surveyed for hiding places. He still had enough light from the afternoon to see without his flashlight. A naked altarpiece with empty nooks for statues loomed on the marbled altar. Someone had removed all the iconography. No Jesus, no Mary for the soulless creature to use as a blind whilst Littlefield set up his own trap. But the confessionals – they seemed a problem. These were immovable wooden chambers built like pillboxes into the grottos of the side aisles. Littlefield would need to check them for an ambush. He kept his crowbar in his hand. With his other hand, he unholstered a long-barreled, large caliber weapon from under his trench coat. Like a police clearing a suspect’s apartment room by room, he coaxed the confessional doors open with the crowbar one by one and peered inside. Mice crawled in and out of the walls within the penitential chambers, squealing like the damned. He creaked open the final confessional door, but it resisted. He pried it open with the business end of the bar. The must of muttered sins reached his nose. The leaves and duff that had carpeted the floor beside the old kneeler had been swept aside. Something had disturbed the hoary detritus, and only hands could have opened the door. Maybe a homeless had used the confessional for a few nights. Or a foundling. He withdrew his pry bar and the door squeaked to a reluctant close. Until it acquired its own soul, a foundling couldn’t dream, so it didn’t need to sleep. A nymph couldn’t eat normal food until it first partook of a man. So a foundling would have only gone inside to use the confessional as an ambush point. Like the spider which spins a barren web and then moves on, the nymph might have stayed for a few days and left to find better hunting grounds. Or it might kill and bring its meat back here to consume. There was no way to tell. The wind wailed outside like a clan of hyenas. The water fell in cataracts from the crossing where the knave and transept intersected. Littlefield pulled out his old issue canteen and set it down underneath the water until it filled. The mist and dank from the gray afternoon swirled through the gap, not sparing the church from the elements. The sky belched out fog which reached through the hole in a lone finger into the church. The frost of Littlefield’s breath mingled with the damp air. It reminded him of the smoke from Koinet’s pipe. He surveyed the church for a suitable hiding place. Deliverers often appropriated the methods of their enemy. He would hide in the confessional, hoping that the nymph would come. He slipped inside the chamber, drew his weapon and exhumed the death mask from the bag of chainmail. He set them aside. He pulled out his other tools – accelerant, a flare gun, his flashlight. In an abandoned church, soaked with rain, Littlefield would immolate his final prey. He picked up his canteen, then withdrew into the corner of the chamber and waited still and cold in the dark. The space under the door let the grayscale light leach in across a small band of dirty marble. The walls of the confessing chamber insulated him from the shriek of a remorseless wind. It seemed almost cozy. He only hoped that if the foundling came, it would come while the daylight lasted and while Littlefield stayed awake. A closet-sized space like this was dangerous otherwise. No way out but one. He set his revolver in his lap and cocked the hammer and it slept there, a coiled and waiting thing. He would disable the creature with a bullet, and then set it afire. Littlefield uncapped his disulfide. Deliverers never used matches. Too small, too unreliable, especially in the wind. He readied his flare gun. He sipped the cold, dirty rain from his canteen. He unscrewed the metal lid from an old jar and spooned in his cold, mashed beans. And he waited. And the old Deliverer fell asleep. # The heavens rained fire on the earth, magmatic chambers flooded it with lava from traps below. Ash sealed the green world into a sarcophagus of bone and graphite. The ash chalked the skies in a low ceiling of mammatus clouds, seeming to drown Littlefield and Koinet beneath roiling, inverse waves. In a vast plain coated with a dark manna, the two men held their fire guns. They stood as destroyers side-by-side. People surged at them in vast swells, begging rescue from the dying land. Littlefield and Koinet aimed their flamethrowers and torched the people – blackening in a mindless indifference the skins of children and old women as easily as they burned the hides of once-hardy men. Littlefield aimed into the sky and scorched flocks of fleeing birds, lighting the black shrouds of the murders of crows. Littlefield charred every leafy remnant with his long pulse of fire until the air swirled with cindery motes and the atmosphere heated his skin to near its own flashpoint. The lash of the flames drowned the screams of dogs. And the air, sullied and roasted, thinned. A lone sheep staggered through a field of ash, its coat blackened by fallout. It bleated for something to destroy it, and Littlefield doused it with liquid fire, watched it fall over like a wooden horse and burn without a scream. The ambient flashpoint of the air exploded the sheep’s carcass as if lightning had struck. The fires became self-reinforcing as they burned the air. Then, even the fires themselves began to die. The flames devoured the superheated atmosphere, the very thing they needed more of, just as the soul-thieves had consumed so many men that they, too, began to die, as the virus dies when its host is wracked by sickness unto death. The world charred down to clinkers. Littlefield and Koinet roamed through the chalk ash until nothing remained to kill. The reports of distant explosions wobbled their knees. Relict soil swirled and roiled and crackled, as if giant moles patrolled beneath the carpet of ash which subsumed the worldskin. The air was pent of fuel, and Littlefield and Koinet choked and drowned in it. Littlefield felt his soul ebb into the ebon earth. He turned the flamecaster on himself, but his fuel was spent. # He woke, coughing for air. The band of daylight that marked the threshold of the door had dissolved into darkness. He could still hear a broken shard of slate on the roof flap in the wind like the far off reports of the explosions in his nightmare. The moan of wood, soft and wet, ended with a crack. Something had pried a window board loose. Something was coming. The shuffle of footfalls through debris. Littlefield raised his weapon. He fumbled for his torch but couldn’t find it. The footsteps. A door opening, but not his own. Bright light from a torch lit the threshold under Littlefield’s door. Something searching the confessionals. The first door squealed closed. The light outside his chamber swayed. Another door opened, then closed. The march of steps moved to the next confessional. Doors opening and closing twice more. The unnatural violet, brilliant and hellish, swayed closer, guttering the threshold under his door back and forth. The dull shadows of boots outside his door reflected against the marble. Littefield’s gun held steady. The door opened. A giant’s silhouette towered over him, holding its torch like an acolyte might. Littlefield felt the gentle, steady squeeze of his finger on the trigger. He aimed for the heart. The foundling stilled. “Ben,” a voice whispered. Littlefield’s eyes adjusted and he saw the face of the thing. “Koinet,” he whispered back. The face framed by long, thin, red dreadlocks. The wide shoulders robed in a black leather duster. “What are you doing here?” Littlefield said. “Your last job, remember?” Littlefield’s hand shook. “I reclaim . . . you?” The head shook once, back and forth. “I reclaim you,” said Koinet. “You can’t reclaim a man.” In the penumbra behind the flame he held, Littlefield made out Koinet’s sad smile. “What’s to stop me from killing you?” Littlefield said as he emphasized his aim. “You didn’t even want to live as a man. But as one of them?” Koinet waited for Littlefield to understand. “I am your Deliverer, Ben.” Beads of water dripped from the long tails of Koinet’s coat while drops of rain set themselves as amethysts in his hair. “But I feel things, Koinet.” “They feel too, remember?” “I’m your friend. They don’t have friends.” Koinet just waited. “How long have I been?” Littlefield wondered. “Since the very first night.” Littlefield tried to remember those three nights in the shanty back in the village when he’d witnessed the transit of the soul, but 30 years was a long time for memories to form and break and reform again. He recalled dreams of dismemberment, of the sickening snarls of the hyena as it devoured the soul-thief in the hut. “But I didn’t kill that night. I didn’t eat.” “A hyena did not raid the corpse of that soul-thief, Ben. You did.” Littlefield’s aim trembled. “I can’t be. I’ve killed them.” “The best way to do in your enemy is to make him kill his own kind,” Koinet said. “I am sorry, Ben.” Littlefield recalled a species of fungus that parasitized ants. It would infect the brain, drive the ant up a tree, where the ant would explode and infect other members of the colony. He holstered his weapon in the sling under his coat. Littlefield stood, took off his trench coat, let the gray vestment fall to the floor like the surplice of a priest. “An island. A peaceful place,” Littlefield said. He put out his arms, opened his palms toward his Deliverer. “Yes, of course.” “You’re going to meet me there.” “Yes, I will, Ben.” “A place where we both can rest.” Koinet nodded and wiped a tear with his sleeve. “You’re my friend, aren’t you?” Littlefield wondered. “I am your friend.” “Behold, the parasite dies,” said Littlefield. “While the host survives.” Tears fell, in Littlefield’s eyes, in the eyes of the Tall One, too. Littlefield remembered a promise that Koinet had made to him 30 years before, after Littlefield came back from his first kill. Koinet had promised him that if he ever became infected, Koinet would be the one to reclaim him. “You’ve kept your promise then,” Littlefield said. Koinet nodded. Koinet’s image blurred as the colorless carbon disulfide doused the eyes of Dr. Benjamin Littlefield. He saw only the flash of light from the flare as it ignited his skin. Then only an uncreated light shone. Littlefield knew; a soul-thief had a soul, too. THE END
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THE NORTHERN REPUBLIC The morning the Northern Republic had finally strengthened beyond the divisiveness of gender, the world over applauded the enlightenment as humanity’s greatest achievement. Feminists cheered their equality. The queers paraded. And by queers, I mean the L.G.B.T.Q.I.A.+, which includes all gay and lesbian, bisexual, pansexual, asexual, demisexual, graysexual, cisgender, transgender, trans* or trans+, gender nonconforming (g.n.c.), nonbinary, genderqueer, gender fluid, gender-neutral, the m.a.a.b./f.a.a.b./u.a.a.b. (male-assigned at birth/female-assigned at birth/unassigned at birth), intersex, and + (for those whom letters and words can’t describe). Which includes the 2S+QTBIPOC bodies (two-spirit, black, trans, indigenous, and people of colour). But none of these titles existed yet, and they were all still just fags.
But this equality made everybody happy. For a day. Equality: The New Normal. The New Normal for the Northern Republic. The grass beyond the fence was now the everywhere grass, as they had removed all the fences. And how plain did it all appear. Although nobody admitted it, there was a settling realization which clung to the earth like a great fog: the grass wasn’t greener after all. Maybe it never was. The assumption was a lie. All the blasphemy about equality of outcome was empty as the words which represented them. The self-abhorred marginalized and underprivileged could not comprehend that equality required inequality to define itself. And what an oversight this was. In pursuing a fictional utopia, the first step toward such a lofty goal was to eradicate masculinity. O how it became such a toxic word. Masculinity, masculinity, masculinity—I can feel the shivers run down my spine even whispering the word now. They began with the children, coercing the schools to remove all competition in their sports—which were all sports except for soccer; soccer has never been a sport, and for this reason permitted a viable outlet for children to take part in. The children were herded into the sexless endeavour, guided by Christ’s warning that the last shall be first and the first last: the least athletic were captains of their respective teams, the most athletic hobbled into positions of water-boy although it wasn’t called water-boy, for that is masculine and masculine is toxic remember—the term became water-attendant. Do not fear, however, at the participant ribbon ceremony at the end of each season, water-attendants received the same ribbon as all the other soccer players, because all were equal. The rules did not change, there were two teams though both encouraged the other team to win which was only achieved by an identical score, of say, for example, 0-0 or 1-1. Only once in the new history of the game did a match reach a final score of 2-2, and this only with the expert aid of three mindfulness sessions throughout the match. It is important to note that after this gut-wrenching highly stressful event; the sport was finally dropped from extracurricular activities as many of the students suffered tremendously, enormously, during the competition. For historical accuracy, allow me to at least offer the details of the last of the faux sport. The grass was replaced with a softer, synthetic foam which resembled grass, green and reaching and all of that, but less assaulting than natural grass, the kind that stained clothing and caused the sniffles when cut, and what was probably the most repulsive feature of that grass, which played a significant role in eliminating it: grass could assault the ears when an unknowing child horrendously plucked a blade from the ground and tightened it between both thumbs, pressed lips to said tautness and expelled a blast of air. Ugh, the horrible shriek it made, they all complained. And that was the end of grass. They replaced the soccer ball with a helium nitrogen balloon, lighter than air so it required less centrifugal force in propelling it down the field. It remained the same size as historical soccer balls, as did the field: technically, twice the size required for a fast-paced game. This ensured none of the players could come remotely close to each other and in doing so risk bodily contact. Nevertheless, should this unfortunate event occur, the players knew to fall to the ground in the most dramatic fashion. The brushed child would wail and roll and tighten their face to appear in the most tortured ailment imaginable and remain on the ground until the referee raised a coloured card-stock showing that a transgression had occurred. But this would only happen if the fallen player’s teammates swarmed the referee, mimicking the display of the fallen player, begging the authority figure to intervene on behalf of their victimized comrade. These displays became quite the spectacle and were routinely recycled on the esteemed highlight reel. During the first season—which was also the last season after that unfortunate 2-2 match—in fact, it was this 2-2 game; see, there was this youthful girl, a star, if there were stars, so soft-spoken, so petite and nonthreatening. Her wrists dawned all the colours of all the support bracelets ever pawned. What was most lovely about this youthful girl was her gender fluidity. Most mornings she was a girl, then in the afternoon he identified as a boy, and there is even some speculation that just before bed, he’d flow back to she and become a dragon before drifting off to sleep. My! The dreams the dragon child would have adventured in slumber. Most will agree, however, and though they would never speak it out loud in fear of provoking the slightest hint of animosity, but, it was secretly wondered if her dragon fluidity gave her an advantage in the sport. Midway through this last game, the score a dreadful 2-1 for her team, the balloon drifted to centre field where she had been resting after having jogged several feet only moments before. She certainly didn’t mean to. It wasn’t in malice or anger. It was simply the unattached kick of a youthful girl indifferent to the outcome as all good youthful girls are. Poor thing. She swung her leg and kicked the balloon, and be it the wind, or the precise angle her foot connected with the near floating object, the balloon soared the length of the field and brushed the goaltenders cheek before floating into the back of the net. O how the crowd and the players shrieked in chorus. The scoreboard flashed 3-1. This girl collapsed and rolled in anguish. She screamed in terror. She held her ankle and foamed at the lips. The poor child goaltender, who survived the brush with the balloon ball, likewise fell to the ground and clutched his face where the ball had struck. He wailed and moaned and put on such an exhibit he became tangled in the netting (which the kindly janitor—who was not called a janitor but a Cleanliness Barista of the Educational Enjoyment Centre—expertly cut him down from after the referee resolved the game). Both teams swarmed the referee and guffawed and cried and waved their child arms, begging reparations for these victims. That poor referee. She did all that she could have done and with great solemnity she raised a red card-stock above her head, quieted the crowd and revoked the goal. But the crowd demanded more. As an exemplar of bravery, the referee awarded the goal to the injured goaltenders team. And everybody cheered. And that was the end of soccer. It had become just too dangerous. The conclusion of the athletic holocaust marked the beginning of the Social Justice regime. But a regime is powerless without an emblem. Not oppressive power; rightful, just power. An image to separate those for and to demonize those against because what kind of monster would oppose social justice for all! Much of the original fighting which gave rise to the Social Justice regime began of the feminist movement. Women who wanted to shed the shackles of homemaker and enter the workforce once and for all. Women who experienced life under the thumb of men and rejected heterosexuality for that of faggotry. They vilified everything man-made (for simplicity’s sake, pretend there were at least some things which were not made by a man). And do you know who the greatest offender was? Tampons. That wad of absorbent material introduced into a body cavity or canal to absorb secretions, such as the red menstruation liquid, or to arrest hemorrhaging; or both. This revolutionary hygiene product introduced all the way back in the progressive year eighteen and forty-eight was symbolized as the Nero of toxic masculinity. Surely the new world order could not permit such a cancer. Tear out your tampons! The bullhorns screamed. Free yourself from all toxic masculinity! It seemed implausible anyone would adopt the mandate, but retrospect has a way of providing clarity where now it appears the only logical conclusion. Some sneered at the suggestion. Surely no one would commit such a disgusting act of self-immolation, but they were wrong. The first lady, this brave woman, out in the world making her own way, commuting via public transport in the underground metro, proudly. Encased in that metal tube surrounded by men on their way to work and her being on her own way to work, the tube must have felt like a prison, or a ploy to contain her—whatever the pressure cooker ordered, it was enough to embolden her stand. In flow, tampon eager to be plucked, she scanned the car, made eyes with each of the male passengers, then shoved her hand into the front of her pant suit pants. The onlookers turned away embarrassed, but only for a moment. She wound her delicate finger around the string and yanked with the force of a hundred years of oppression. The bloody wad sprang forth and dripped down her wrist from her high reaching hand. The men gagged. Many groaned. And if this were where the episode ended, that may have been the worst of responses. But no. This is not where it ended. This is where it began. This woman, Hilary Ramhod—yes! that was her name—she twisted her wrist like she was winding up a lasso. Round and round she spun the swollen mess it splattered the entire car red by the time the doors opened at the next stop. The gaggle rolled onto the platform covered in their own vomit and tepid menstrual red. Triumphantly, as the story goes, Hilary stepped forth, unmarred by any of the opposing fluids, only a red spot near the entrance to her birthing canal visible. Thus became the symbol. It wasn’t six hours before the nation had followed Hilary’s lead and removed their own hygiene products. RSD’s, they were dubbed: Red Spots of Defiance. Something like the Jew-band accessory worn proud under Hitler’s reign. With us or against us! It wasn’t long before it positioned the fags to claim their own version of the symbol. Since the male anatomy does not provide the opportunity to shed birthing canal lining in a rivulet of red, the fags had to compromise. Since they ravenously sought throbbing penises to grind their excrement chutes upon, and since after several such poundings, the seal becomes sufficiently less a seal and thus as in traditional residential plumbing, leakage occurs, excrement chute seepage became the obvious correlative to the Red Spot of Defiance. It began when two fags were dressing after a night of pounding, not having time to shower and still under the influence of MDMA (a drug which helps to forget the debaucheries and unnatural behaviour they have just taken part in or were about to) when the Power Bottom noticed trace seepage on his Tommy Hilfiger pleated shorts when twirling in the full-length mirror. Fags are the only known people who own full-length mirrors—if you were ever unsure if your comrade was a fag or not, this was a consistent indicator. Rightly aghast at the discovery, he was even more infuriated to learn his playmate was out of bleach—it used to be a ritual to bleach their undergarments and pants daily and ultimately led to acid washing and artificial tears in the fabric. The unperturbed partner, the Top, flippantly said, “Wear it like a Red Spot of Defiance, boo,” before browsing the Home and Garden Outdoor Kitchen issue he used for sexual stimulation when aroused without his Power Bottom nearby. Obvious now, the Power Bottom cocked his head in Utilitarian recognition, pondered the idea, as if considering two shades of eggshell to repaint the nook. Defiantly, proudly, he decided exactly that this is what homosexuals everywhere needed. Excuse me, I must apologize for my distasteful use of the derogative term homosexual. It’s a word only fags can use when addressing each other in greeting, like “Sup, homo,” and exclamation, “Homo please!” and when discussing another fag, “Do you know what that homo did?” Herein I shall purpose to use only technical terms. We are discussing faggots. It was a mark of their own. A mark to separate them from the oppressive patriarchy, which I obviously mean the white patriarchy as all sinister patriarchies are white in melanin. It was a mark to join with their oppressed sisters, who they envied so much, ironically not for their menstrual cycles, but with an innocent feminine admiration. Thus, the Excremental Chute Seepage spot was born, and for strictly administrative reasoning, both groups dropped their verbiage and adopted SPOTS as their self-proclaimed Jew-band. An interesting aside, a year after the Spot movement began leaving its mark, a young faggot entrepreneur, son of two feminist dykes born possible only by an unnamed male sperm-donor, invented a pocket wipe which would remove and sanitize any material marred with either menstrual red or excrement chute seepage. He named it, smartly, “Make Room For My Spot,” and sold millions to the entertainment venue. I could belabour the complete history of how we arrived here, but lets just presume way leads onto way as it often does and the core seven groups finally claimed power. They were, technically named, the Feminists, the Fags, the Niggers, the Single-Mother Whores (or any welfare case), the Sand-Niggers (or anyone not born of the Republic), the Retards and Cripples, and the ISIS—who were lumped together because Islam was intuitively understood to cause all mental retardation and cripple female genitalia. Each group sounded their own march over the community networks, and it was soon discovered that when played in succession of each other, together they formed the sparkling and complicated Villanelle; as if it were a sign of meant to be. Musical by birth, the niggers were the first to create a march. Slavery had long been abolished, and with it the meritocracy of the workforce. Affirmative action had permitted them access to occupations they had previously been excluded from. Reparations had been settled and guilt had been neatly laid upon the shoulders of white people everywhere, regardless if they ever even owned a slave in their lineage or even once, wisely, crossed a street after dark in a Harlem hood when a group of baggy clothed, red or blue bandana wearing, oversized tawdry jewellery exhibiting, untied sneakers tongue limp like a cows tongue, approached on the sidewalk ahead. Everybody quickly upgraded their black and white television sets to techno-colour television sets so in not to appear racist. Other behaviours included owning at least one rapshody compact disc, either TuPac or his rival, the rapshody artist Notorious B.I.G., and if not these modern artists, one of the exploited niggers of the past, such as Louis Armstrong, or Ray Charles, or Stevland Hardaway Morris. Because racism had long been eradicated in the country, it took a tremendous effort to undo the work of the great nigger, Martin Luther King Jr., who famously and with authority proclaimed that he “dreamed of a day where he would be judged on merit, and not the colour of his skin.” Shortly after his martyrdom the world had come to judge everybody on merit—it was the era of all equality—but like the feminists and fags discovered, to be treated equally was difficult in that you had to become of value to society to be appreciated, thus desperately wished a return to the good old days of oppression, but only by using their self-proclaimed marginalization to oppress everybody who differed from themselves. The work that undid the progress was first to take aim at police officers. The niggers always had an issue, incomprehensible to the majority population, of assaulting and murdering each other en masse. To this they were well versed in violence. Taking aim at police officers, inciting them to use force by aggressing the officers of the law at any chance they got, spitting at them, swearing, chest bumping, flashing nine’s (which is nigger for handgun), threatening to rape and murder the officers family, encouraging their children to tote fake handguns to point at police officers of the law to have the officer draw their own service weapon in response; it was only a matter of time before a nigger got shot and when he did the ghettos banded together and exploded like a dam breaking over New Orleans. They marched and sold t-shirts and sang, Black Lives Matter! as if they hadn’t since the progressive days of Martin Luther King Jr.. It is important to note that only the niggers could say, Black Lives Matter! White people had to say Nigger Lives Matter! so not to further the racist narrative. Their march developed like this: Inclusivity, Equality, the greatest Victim is me! I’m Black and I’m under attack, Destroy the White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy! And was first sung on all nigger radio stations, and Nigger Entertainment Television. Finally, after several years of pretending to be oppressed and inciting incidents for attention to the cause, the Republic had back slid to a pre-MLK Jr. footing. The niggers even resurrected segregation in schools to keep white people from polluting the classroom. The feminists and faggots owe much to the niggers for their work ethic. Soon, universities were returning to female only facilities, and the faggots were lobbying for their own schools, too. Though this became costly and eventually all parties settled for gender study courses, and faggot humanity studies, and nigger literature 101—most of which could be completed online or their degrees purchased in three easy payments of $19.99. The material confirmed their group oppression and proclaimed them all victims of the white patriarchy. Or something to that effect. Most certainly, these classes incubated the other marches. The feminists decided upon: Sexism is rampant here on my knees, This feminist is fighting back! Inclusivity, Equality, the greatest Victim is me! And the faggots in rebuttal, though not in confrontation, coined their own verbiage to tack onto the feminists, who attached theirs to the nigger’s. The faggot march went like this: Maybe that’s true but what for LGTQB? Sexual appetite deserves a plaque; Down with the White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy! Needless to say, the Northern Republic was socialist by nature. And honestly come by to boot, as no one cared to read the Gulag Archipelago—understandably as it’s three dense volumes—but at least one citizen, maybe their closet-faggot Prime Minister could have at least read the abridged version. Alas, he had not. No one had. While all the men of the Republic, despised as they were, were deployed overseas to assist in the American initiative in keeping the invasion of sand-niggers from crossing the ocean, the closet-faggot Prime Minister passed a bill to change the Republic’s anthem from the historic, “In all our Sons command,” to the inclusive—albeit grammatically incorrect—“In all of Us command,” and was ultimately dropped for the contemporary, Victim Villanelle. This was the Trojan Horse which began the fall of the Republic. Everyone is familiar with Hilary Hamrod coining the phrase Islamophobic, which roughly translates to: a level-headed and often educated citizen holding reservations about a people who routinely throw faggots off roof tops, force their women into cloth bags, and pass death sentences on their own daughters after learning said daughters were gang raped by family friends and in offering themselves to be raped brought shame down upon the family. Alas, despite warrant, the great and powerful Hilary manipulated the term Islamophobia to be insulting to the person to whom they labelled it. Namely, all free-thinking persons. The closet-faggot Prime Minister even made it law that if anyone was Islamophobic, they would be charged and imprisoned for up to five years. To show absolute commitment to the idea, the closet-faggot Prime Minister awarded twelve-million dollars to a convicted Republic terrorist—who funnelled this money back into the training compounds of his terrorist sand-nigger family in the lands where the closet-faggot Prime Minister had deployed all Republic men to fight. It takes no historian to recognize the closet-faggot Prime Minister was funding the opposing army against his own countrymen. This was an extreme effort to eradicate all masculinity in the Republic. Besides the closet-faggot Prime Minister changing the Republic’s anthem and funding terrorism abroad, the closet-faggot Prime Minister also appointed a sand-nigger to head the Northern Republic Armed Forces. This orange turban wearing sand-nigger was not qualified at the time of appointment, however, because he refused to wear a regimental headdress and fought to wear his turban (though if this General would have ever seen combat, he would have worn a helmet instead of his flagrant orange towel) the closet-faggot Prime Minister applauded his initiative and gave him the position. The closet-faggot Prime Minister also permitted turban-wearing sand-niggers from the largely faggotted west coast to enter government (including a known terrorist if the Air India bombing from decades past—only none of the sensitive Northern Republic citizens understood history, and even the ones who did, believed in amnesty for their own victim-kin, what happened in the past stays in the past, we’re the Northern Republic, they banded together. We accept everyone for who they are. Soon the orange turban-wearing sand-nigger in charge of the Northern Republic Armed Forces, forced everybody in uniform to wear turbans so not to visibly discriminate from the two other turban-wearing sand-niggers already among the ranks of the brigade. The Republic opened their borders to 250,000 sand-niggers annually, with the ambition to raise the entry number to 500,000 by the year 2021—fortunately the Great Fall occurred beforehand or these parasites may have converted all of Western Hemisphere. With the influx of sand-niggers, they were soon to coin their own march and join the ranks of the victim with the feminists, faggots, and rightful niggers, however, their chant began in their native tongue before they could translate it into oppressive English. It went: Dur-durka durka durka durk durka dur-durka, Durka durka, dur-durka, durk dur durka dur durka. Dur-durka, Dur-durka, durk durka Durka dur durk! Loosely translated: Immigrants have rights and need guarantees, Health care, education, and a place to relax. Inclusivity, Equality, the greatest Victim is me! Because of their inclusion, the Republic became the rape capital of the world, because the sand-nigger men formed gangs and raped all the white women who had not yet adopted burlap sacks and paper bags to cover themselves with. The closet-faggot Prime Minister supported the sand-niggers in their conquest, chastising the white woman, if you do not embrace progress, you are enabling the White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy, despite many of the woman having been nominal feminists before the parasite sand-niggers consumed the Republic. The raping finally ceased when all Republic women covered themselves with potato sacks and balaclavas, which proved warm in the harsh winter months, but otherwise restricted their movement, quality of life, and encouraged rampant pubic hair growth, which dreaded over their birthing canals and swelled under their armpits. But they are French and many were already accustomed to this unhygienic approach to grooming. It's the same as when an institution offers benefits to entice people to become patrons or members, and in doing so, refuse to reward the already patrons or members of the organization. Take, for example, the modern banking system—modern in the sense of before the Great Fall. Banks earned their income from the amount of money they kept under management. To attract new customers, or clients, as they preferred to refer to the consumers as, banks often offered rewards for switching to their institution. Some banks offered free televisions when an account was opened. Some banks, notoriously southern, offered bolt-action rifles for new account owners. Often banks simply offered to match the first deposit into the account. This was great for bank-hoppers, but what for the customers who were already loyal to their bank? The reward was only available to new customers. The current and loyal customers got nothing. This is how the teenage mothers of the Republic felt when the sand-niggers began receiving free healthcare and business grants and educational preference and social assistance and whatever else was afforded them because there were of a difference land—namely, the land of sand-niggers. Not only teenage mothers, but single-mothers whores of all ages, as they all lived under the poverty line. This should not be a surprise, as graduation from the standard school system at the end of grade 12 is the single variable separating graduates who live above the poverty line and the failures who live below. This and a woman who at least finished the standard grade 12 level of schooling knew better than to allow a man to ejaculate in her birthing canal, hence social assistance and trailer parks and the statistical probability to be impoverished. If this was only bad enough, but further to the poverty, the actions of these single-mother whores created its own poverty feedback loop. Undoubtably hooked on pharmaceutical drugs or those of the illegal persuasion, they would not have the money to pay for said drugs and having already offered their birthing canal to be be ejaculated in for the selfish desire of owning a child that would always love them and never leave them as their repulsive and often borderline personalities caused those who once loved them to love them no longer—would again offer their birthing canals to be ejaculated into, to cover the expense of the drugs in the transference of the government subsidy, and subsequently give life to another welfare case. This was no problem as the Republic would provide for basic income and provisions, affording the now junkie single-mother whores the freedom to refrain from work, continue consuming drugs, and ultimately increase their output of degenerate children. It is a fact that most times involving these junkie single-mother whores—who for some perverted reasoning were touted as heroes among the Republic—because of the drug dealers she lay with, spread many of the known communicable diseases which came to infect 83.9% of the global population in the only recorded contemporary pandemic. These parasites, native to the Republic, felt slighted by the sand-niggers receiving benefits over what they already weaseled, and realized they were being made the victim, too. They rose. They marched. They spread their legs to all who would become erect in their presence, and with much labour, they became the fifth recognized marginalized group of the Northern Republic, contributing nothing more except children who would grow up to follow in their whore mother’s shadows and become the same sloths sunk into their La-Z-Boys purchased with Republic money in front of 64” LCD televisions bought with more Republic money. Their chant was cleverly worded: I’ve not finished school and I’m pregnant, can’t you see? I’m a product of this low-income pack; It’s the fucking White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy! And it was a home run—home run refers to the historic sport of baseball, a man’s sport, which lost its relevance when the first and only movie which depicted the racist nature of the sport in exploiting the only black man who ever played, ran its four weeks in theatre but could no longer be leveraged to educate the public on how systemic the issue really was because the goal was to return to the pre-MLK Jr. days, and so the movie was outed as having lost its relevance in pursuit of progressive equality. The march, which rose from the plight of the single-mother whores, catapulted them into the limelight. It even received special airtime each week, which marched between all marginalized artist who had their songs on the radio. And now there were five. The feminists, the fags, the niggers, the sand-niggers, and the single-mothers whores (who represented poverty everywhere). Of rational minded people, the ISIS becoming a protected group was the furthest from purview. The Islamic’s were jacked up sand-niggers known for abusing women, persecuting those persons of different sexual appetites, for poor fashion, and so forth, contradicting what the other five groups stood united for. In fact, the estranged prophet, whose name can not be mentioned, meticulously presented the exploits of the ISIS in the docu-book One Hundred Little Victories. It is a disturbing publication. The ISIS joining the ranks shouldn’t have happened; but it did. And that through a sneaky loop-hole which only now in retrospect makes absolute sense. They were disliked, check, hated in some circles, check-check, and feared—and fear stems from being misunderstood—so thus, they were victims, too, of the White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy. After Hilary Hamrod went on record calling the White Supremacist Capitalist Patriarchy the ISISophobic, the Republic determined that as a group, the ISIS met most of the victim conditions: They were largely from poor camel countries; they were not white, except for the single-mother whores who converted for the surplus of men willing to gang-bang them; and when the ISIS moved from their camel countries to the Republic, they were quite poor. Since the ISIS were not known for their tolerance, in order to be elevated to marginalized status, they had to re-brand their dogma as the Religion of Peace. This caught on like wildfire. All of their attacks were viewed as natural reactions to the White Supremacist Capitalist Patriarchy and thus became justified. It very similar to how the SJW’s supported ANTIFA, the masked thugs who performed gang attacks on unsuspecting whites—despite being white themselves, as niggers didn’t attend rallies and wouldn’t aim a can of mace in someones face when they could pull their nine and bust a cap instead. The ISIS became the Religion of Love, and anybody who dared question their tactics and aggressive nature were immediately called ISISophobic and were stripped of their public standing and forfeited their jobs. Still, the marginalized elite don’t like religion, and many believed that to adhere to a religion there must be some mental deficiency or retardation in the believer, so in order for the ISIS to be added to the already five, they had to accept being categorized with all the other Retards and Cripples. The ISIS quickly accepted the terms. As soon as they were elevated to marginalized status, they killed all the Retards and Cripples—and were applauded for demonstrating such mercy. Many of the Zika-heads and Downsfolk, and Transgenders (when they were still labelled medically as suffering from gender dysphoria and lumped in with the retards), were quickly eradicated. The Transsexuals who survived the initial Mercy Campaign realized it was only a matter of time before they would receive mercy themselves and be dispatched like the other drools. They lobbied the faggots membership into their group instead. This became known as the mass-exodus from the ISIS, the only marginalized group to ever experience an exodus of such magnitude. The Retards and Cripples might have found refuge in another group, only they were retarded or lame and couldn’t gather enough mental resources to access foresight—but mostly could not escape the mercy of the ISIS because they had no legs. There march was created and sang like this: Islam is about love, don’t you dare disagree! And what for being a paranoid insomniac? Inclusivity, Equality, the greatest Victim is me! Damn the White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy! The seven groups united and their marches were set to the tune of London Bridges Falling Down, because London falling is emblematic of the fall of the White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy. Together, it sounded as: Inclusivity, Equality, the greatest Victim is me! I’m black and I’m under attack, Destroy the White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy! Sexism is rampant here on my knees, This feminist is fighting back! Inclusivity, Equality, the greatest Victim is me! Maybe that’s true, but what for LGTQB? Sexual preference deserves a plaque; Down with the White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy! Immigrants have rights and need guarantees, Health care, education, and a place to relax. Inclusivity, Equality, the greatest Victim is me! I’ve not finished school and I’m pregnant, can’t you see? I’m a product of this low-income pack; It’s the fucking White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy! Islam is about love, don’t you dare disagree! And what for being a paranoid insomniac? Inclusivity, Equality, the greatest Victim is me! Damn the White Supremacist Capitalistic Patriarchy! With the Seven Marginalized officially codified, the prestige in being of the masses quickly diminished. Fortunately for the Republic, or so the Republic hoped, the fags presented intersectionality, based on their own already complicated group identity, and offered it as an overlay which could apply to all marginalized groups. A pointed system to determine exactly where one stood on the totem pole. Something simple made complicated in desperation to save a system which glimpsed its own death. It used to be queers were queers. Or fags. And then they became capital “Q” Queer. During all their marches and bubble parties and unprotected bathroom stall sex, the designation was expanded to LGBT: Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender. They covered all their bases, although it seemed a little bit excessive. Lesbians are gay. Bisexual people are gay. Transgender people are gay. But everybody wants to be special, so it turned out Lesbians weren’t gay. Bisexual people weren’t gay. Transgender people weren’t gay. Something about sharing sexism as their common root of oppression. Used to be nobody cared what you did behind closed doors, and everything was fine that way. Now everybody wanted to be defined by what they did behind closed doors, and not only that, but to have everybody praise them for it. So, all the weirdos came out of the woods, came out of the bathroom stalls, came out from the bed of truck drivers, and formed a line. To skim the complexity of the situation on hand, consider this condensed version of faggot identities. Advocates were fags who actively worked to end intolerance while supporting social equity (whatever that meant); Allies were straight people who desperately wanted to be a fag but were not aroused by the same sex and so they could only support queer and transfolk; the Androgyny-ites were fags who expressed themselves with elements of both masculinity and femininity; Asexuals, like the eunuchs of old, were fags who generally did not experience sexual attraction to any group of people; Bisexuals were fags who had an emotional, romantic, or sexual attraction for a person of more than one gender; Closeted fags—consider the closet-faggot Prime Minister of the Republic—were fags who keep their sexuality or gender identity a secret and had yet to come out of the closet; Cross-dressers were fags who got off from dressing in the clothing of the opposite gender; Fluid fags were fags who fluctuated between all the options; Gays and Lesbians were fags who had an emotional, romantic, or sexual attraction for people of the same sex; Intersex were fags who identified with dragons and cats and turtles and such; Pansexuals were fags who experience sexual, romantic, physical, and spiritual attraction for everybody inside the fag identity group, excluding white male hetero, as they were the patriarchy and the cause of all oppression; Queer used to be used to defy sexual restrictions, but under the regime became an expletive—kind of like how the savages alternated between Indian and Native Peoples, dependent on whichever term their oppressor used they could insist on the other and further show how the oppressor continued in their tyranny; the Questioning were fags who wanted to get their feet wet but were afraid of the water; Same Gender Loving or SGL’s were what the niggers used as an alternative to gay and lesbian so to separate them from the white fag community; Stealth’s were fags who lived their self-identified genders without other people knowing that they were transsexual fags (but everybody always knew); Transsexuals were fags whose self-identified gender did not match society’s expectations of someone with their sex characteristics; and finally Two-Spirited were savage fags who had both masculine and feminine spirits. The one group of sexual deviants they didn’t accept were the pedophiles. Initially, it was not considered kosher to lust over the delicate, virgin, petite, glowing body of a child. About a year after the ISIS joined with the Retards and Cripples to complete the group of seven, the pedophiles were acknowledged as Allies under the faggot umbrella—because to suck dick or eat cunt against traditional biological programming is not a choice. Pedophilia, therefor, shouldn’t be a crime as it’s their natural inclination to prefer children and this feature should instead be celebrated. Each group identity contained its own intersectionality and corresponding hierarchical position. For example, the traditional pedophile is similar to the heterosexual white male. He’s plain. There are, however, Fluid Pedophiles, much more respected among the fag populace, who fluctuated between the mix of options available: man and woman, gay and straight, Ze, Hir, and etc.. And this yet without defining their sexual appetites, e.g. attraction to male identities under the age of four. It was a beautiful display of all deviants propping each other up. These were most of the unique identities within the LGBT species, and although they were lumped together here as being identical to each other; they insisted that there were specific needs and concerns related to each individual identity, and so quarterly, the Brahman of each identifier and Brahmans of other identity groups not yet included in the L.G.B.T.Q.I.A.+ acronym, met to discuss the merits of affording other groups protection under the equality umbrella. Brahmans from the Dragonflies, the Aliens, the Mushrooms, the Fetuses, the Electronics, the Infants, the Tri-Androgynies and the Asexual-Bigenders attended each quarterly mass. This was the atmosphere to which the men decided the kids had played long enough. With no public recourse available, the straight white men gathered together, stripped, and engaged in faggot coitus. This was not for enlightenment. These men were not gay. They did not enjoy corn-holing, or the smell of shit on their partially slumped penises. Many of the men gagged and vomited, and on first penetration exploded feces all over their partners. No. If any of these brave men were here today, they would confirm, the orgy of men, legion, were simply doing what had to be done. Because that’s what real men did. See, these men, these peasant caste white heterosexual males, remembered what the world had forgotten. Faggot anal coitus spread the acquired immunodeficiency syndrome—and that shit kills. You could see it on the withering faces of the L.G.B.T.Q.I.A.+ everywhere. The slow death. The cigarette burned eyes. The pale skin, unless hidden beneath the orange-tinted skin from the artificial UV—another sentence of nature’s justice in correcting wayward humanity. You could see it in their thin faces, unless plumped from Botox—it seemed the louder they proclaimed their happiness, their actions focused on their lust for death. They evidenced it in their diet pills and unregulated supplements. A race to the grave—and to take everybody with. Except for the men. The men knew death claimed soon enough. Better to get up in the morning, do their work, eat their dinner, rest a while, and retire to sleep. It wasn’t much. But it was something. Only not anymore. Despite the endless attempts to destroy masculinity, men never stopped being men. They got up, worked, went to bed and kept the world turning. And so, these men, doing what they always did, seeing the issue for what it was, then determining to fix it, they stripped down to their birthday suits and fucked like they were fucking their once appreciative wives. Semen entered assholes at a rate never even tried at a Pulse nightclub. Blood dripped down legs. The pungent, sour-hinted sweet aroma of various feces consistency thickened the air. The saltine tears which threatened to singe the cheeks of these brave soldiers were quickly wiped away while they dressed. It was D-Day all over again. A suicide mission. But necessary for survival. The men returned home and continued their routines, getting up, working, going to bed. They rarely saw their wives anymore. The women were always moving about, busy, but never having much to show for it, and often only returning late in the evening, or in the early morning hours. It was their right to be sexually liberated, dammit! It was their right to murder unborn children if they wanted. That’s what being liberated meant. Doing whatever you wanted whenever you wanted. Men, on the other hand, understood autonomy to be the ability to lead disciplined lives. As a power move, wives withheld sex from their husbands, and in the off chance when they were hot and bothered and fired up to fuck they’d demand a go at pegging. Pegging was penis envy. Woman wore special jockstraps designed to fit plus sizes which had a overlapped slit at the crotch like a man’s pair of boxer shorts. Through this slit they would slide a silicon baton to simulate a man’s throbbing penis. Though they were available in flesh tones, the women, exercising their liberation, preferred colours of purple and pink and cherry red. Until then, the men had resisted these rape-fantasy advances. But not anymore. This time they were ready. They could feel it in their veins. The AIDS, slowly commanding control of their bodies. Yes. Now, it was time. When the wives strapped up and slapped their faux-penises on the table where their husbands were eating a solemn last meal, they were prepared, because men are always prepared. They negotiated. If I do this for you, I want to finish how we used to (as in ejaculating into the birthing canal). Overzealous at their apparent victory, the women most hurriedly accepted the counteroffer. And so it began. There was less blood this time around, as the men had already stretched their assholes once. Some even ejaculated prematurely from the stimulation to the prostate. This hadn’t been accounted for. Still, enough men endured like warriors, and when their wives were satisfied with the pegging, the men mounted them and exploded tainted jism into their birthing canals. Soon, and in part because all the liberated fags had already been carrying and spreading the virus, 99.999999999999999% of the world population was HIV+ and died a little quicker each day. Only a select populous of vegetarian Jaines who had moved to the coniferous north of the Republic at the turn of the century, remained unscathed of all the crockery spread about the world. They carried on with disinterested concern, treading lightly and purposing to do no harm, while the rest of the world died. THE END
Decameron 2020 |
Altayra Ponder is a writer of various genres including fantasy, sci-fi, horror, and suspense. Currently, Altayra is attending Full Sail University as an online student for a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. Altayra hopes to one day pursue a career as a Game Writer and Script Writer as she continues to improve upon her skills. In her spare time, Altayra enjoys role-playing in a campaign of Dungeons & Dragons, watching Anime and dreaming up complicated fantasy worlds to write about. She can be reached at altayraponder@ymail.com. Linkedin.com/in/altayra-ponder-68226b01a6 |
You Were Here
Inside Lachlan’s Roadhouse, Lady set the bottle of scotch down on the table and watched the old-timer reach for the glass. He tossed the alcohol back in a single gulp.
"Pour me another, would ya, sweetheart?"
"You sure you should be drinking?" Lady asked.
The old-timer gave her a glance, and Lady poured him another shot.
"You ever do somethin' stupid out of love? Or because you were desperate?"
Lady looked at the old-timer in surprise. He was a short, frail-looking man in a wheelchair who seemed well into his seventies or eighties and smelled of stale air and rain. His hair and eyebrows had long since turned white, but what hair was on his head was thin and sparse compared to the lush and wild nature of his eyebrows. The old-timer wore a brown, leather bomber over a faded plaid shirt, and the gray, tweed flat cap he'd been wearing when he came into Lachlan's Roadhouse, was now placed upon the table.
"Haven't we all done something like that at one point or another?"
The old-timer gave a grunt. "I ain't asking you about everyone else - just you." He set the glass on the table and scooted it in her direction with a single spotted finger. "Refill - and make it more than last time."
Lady hesitated but poured him another glass. He tossed it back, fixing her with his watery, blue gaze. "Well?" he said.
"I've done a few stupid things in my life, yeah," she said.
"Out of desperation or out of love?"
"Both, I guess." Lady watched him, chewing at the inside of her cheek. "Did something happen? Something you want to talk about, hon?"
"A lot happened," said the old-timer. "Too much that I can't take back. I'm at the end of my rope now and it's been one hell of a climb." He breathed in through his nose. "But when I go, I wanna go clean, clear. You ever hear about that robbery at the Isabella Steward Gardener Museum? Probably too young - Christ - I don't even think you were born yet."
"I was two," said Lady.
"Eh?"
"I was two-years-old when the Isabella Steward Gardner Museum was robbed. They still talk about it on the news, on the anniversary of the day it happened. They arrested a man, but it wasn't for the robbery," said Lady. "He was some mobster-guy from Connecticut. They still have a reward out for information, you know."
"Yeah, the man they arrested that was me," said the old-timer.
Lady's jaw dropped. "You're Robert Gentile?"
The old-timer cracked a smile. "The one and only," he said. "And I'll tell you something else, that was one of the biggest heists I'd ever been part of. I know I said I was done with pullin' jobs, but May, she was sick, you see? She had a blood disease, and we needed the money for treatments. Figures something like that would happen right when I try to make right with the world. A man like me. It was God's way of punishing me for all the wrong I've done."
"You shouldn't say things like that," said Lady.
"Why not? It's the truth. Serves me right. I've been two-timin' people all my life: lying, cheating, and thieving. I was born into it, see? Wasn't taught to know any better," said Robert.
"Why are you telling me this?" asked Lady. "You don't even know me. Aren't you worried I might call and turn you in?"
"If I was worried about it, I wouldn't be telling you," said Robert. "They can't get me for anything anyways. There's no evidence connecting me with the heist except what I tell you. I won't tell you the part I played in it. Pour me another, would you?"
Lady didn't hesitate. "But . . . what are you doing here?" she asked.
"Sight-seeing'," said Robert.
"The museum," Lady guessed. "You're not thinking about robbing it again, are you?"
She jumped when Robert let out a sudden howl of laughter and shook his head.
"No. Just came for sentimental reasons if you understand me," he said. "That museum-heist ruined my life, but it also changed me. Figured I ought to see it one last time before I kick the can."
"What happened to May?" Lady asked. "Was she your wife?"
"Soon-to-be," said Robert. "But time wasn't on our side. May died while I was serving time. I didn't get a chance to be with her before she passed." He looked over at Lady. "I've said all I'm gonna say. I'm clear now. Won't be long before I'm with her again."
With that, he reached for his flat cap and placed it on his head and wheeled himself back from the table, turning his chair for the door of the Roadhouse.
"You're leaving?" asked Lady.
"I've stayed longer than I planned," said Robert. Lady followed him over to the door.
"What about the roads?"
"Ah, we'll be fine. Besides, I don't think my driver's gonna wait on me any longer. Could you get the door?"
Lady stared at Robert. He stared back.
"Why me?" she asked.
Robert fixed her with his watery, blue-eyed gaze. "You were here," he said and disappeared out into the rain.
"Pour me another, would ya, sweetheart?"
"You sure you should be drinking?" Lady asked.
The old-timer gave her a glance, and Lady poured him another shot.
"You ever do somethin' stupid out of love? Or because you were desperate?"
Lady looked at the old-timer in surprise. He was a short, frail-looking man in a wheelchair who seemed well into his seventies or eighties and smelled of stale air and rain. His hair and eyebrows had long since turned white, but what hair was on his head was thin and sparse compared to the lush and wild nature of his eyebrows. The old-timer wore a brown, leather bomber over a faded plaid shirt, and the gray, tweed flat cap he'd been wearing when he came into Lachlan's Roadhouse, was now placed upon the table.
"Haven't we all done something like that at one point or another?"
The old-timer gave a grunt. "I ain't asking you about everyone else - just you." He set the glass on the table and scooted it in her direction with a single spotted finger. "Refill - and make it more than last time."
Lady hesitated but poured him another glass. He tossed it back, fixing her with his watery, blue gaze. "Well?" he said.
"I've done a few stupid things in my life, yeah," she said.
"Out of desperation or out of love?"
"Both, I guess." Lady watched him, chewing at the inside of her cheek. "Did something happen? Something you want to talk about, hon?"
"A lot happened," said the old-timer. "Too much that I can't take back. I'm at the end of my rope now and it's been one hell of a climb." He breathed in through his nose. "But when I go, I wanna go clean, clear. You ever hear about that robbery at the Isabella Steward Gardener Museum? Probably too young - Christ - I don't even think you were born yet."
"I was two," said Lady.
"Eh?"
"I was two-years-old when the Isabella Steward Gardner Museum was robbed. They still talk about it on the news, on the anniversary of the day it happened. They arrested a man, but it wasn't for the robbery," said Lady. "He was some mobster-guy from Connecticut. They still have a reward out for information, you know."
"Yeah, the man they arrested that was me," said the old-timer.
Lady's jaw dropped. "You're Robert Gentile?"
The old-timer cracked a smile. "The one and only," he said. "And I'll tell you something else, that was one of the biggest heists I'd ever been part of. I know I said I was done with pullin' jobs, but May, she was sick, you see? She had a blood disease, and we needed the money for treatments. Figures something like that would happen right when I try to make right with the world. A man like me. It was God's way of punishing me for all the wrong I've done."
"You shouldn't say things like that," said Lady.
"Why not? It's the truth. Serves me right. I've been two-timin' people all my life: lying, cheating, and thieving. I was born into it, see? Wasn't taught to know any better," said Robert.
"Why are you telling me this?" asked Lady. "You don't even know me. Aren't you worried I might call and turn you in?"
"If I was worried about it, I wouldn't be telling you," said Robert. "They can't get me for anything anyways. There's no evidence connecting me with the heist except what I tell you. I won't tell you the part I played in it. Pour me another, would you?"
Lady didn't hesitate. "But . . . what are you doing here?" she asked.
"Sight-seeing'," said Robert.
"The museum," Lady guessed. "You're not thinking about robbing it again, are you?"
She jumped when Robert let out a sudden howl of laughter and shook his head.
"No. Just came for sentimental reasons if you understand me," he said. "That museum-heist ruined my life, but it also changed me. Figured I ought to see it one last time before I kick the can."
"What happened to May?" Lady asked. "Was she your wife?"
"Soon-to-be," said Robert. "But time wasn't on our side. May died while I was serving time. I didn't get a chance to be with her before she passed." He looked over at Lady. "I've said all I'm gonna say. I'm clear now. Won't be long before I'm with her again."
With that, he reached for his flat cap and placed it on his head and wheeled himself back from the table, turning his chair for the door of the Roadhouse.
"You're leaving?" asked Lady.
"I've stayed longer than I planned," said Robert. Lady followed him over to the door.
"What about the roads?"
"Ah, we'll be fine. Besides, I don't think my driver's gonna wait on me any longer. Could you get the door?"
Lady stared at Robert. He stared back.
"Why me?" she asked.
Robert fixed her with his watery, blue-eyed gaze. "You were here," he said and disappeared out into the rain.
Sean Leftwich is a student at Full Sail University for a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. When he was thirteen years old, his first story "Mind Plague" won a schoolwide competition for best story, and he has been passionate about writing ever since. Through his stories, Sean strives to dig out the deepest of emotions and leave a lasting imprint on the reader. Sean has obtained a legendary desk chair whose name is too long for a standard bio that enhances his writing abilities to extraordinary levels. It is also extremely comfy. |
ALWAYS GREENER
Doris knew that there had been a mistake from the moment she opened the door.
The floor itself was tainted a dark, stained green, with some patches brighter green than others. The air in the room gave off its own musk, like somebody tried to spray perfume on a dying animal. The room itself featured two individual beds with a nightstand separating them. Both of the beds were not made. The bed on the left had an overhead light that was dimly lit, although the light for the bed on the right was perfectly fine. A glass screen door led outside to a patio that was closed off from a meeting area, where a party was taking place.
Doris nearly gagged as she came in the room. “This must have been a mistake,” she said.
Bill came in the room, looking at it with a satisfactory smile. “Now would you look at this place. Talk about a honeymoon suite! To think, I got this place for next to nothing,” he said.
“Funny, now let’s get our stuff before I throw up,” said Doris as she made her way out with a suitcase.
“Where are you going?” Bill asked.
“To get our honeymoon suite. I thought that was obvious.”
“This is our honeymoon suite,” Bill said, his face now completely serious.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
Bill goes over and sits on the bed on the left. “Ok, so maybe I overlooked the two beds thing but that’s an easy fix. We can still just use one,” he said.
“I’m not going to sleep on those beds. They probably haven’t been changed since in who knows how long,” said Doris.
“Okay, so we’ll get the hotel to change the sheets before we go to bed.”
“I don’t want to change the sheets. I want another room entirely.”
as she stormed out to the closed in patio and plopped herself onto a bench.
***
Outside, there were voices of people from the party going on the other side of the fence. The patio itself was wet from recent rainfall.
Doris closed her eyes and put her head next to the fence and listened as they danced to her favorite song. It was a slow and graceful rhythm.
Bill came out to the patio and sat down next to her.
“Did I ever tell you that this was Vince and I’s favorite song to dance to?” Doris asked.
“You’ve mentioned it a few times,” Bill said.
“The guy couldn't dance to save his life. Four left feet he called it. He always did go out and dance with me though, despite how embarrassing it always looked,” Doris said. She picked her head up from the fence and turned to Bill. “You’ve never danced with me before,” she said.
Bill stood up from his seat. “I'm going to bed,” he said.
“I’ll take the bed on the right,” said Doris.
Bill stormed back into the hotel room. His shoes, wet from the rainwater from the patio, seeped into the floor of the hotel room, darkening the brighter green spots of the floor when he went inside. Bill hopped into bed and turned off his dimly lit overhead light.
Doris turned back to the party, closing her eyes and painting a picture of what is happening on the other side.
The floor itself was tainted a dark, stained green, with some patches brighter green than others. The air in the room gave off its own musk, like somebody tried to spray perfume on a dying animal. The room itself featured two individual beds with a nightstand separating them. Both of the beds were not made. The bed on the left had an overhead light that was dimly lit, although the light for the bed on the right was perfectly fine. A glass screen door led outside to a patio that was closed off from a meeting area, where a party was taking place.
Doris nearly gagged as she came in the room. “This must have been a mistake,” she said.
Bill came in the room, looking at it with a satisfactory smile. “Now would you look at this place. Talk about a honeymoon suite! To think, I got this place for next to nothing,” he said.
“Funny, now let’s get our stuff before I throw up,” said Doris as she made her way out with a suitcase.
“Where are you going?” Bill asked.
“To get our honeymoon suite. I thought that was obvious.”
“This is our honeymoon suite,” Bill said, his face now completely serious.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
Bill goes over and sits on the bed on the left. “Ok, so maybe I overlooked the two beds thing but that’s an easy fix. We can still just use one,” he said.
“I’m not going to sleep on those beds. They probably haven’t been changed since in who knows how long,” said Doris.
“Okay, so we’ll get the hotel to change the sheets before we go to bed.”
“I don’t want to change the sheets. I want another room entirely.”
as she stormed out to the closed in patio and plopped herself onto a bench.
***
Outside, there were voices of people from the party going on the other side of the fence. The patio itself was wet from recent rainfall.
Doris closed her eyes and put her head next to the fence and listened as they danced to her favorite song. It was a slow and graceful rhythm.
Bill came out to the patio and sat down next to her.
“Did I ever tell you that this was Vince and I’s favorite song to dance to?” Doris asked.
“You’ve mentioned it a few times,” Bill said.
“The guy couldn't dance to save his life. Four left feet he called it. He always did go out and dance with me though, despite how embarrassing it always looked,” Doris said. She picked her head up from the fence and turned to Bill. “You’ve never danced with me before,” she said.
Bill stood up from his seat. “I'm going to bed,” he said.
“I’ll take the bed on the right,” said Doris.
Bill stormed back into the hotel room. His shoes, wet from the rainwater from the patio, seeped into the floor of the hotel room, darkening the brighter green spots of the floor when he went inside. Bill hopped into bed and turned off his dimly lit overhead light.
Doris turned back to the party, closing her eyes and painting a picture of what is happening on the other side.
Keith Burkholder has been published in Creative Juices, Sol Magazine, Trellis Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Journal, New Delta Review, Poetry Quarterly, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Birmingham Arts Journal. He has a bachelor's degree in statistics with a minor in mathematics from SUNY at Buffalo (UB).
Earth has now become extinct
After billions of years of existence, the planet Earth no longer exists in the solar system. Human life has now become extinct as well.
There is a new planet in place of Earth in the same location. A new species of life will now take over Earth and reproduce there.
This new species of life looks like humans. However, it can now breathe in nitrogen and hydrogen as well as oxygen.
The new planet came into being because of the effects from the Big Bang Theory. It was perfect timing for such a world to develop.
This planet is new in stature. It is a place for this new breed of life to expand and live its existence here.
The new world is similar in size to planet Earth. It is a place where this new breed of life can bring about pacifism to its inhabitants.
Pacifism was rare on planet Earth. Wars and destruction took care of human life and over time the planet Earth just disintegrated from existence.
Pacifism was not popular on planet Earth. It was a minority to say the least. The wars and natural disasters took care of humans.
Humans on planet Earth were belligerent in nature. They could not stop from killing one another and that lead to their extinction.
Over time, even the natural disasters were too popular to prevention extinction of humans. Humanity will never come back as it was or ever again.
This new breed of life wants to be decent to each other. Killing each other is not a good concept for them or anyone to follow. The life they will lead will never bring about destruction to anyone. This will feel amazing to the species at hand.
Life as is known will continue forward. This will be a great concept to anyone at hand now. Life is meant to be enjoyed as well.
I wish this breed of life a great existence to where man used to live on planet Earth. Planet Earth was a place that man could not live anymore.
The planet Earth became unbearable to human life. This has led to their extinction because of the wars and natural disasters that occurred on the former planet, Earth.
Human life had no chance because of such ill will and tensions. This new breed of life will take over the new world and life as it knows it now.
Open mindedness will continue forward now with this breed of life. Destruction will not occur, and this will lead to much happiness for this breed of life.
Happiness is hard to come by for certain breeds of life. However, happiness will be in abundance now that this new life will take over and live in this new world.
No one wants to die, but man became extinct on the former planet Earth. Hopefully, this new planet and new breed of life will follow their beliefs and let pacifism reign for as long as this species live in this new domain.
After billions of years of existence, the planet Earth no longer exists in the solar system. Human life has now become extinct as well.
There is a new planet in place of Earth in the same location. A new species of life will now take over Earth and reproduce there.
This new species of life looks like humans. However, it can now breathe in nitrogen and hydrogen as well as oxygen.
The new planet came into being because of the effects from the Big Bang Theory. It was perfect timing for such a world to develop.
This planet is new in stature. It is a place for this new breed of life to expand and live its existence here.
The new world is similar in size to planet Earth. It is a place where this new breed of life can bring about pacifism to its inhabitants.
Pacifism was rare on planet Earth. Wars and destruction took care of human life and over time the planet Earth just disintegrated from existence.
Pacifism was not popular on planet Earth. It was a minority to say the least. The wars and natural disasters took care of humanity.
Humans on planet Earth were belligerent in nature. They could not stop from killing one another and that lead to their extinction.
Over time, even the natural disasters were too popular to prevention extinction of humans. Humanity will never come back as it was or ever again.
This new breed of life wants to be decent to each other. Killing each other is not a good concept for them or anyone to follow. The life they will lead will never bring about destruction to anyone. This will feel amazing to the species at hand.
Life as is known will continue forward. This will be a great concept to anyone at hand now. Life is meant to be enjoyed as well.
I wish this breed of life a great existence to where man used to live on planet Earth. Planet Earth was a place that man could not live anymore.
The planet Earth became unbearable to human life. This has led to their extinction because of the wars and natural disasters that occurred on the former planet, Earth.
Human life had no chance because of such ill will and tensions. This new breed of life will take over the new world and life as it knows it now.
Open mindedness will continue forward now with this breed of life. Destruction will not occur, and this will lead to much happiness for this breed of life.
Happiness is hard to come by for certain breeds of life. However, happiness will be in abundance now that this new life will take over and live in this new world.
No one wants to die, but man became extinct on the former planet Earth. Hopefully, this new planet and new breed of life will follow their beliefs and let pacifism reign for as long as this species live in this new domain.
There is a new planet in place of Earth in the same location. A new species of life will now take over Earth and reproduce there.
This new species of life looks like humans. However, it can now breathe in nitrogen and hydrogen as well as oxygen.
The new planet came into being because of the effects from the Big Bang Theory. It was perfect timing for such a world to develop.
This planet is new in stature. It is a place for this new breed of life to expand and live its existence here.
The new world is similar in size to planet Earth. It is a place where this new breed of life can bring about pacifism to its inhabitants.
Pacifism was rare on planet Earth. Wars and destruction took care of human life and over time the planet Earth just disintegrated from existence.
Pacifism was not popular on planet Earth. It was a minority to say the least. The wars and natural disasters took care of humans.
Humans on planet Earth were belligerent in nature. They could not stop from killing one another and that lead to their extinction.
Over time, even the natural disasters were too popular to prevention extinction of humans. Humanity will never come back as it was or ever again.
This new breed of life wants to be decent to each other. Killing each other is not a good concept for them or anyone to follow. The life they will lead will never bring about destruction to anyone. This will feel amazing to the species at hand.
Life as is known will continue forward. This will be a great concept to anyone at hand now. Life is meant to be enjoyed as well.
I wish this breed of life a great existence to where man used to live on planet Earth. Planet Earth was a place that man could not live anymore.
The planet Earth became unbearable to human life. This has led to their extinction because of the wars and natural disasters that occurred on the former planet, Earth.
Human life had no chance because of such ill will and tensions. This new breed of life will take over the new world and life as it knows it now.
Open mindedness will continue forward now with this breed of life. Destruction will not occur, and this will lead to much happiness for this breed of life.
Happiness is hard to come by for certain breeds of life. However, happiness will be in abundance now that this new life will take over and live in this new world.
No one wants to die, but man became extinct on the former planet Earth. Hopefully, this new planet and new breed of life will follow their beliefs and let pacifism reign for as long as this species live in this new domain.
After billions of years of existence, the planet Earth no longer exists in the solar system. Human life has now become extinct as well.
There is a new planet in place of Earth in the same location. A new species of life will now take over Earth and reproduce there.
This new species of life looks like humans. However, it can now breathe in nitrogen and hydrogen as well as oxygen.
The new planet came into being because of the effects from the Big Bang Theory. It was perfect timing for such a world to develop.
This planet is new in stature. It is a place for this new breed of life to expand and live its existence here.
The new world is similar in size to planet Earth. It is a place where this new breed of life can bring about pacifism to its inhabitants.
Pacifism was rare on planet Earth. Wars and destruction took care of human life and over time the planet Earth just disintegrated from existence.
Pacifism was not popular on planet Earth. It was a minority to say the least. The wars and natural disasters took care of humanity.
Humans on planet Earth were belligerent in nature. They could not stop from killing one another and that lead to their extinction.
Over time, even the natural disasters were too popular to prevention extinction of humans. Humanity will never come back as it was or ever again.
This new breed of life wants to be decent to each other. Killing each other is not a good concept for them or anyone to follow. The life they will lead will never bring about destruction to anyone. This will feel amazing to the species at hand.
Life as is known will continue forward. This will be a great concept to anyone at hand now. Life is meant to be enjoyed as well.
I wish this breed of life a great existence to where man used to live on planet Earth. Planet Earth was a place that man could not live anymore.
The planet Earth became unbearable to human life. This has led to their extinction because of the wars and natural disasters that occurred on the former planet, Earth.
Human life had no chance because of such ill will and tensions. This new breed of life will take over the new world and life as it knows it now.
Open mindedness will continue forward now with this breed of life. Destruction will not occur, and this will lead to much happiness for this breed of life.
Happiness is hard to come by for certain breeds of life. However, happiness will be in abundance now that this new life will take over and live in this new world.
No one wants to die, but man became extinct on the former planet Earth. Hopefully, this new planet and new breed of life will follow their beliefs and let pacifism reign for as long as this species live in this new domain.
Human Life on Planet Earth as it is
There is the last of the human life on Earth now. Only about a hundred exist in this small town in Georgia. It located in the Appalachians.
What will come of them now? The wars and natural disasters have destroyed the other human life on the planet.
They are alive and still fine, but there are only a hundred people left. They are alone in this small town and no one knows they are the ones that are alive and functioning.
The people in this small town have a feeling they are the ones left. They have survived the wars and major natural disasters.
They are all together in this town. Again, only a hundred people have survived. They have enough supplies to live and survive.
The destruction has killed billions. The wars and other horrific events have taken care of what is left of human life.
Humanity is still at a standstill, but these people are alive and kicking. This a positive note based on the tragic events that have happened on planet Earth.
What will happen to the humans in this town? This is a question that is hard to answer at this period of time.
The planet is in ruins and nothing really seems to improve now. The people in this town are safe from anything really horrible.
The people in this town will stay together and live their lives now. They really have no choice. The rest of humanity is dead and gone.
Planet Earth will continue to exist. However, human life is basically dead except for these one hundred people.
They are in a really small town. Nothing really happens too badly there, but they need to stick together and continue with their lives.
This is devastation to all who are here on Earth. There might be other life that will take over and make their life know here.
The future is up in the air right now. There is nothing more that can be done. The planet is almost human less now.
This small town avoided the destruction and totally human extinction. They can now just work together make what they can of planet Earth.
Tragedies will happen in life. However, in this case, the planet Earth will remain as it is unless another life decides to take over.
I wish these one hundred people well. They have a quiet world in their midst and let them remain together. Time will continue on and the rest of the world will be as it is. This is how it is and will remain for the unforeseeable future.
What will come of them now? The wars and natural disasters have destroyed the other human life on the planet.
They are alive and still fine, but there are only a hundred people left. They are alone in this small town and no one knows they are the ones that are alive and functioning.
The people in this small town have a feeling they are the ones left. They have survived the wars and major natural disasters.
They are all together in this town. Again, only a hundred people have survived. They have enough supplies to live and survive.
The destruction has killed billions. The wars and other horrific events have taken care of what is left of human life.
Humanity is still at a standstill, but these people are alive and kicking. This a positive note based on the tragic events that have happened on planet Earth.
What will happen to the humans in this town? This is a question that is hard to answer at this period of time.
The planet is in ruins and nothing really seems to improve now. The people in this town are safe from anything really horrible.
The people in this town will stay together and live their lives now. They really have no choice. The rest of humanity is dead and gone.
Planet Earth will continue to exist. However, human life is basically dead except for these one hundred people.
They are in a really small town. Nothing really happens too badly there, but they need to stick together and continue with their lives.
This is devastation to all who are here on Earth. There might be other life that will take over and make their life know here.
The future is up in the air right now. There is nothing more that can be done. The planet is almost human less now.
This small town avoided the destruction and totally human extinction. They can now just work together make what they can of planet Earth.
Tragedies will happen in life. However, in this case, the planet Earth will remain as it is unless another life decides to take over.
I wish these one hundred people well. They have a quiet world in their midst and let them remain together. Time will continue on and the rest of the world will be as it is. This is how it is and will remain for the unforeseeable future.
Dinosaurs coming back to life from planet Earth
Dinosaurs are now coming back to life on planet Mars. Their spirits have reincarnated on this great planet in the solar system.
Reincarnation does not happen on Earth. However, it is taking place on Mars with regards to the lives of dinosaurs.
Planet Mars is still a desolate place, and there is plenty of space for dinosaurs to reincarnate there. It is a great place for them to go to.
Mars is not that far away from Earth. Yet, it is not too far away from the sun for the dinosaurs to receive energy from the sun.
Planet Jupiter is the largest planet in the solar system. However, it is too cold, and its distance is too far away from the sun for the dinosaurs to receive proper energy from it.
No that is human knows that this is happening on Mars. Scientists and anyone else think that the dinosaurs are extinct.
However, their lives are coming back to fruition on planet Mars. Mars will now be their home instead of when Earth was.
The planet of Mars is now encompassed with dinosaurs. However, these dinosaurs are no threat to life on Mars.
The Martian life will not be killed or affected at all by the reincarnated dinosaurs. The dinosaurs are aware of the Martian life here and will respect it.
Planet Earth was their original home, but they are now on an alien world to them. Planet Mars is where Martians first came into being.
The Martians are in awe of the dinosaurs, but again have nothing to worry about. The dinosaurs know that the world they are now a part of is their home now, but it is still the original home of Martian life.
It is amazing to see this life now on Mars. Mars has a sparse population of Martians, but they won’t be affected by the dinosaurs.
The dinosaurs will mostly be on the other side of the planet. Very few will be in a place where Martians exist.
This is so amazing to realize that reincarnation is happening on Mars. Most people would assume this happening on Earth.
This is not case, however. Planet Earth is a world where nobody comes back from the dead. This is just how life functions on Earth.
Reincarnation is a touchy issue that is brought up on Earth. However, there have never been sightings of life coming back to from the dead.
What does this concept hold for planet Mars? This is really the planet’s own secret. Mars still has a sparse population there. However, no one on Earth will know about this.
Planet Mars is its own world and will remain that way. The Martians do not communicate or collaborate with Earthlings. This is their home and it will stay that way. Again, planet Mars is the new home of the reincarnated dinosaurs. This is how it is now and will remain as the future comes one day at a time.
Reincarnation does not happen on Earth. However, it is taking place on Mars with regards to the lives of dinosaurs.
Planet Mars is still a desolate place, and there is plenty of space for dinosaurs to reincarnate there. It is a great place for them to go to.
Mars is not that far away from Earth. Yet, it is not too far away from the sun for the dinosaurs to receive energy from the sun.
Planet Jupiter is the largest planet in the solar system. However, it is too cold, and its distance is too far away from the sun for the dinosaurs to receive proper energy from it.
No that is human knows that this is happening on Mars. Scientists and anyone else think that the dinosaurs are extinct.
However, their lives are coming back to fruition on planet Mars. Mars will now be their home instead of when Earth was.
The planet of Mars is now encompassed with dinosaurs. However, these dinosaurs are no threat to life on Mars.
The Martian life will not be killed or affected at all by the reincarnated dinosaurs. The dinosaurs are aware of the Martian life here and will respect it.
Planet Earth was their original home, but they are now on an alien world to them. Planet Mars is where Martians first came into being.
The Martians are in awe of the dinosaurs, but again have nothing to worry about. The dinosaurs know that the world they are now a part of is their home now, but it is still the original home of Martian life.
It is amazing to see this life now on Mars. Mars has a sparse population of Martians, but they won’t be affected by the dinosaurs.
The dinosaurs will mostly be on the other side of the planet. Very few will be in a place where Martians exist.
This is so amazing to realize that reincarnation is happening on Mars. Most people would assume this happening on Earth.
This is not case, however. Planet Earth is a world where nobody comes back from the dead. This is just how life functions on Earth.
Reincarnation is a touchy issue that is brought up on Earth. However, there have never been sightings of life coming back to from the dead.
What does this concept hold for planet Mars? This is really the planet’s own secret. Mars still has a sparse population there. However, no one on Earth will know about this.
Planet Mars is its own world and will remain that way. The Martians do not communicate or collaborate with Earthlings. This is their home and it will stay that way. Again, planet Mars is the new home of the reincarnated dinosaurs. This is how it is now and will remain as the future comes one day at a time.
Using Fabric Materials to Travel in Time
In some ways, this seems weird or bizarre. There may be even be a voodoo element to this. However, Holly found a way to travel in time this way.
While asleep one night, spirits unknown to her cast a spell over her bedroom. Then they spoke to her and she heard about how to time travel.
She is the type of person who wants to time travel. She is fifteen years old and the abilities to leave home to do this were appealing to her.
She has fabric materials to allow her to travel in time. She needs to place the colors of the fabrics in a certain order to do this.
The fabrics are square like in appearance. They come in different colors. She needs to put them on top of one another with different colors this way. This is very simple, and this should allow for the time travel to take place.
She can travel anywhere in time. She has a book with her that shows places in the past. When she puts the fabric in a certain order with their colors and turns to a page in history, she can travel to that destination.
There are so many places she would love to travel to in time. This would make her happier to no end as well.
Holly has used this way to travel in time. She has traveled to many places in the future this way. She was amazed at what she has seen.
Holly saw how Egyptian pyramids were first made, she met Galileo, she traveled in time to the Renaissance as well.
She will continue to do all that she can to travel in time. This is her own secret, and this makes her feel happy inside.
She never thought time travel would be a reality to her. It has been one and she doesn’t want to stop experiencing adventure this way.
She feels like a new person when she goes in time to see history. She loves this a lot and cannot believe how easy it is for her to do this.
Where will she go next? She can’t wait to see a different destination in time. This will always mean a lot to her and let her future continue to blossom as time passes each day at a time.
While asleep one night, spirits unknown to her cast a spell over her bedroom. Then they spoke to her and she heard about how to time travel.
She is the type of person who wants to time travel. She is fifteen years old and the abilities to leave home to do this were appealing to her.
She has fabric materials to allow her to travel in time. She needs to place the colors of the fabrics in a certain order to do this.
The fabrics are square like in appearance. They come in different colors. She needs to put them on top of one another with different colors this way. This is very simple, and this should allow for the time travel to take place.
She can travel anywhere in time. She has a book with her that shows places in the past. When she puts the fabric in a certain order with their colors and turns to a page in history, she can travel to that destination.
There are so many places she would love to travel to in time. This would make her happier to no end as well.
Holly has used this way to travel in time. She has traveled to many places in the future this way. She was amazed at what she has seen.
Holly saw how Egyptian pyramids were first made, she met Galileo, she traveled in time to the Renaissance as well.
She will continue to do all that she can to travel in time. This is her own secret, and this makes her feel happy inside.
She never thought time travel would be a reality to her. It has been one and she doesn’t want to stop experiencing adventure this way.
She feels like a new person when she goes in time to see history. She loves this a lot and cannot believe how easy it is for her to do this.
Where will she go next? She can’t wait to see a different destination in time. This will always mean a lot to her and let her future continue to blossom as time passes each day at a time.
Forces in the universe that affect the rotation of planets around the sun
These forces are hard to figure right now. Where do they come from to affect the rotation of planets that rotate around the sun?
The planets have been evolving at alarming rates. Life on the planets has become more sophisticated with each passing day.
These forces are not powerful enough to harm the planets. However, they do exist now, and it is bizarre even to scientists.
The solar system continues to evolve now. The planet Earth may take a little longer to go around the sun than it is used to.
The planets can rotate but at a slower pace. There is nothing wrong with them just the forces are at a great presence.
The solar system gets affected by the forces in their own way. No one is to be alarmed by this at all.
There is action in the atmosphere allowing these forces to take place. Evil spirits are taking hold of these forces now.
Over time as space gets a lot cooler these spirits will take away these forces. Then their presence will disappear.
As many years have passed, these forces have subsided. The planets are rotating back to their normal ways.
The solar system has evolved differently in part to the Big Bang Theory. It is now a universe without these outside forces affecting it.
Planet Earth is rotating as its usual self. This is the case with the other eight planets as well in the solar system.
The solar system continues to remain a mystery. However, it is now back to its old self and everything appears to be normal.
These evil forces are long gone now. They were in the universe for some time, but years have passed, and the old universe is back to its former self.
Accept the universe for what it’s worth. It is a place where the unknown is what it is, and new things can happen at any time. Take this all in and let the future continue each day forward.
The planets have been evolving at alarming rates. Life on the planets has become more sophisticated with each passing day.
These forces are not powerful enough to harm the planets. However, they do exist now, and it is bizarre even to scientists.
The solar system continues to evolve now. The planet Earth may take a little longer to go around the sun than it is used to.
The planets can rotate but at a slower pace. There is nothing wrong with them just the forces are at a great presence.
The solar system gets affected by the forces in their own way. No one is to be alarmed by this at all.
There is action in the atmosphere allowing these forces to take place. Evil spirits are taking hold of these forces now.
Over time as space gets a lot cooler these spirits will take away these forces. Then their presence will disappear.
As many years have passed, these forces have subsided. The planets are rotating back to their normal ways.
The solar system has evolved differently in part to the Big Bang Theory. It is now a universe without these outside forces affecting it.
Planet Earth is rotating as its usual self. This is the case with the other eight planets as well in the solar system.
The solar system continues to remain a mystery. However, it is now back to its old self and everything appears to be normal.
These evil forces are long gone now. They were in the universe for some time, but years have passed, and the old universe is back to its former self.
Accept the universe for what it’s worth. It is a place where the unknown is what it is, and new things can happen at any time. Take this all in and let the future continue each day forward.
Mars has now become a world in which humans can exist on
It has now become a world where we as humans can live on. Astronauts no longer need oxygen suits to live and thrive on planet Mars.
Mars has changed from an evolutionary standpoint. It used to be a barren world until humans from Earth landed there to expand towns and cities. It has now become a world where we as humans can live and build a life for ourselves there.
There are some more people from Earth who will leave the planet and come to Mars. They are eager to start a new life there.
Again, currently, only planets Earth and Mars are livable for humans. It should be a fascinating time for those who have traveled to Mars to enjoy and spend their time there.
How much expansion will happen on planet Mars? This is a question that has no real answer to it.
However, this world will continue to transform in many ways. Time is on one’s side and this is just a concept that needs to be addressed for change to occur.
There are now humans on planet Mars. More and more humans have come here to develop new towns.
The construction on such towns will be expansive. There is now plenty of financial assistance in such realities.
Finances are a key to making towns exist. What will happen next when the financial ends are met?
Time will continue forward in making new towns on planet Mars. Mars will continue to expand regardless of how much time it takes to make a new city.
It is now the future and all these advances are taking place. No one has ever predicted that Mars would be dominated so intently by the Earthlings.
Mars had a few people living there. Now this world will be dominated greatly by more humans and other life in general from Earth.
The whole culture of Mars is about to change. Changes will occur when people continue to come to this planet to live.
The whole lifestyle of people will change for the better hopefully. There are people who live on planet Earth and just want to live on Mars for a change of scenery and a change of pace.
Mars is certainly a different world than planet Earth. It will take Mars some time to become an industrialized world.
It took planet Earth time to develop into the world it is now. History proves itself well in the case of planet Earth’s growth into a thriving society.
Mars is a world that wants to compete with Earth in human growth. This is not possible because planet Earth has more than seven billion people living on it.
Planet Earth’s population is still growing. Procreation happens to a lot of people all over the world. This is just the way it is on planet Earth.
Can Mars ever change like planet Earth has over time. This again has a lot to do with interest and financial matters.
Mars is starting to grow in bits. However, since it is still barren it will take so many years for any real growth to happen.
What does the future really hold for Mars in such a story? This is a question that is hard for anyone to answer.
Mars is a world that will constantly change now in this story. It will be a place that will grow with people and civilizations will consist of its well-being as well.
These are concepts we need to understand. They may or may not change in the future, but that is the mystique of the future.
The future is really what you make of it. It is a time that will be kind to us or the exact opposite. All that people can do is hope and make the changing of planet Mars a reality.
Mars has changed from an evolutionary standpoint. It used to be a barren world until humans from Earth landed there to expand towns and cities. It has now become a world where we as humans can live and build a life for ourselves there.
There are some more people from Earth who will leave the planet and come to Mars. They are eager to start a new life there.
Again, currently, only planets Earth and Mars are livable for humans. It should be a fascinating time for those who have traveled to Mars to enjoy and spend their time there.
How much expansion will happen on planet Mars? This is a question that has no real answer to it.
However, this world will continue to transform in many ways. Time is on one’s side and this is just a concept that needs to be addressed for change to occur.
There are now humans on planet Mars. More and more humans have come here to develop new towns.
The construction on such towns will be expansive. There is now plenty of financial assistance in such realities.
Finances are a key to making towns exist. What will happen next when the financial ends are met?
Time will continue forward in making new towns on planet Mars. Mars will continue to expand regardless of how much time it takes to make a new city.
It is now the future and all these advances are taking place. No one has ever predicted that Mars would be dominated so intently by the Earthlings.
Mars had a few people living there. Now this world will be dominated greatly by more humans and other life in general from Earth.
The whole culture of Mars is about to change. Changes will occur when people continue to come to this planet to live.
The whole lifestyle of people will change for the better hopefully. There are people who live on planet Earth and just want to live on Mars for a change of scenery and a change of pace.
Mars is certainly a different world than planet Earth. It will take Mars some time to become an industrialized world.
It took planet Earth time to develop into the world it is now. History proves itself well in the case of planet Earth’s growth into a thriving society.
Mars is a world that wants to compete with Earth in human growth. This is not possible because planet Earth has more than seven billion people living on it.
Planet Earth’s population is still growing. Procreation happens to a lot of people all over the world. This is just the way it is on planet Earth.
Can Mars ever change like planet Earth has over time. This again has a lot to do with interest and financial matters.
Mars is starting to grow in bits. However, since it is still barren it will take so many years for any real growth to happen.
What does the future really hold for Mars in such a story? This is a question that is hard for anyone to answer.
Mars is a world that will constantly change now in this story. It will be a place that will grow with people and civilizations will consist of its well-being as well.
These are concepts we need to understand. They may or may not change in the future, but that is the mystique of the future.
The future is really what you make of it. It is a time that will be kind to us or the exact opposite. All that people can do is hope and make the changing of planet Mars a reality.
Voices heard throughout the solar system
This may seem unique because space is basically like a vacuum. Voices can’t be heard while in space.
However, this experience has happened. Voices of singing angels have been recorded in such an instance.
Are angels real themselves? In the case, singing has been heard while in space during this time. The singing is great to the ears.
The singing has been picked up by satellites in space. It is high in tone and very pleasant to listen to.
This has been voices in space. Nobody can figure out why this is the case. On radar, angels are seen doing this.
Angels are believed to be mythical in nature. There are people who believe in angels and others who don’t.
The angels are doing this to express themselves. They want to be known as life that lives in the solar system.
Humans on Earth believe in what they see and hear. However, these sounds have been recorded on satellites.
The images detected are angels in form. This must be a reality that occurs in space now. It has been detected.
Angels are hard to understand and know. There are many interpretations about their existence and whereabouts in our world in general.
The world is a vast place and especially the solar system at large. These angels must be a part of solar system if detected by satellites.
The angels come and go while in the solar system. Their presence hasn’t been felt, but they have been detected on satellite.
They prefer to mind their own business and not cause any harm to anyone. The solar system is their domain to explore.
It is unique that they do exist in our solar system. Even the most scientifically literate of people are baffled by their existence.
Science is realistic. The idea of something like this is baffling to many, but it has been seen on the satellite imaging.
What can be made of the future of the universe at large? This is a hard question to answer, but anything really goes in the solar system.
Its vastness is unmatched as it continues into infinity. Will there be other life detected in space on the satellites? Only time will tell with an answer. For now, just accept the solar system for what its worth and continue forward in thinking. This makes life more appealing and an open mind is all anyone can ask for, for the time being.
However, this experience has happened. Voices of singing angels have been recorded in such an instance.
Are angels real themselves? In the case, singing has been heard while in space during this time. The singing is great to the ears.
The singing has been picked up by satellites in space. It is high in tone and very pleasant to listen to.
This has been voices in space. Nobody can figure out why this is the case. On radar, angels are seen doing this.
Angels are believed to be mythical in nature. There are people who believe in angels and others who don’t.
The angels are doing this to express themselves. They want to be known as life that lives in the solar system.
Humans on Earth believe in what they see and hear. However, these sounds have been recorded on satellites.
The images detected are angels in form. This must be a reality that occurs in space now. It has been detected.
Angels are hard to understand and know. There are many interpretations about their existence and whereabouts in our world in general.
The world is a vast place and especially the solar system at large. These angels must be a part of solar system if detected by satellites.
The angels come and go while in the solar system. Their presence hasn’t been felt, but they have been detected on satellite.
They prefer to mind their own business and not cause any harm to anyone. The solar system is their domain to explore.
It is unique that they do exist in our solar system. Even the most scientifically literate of people are baffled by their existence.
Science is realistic. The idea of something like this is baffling to many, but it has been seen on the satellite imaging.
What can be made of the future of the universe at large? This is a hard question to answer, but anything really goes in the solar system.
Its vastness is unmatched as it continues into infinity. Will there be other life detected in space on the satellites? Only time will tell with an answer. For now, just accept the solar system for what its worth and continue forward in thinking. This makes life more appealing and an open mind is all anyone can ask for, for the time being.
Our planet of Earth in a better state of existence
For years and years, planet Earth has been under the ruins of war and natural disasters. The human race is clinging alive by a thread.
Planet Earth needs a new life form to take over. Other life from around the solar system knows about the destruction planet Earth is going through now.
The life from other worlds will help out from the destruction humans are placing on each other now. The human race needs to rationalize why the destructions continue. If the wars cease, humanity can come back and natural disasters won’t happen in such great quantities as well.
This life from another world will look ahead and help out the disasters on planet Earth. The planet needs help desperately.
Life from Mars and Venus will now come to Earth to help out. There has been life from Saturn and Jupiter that will do the same.
Planet Earth is the only world where life from all over the solar system can live. The destruction is massive and help is on the way.
Planet Earth believes that it can be saved. The wars should diminish over time. However, there will vast human killings and destruction of other life, too.
Help from planets Venus and Mars are now here. It will take a little while longer for help from Saturn and Jupiter to come here. Those planets are really far from the planet Earth.
Earth is an ally to all of the planets. However, Earth is noted for its destruction and overall war occurrences.
The help is definitely being shown now. Wars are starting to subside and more peace will be spread here.
Planet Earth needs peace because the planet needs to repair itself. The planet is self-correcting place that needs peace to revive itself from human ruin. Also, natural disasters won’t be as frequent if peace is spread right now.
The help from the four planets has proven beneficial. It took Saturn and Jupiter some time to come to planet Earth. They did come and the help they provided was magnificent to say the least.
The four planets that helped Earth turned the world around. Planet Earth was able to save a lot of inhabitants from death.
Planet Earth now will continue to improve. There were so many casualties from the wars and natural disasters.
The natural disasters will still happen, but not as much. Their effects will not be as devastating as before. One cannot control the weather literally.
The planets are happy now that Earth is in great shape again. It will take time for the planet to repair itself, but it will happen.
The planet Earth will continue to exist in the solar system with human life. The human life was close to extinction, but the help from Mars, Venus, Jupiter and Saturn proved to be positive in so many ways. The help allowed planet Earth to exist as it is now.
Overall, there is nothing else to add. The planet Earth will continue to improve and this is what it wants to do. As long as no more wars take place, the goodness of people will thrive. This is how it will be for now. I wish the planet more positivity and hopefully in time the planet Earth will cleanse itself and be one of the friendliest, if not the friendliest world in the galaxy as time passes into the future and beyond.
Planet Earth needs a new life form to take over. Other life from around the solar system knows about the destruction planet Earth is going through now.
The life from other worlds will help out from the destruction humans are placing on each other now. The human race needs to rationalize why the destructions continue. If the wars cease, humanity can come back and natural disasters won’t happen in such great quantities as well.
This life from another world will look ahead and help out the disasters on planet Earth. The planet needs help desperately.
Life from Mars and Venus will now come to Earth to help out. There has been life from Saturn and Jupiter that will do the same.
Planet Earth is the only world where life from all over the solar system can live. The destruction is massive and help is on the way.
Planet Earth believes that it can be saved. The wars should diminish over time. However, there will vast human killings and destruction of other life, too.
Help from planets Venus and Mars are now here. It will take a little while longer for help from Saturn and Jupiter to come here. Those planets are really far from the planet Earth.
Earth is an ally to all of the planets. However, Earth is noted for its destruction and overall war occurrences.
The help is definitely being shown now. Wars are starting to subside and more peace will be spread here.
Planet Earth needs peace because the planet needs to repair itself. The planet is self-correcting place that needs peace to revive itself from human ruin. Also, natural disasters won’t be as frequent if peace is spread right now.
The help from the four planets has proven beneficial. It took Saturn and Jupiter some time to come to planet Earth. They did come and the help they provided was magnificent to say the least.
The four planets that helped Earth turned the world around. Planet Earth was able to save a lot of inhabitants from death.
Planet Earth now will continue to improve. There were so many casualties from the wars and natural disasters.
The natural disasters will still happen, but not as much. Their effects will not be as devastating as before. One cannot control the weather literally.
The planets are happy now that Earth is in great shape again. It will take time for the planet to repair itself, but it will happen.
The planet Earth will continue to exist in the solar system with human life. The human life was close to extinction, but the help from Mars, Venus, Jupiter and Saturn proved to be positive in so many ways. The help allowed planet Earth to exist as it is now.
Overall, there is nothing else to add. The planet Earth will continue to improve and this is what it wants to do. As long as no more wars take place, the goodness of people will thrive. This is how it will be for now. I wish the planet more positivity and hopefully in time the planet Earth will cleanse itself and be one of the friendliest, if not the friendliest world in the galaxy as time passes into the future and beyond.
A Planet Where Life Forms need to go
There are three planets in the solar system that need to escape their home world. These planets are Earth, Mars and Saturn.
Planet Jupiter is the largest and most expansive planet in the solar system. It is by far the friendliest as well.
The people that live on these three planets need to escape and go to Jupiter. Constant wars and destruction have made people come to this planet by the droves.
Due to the massive size of Jupiter, these people can live comfortably there. Jupiter is expecting droves of people from these planets to come there and start their lives again on that planet.
It is becoming very congested in the solar system now. Due to the length of time in the future, all life forms have space pods to get them to any place in the solar system.
These three planets need to get away and live in a safer environment. This must be on the agenda and these life forms need to stick with moving from their respective planets.
Jupiter has never had any major wars or disturbances with people. People go to Jupiter to get away and live life in a much more peaceful way.
Destruction can happen anywhere. It is just on Earth, Mars, and Saturn wars and destruction are really devastating right now.
People need a world to start a life at. This may be a new world or a place where peace dominates the domain.
Jupiter is such a planet. People are prepared to go there and adjust to this amazingly large world in our solar system.
Humans on planet Earth love confrontation. Unfortunately, this starts battles that leads to wars. Earth has had too much destruction now in its domain.
Planet Mars runs into the same category. The world of Mars fights over matter that are small, and this is how minor things turn into wars. The people there need to get to Jupiter as well.
Saturn is a planet that is stoic in nature. Wars happen there even more than Earth and Mars. The people there get so depressed and angry. Therefore, they love to go to Jupiter to get away from the badness in the world.
There is nothing more to add here. Planets in ruin need a place to start over and try a fresh start at life. Jupiter is the perfect place. I wish the people well who go there and live their lives as the best way they know how. This is how it is and hopefully in the long run great things can happen to everyone involved.
Planet Jupiter is the largest and most expansive planet in the solar system. It is by far the friendliest as well.
The people that live on these three planets need to escape and go to Jupiter. Constant wars and destruction have made people come to this planet by the droves.
Due to the massive size of Jupiter, these people can live comfortably there. Jupiter is expecting droves of people from these planets to come there and start their lives again on that planet.
It is becoming very congested in the solar system now. Due to the length of time in the future, all life forms have space pods to get them to any place in the solar system.
These three planets need to get away and live in a safer environment. This must be on the agenda and these life forms need to stick with moving from their respective planets.
Jupiter has never had any major wars or disturbances with people. People go to Jupiter to get away and live life in a much more peaceful way.
Destruction can happen anywhere. It is just on Earth, Mars, and Saturn wars and destruction are really devastating right now.
People need a world to start a life at. This may be a new world or a place where peace dominates the domain.
Jupiter is such a planet. People are prepared to go there and adjust to this amazingly large world in our solar system.
Humans on planet Earth love confrontation. Unfortunately, this starts battles that leads to wars. Earth has had too much destruction now in its domain.
Planet Mars runs into the same category. The world of Mars fights over matter that are small, and this is how minor things turn into wars. The people there need to get to Jupiter as well.
Saturn is a planet that is stoic in nature. Wars happen there even more than Earth and Mars. The people there get so depressed and angry. Therefore, they love to go to Jupiter to get away from the badness in the world.
There is nothing more to add here. Planets in ruin need a place to start over and try a fresh start at life. Jupiter is the perfect place. I wish the people well who go there and live their lives as the best way they know how. This is how it is and hopefully in the long run great things can happen to everyone involved.
The author is an academic stateside and international ESL Instructor. He has been a writer for over thirty years. His latest publications have been two books of nonfiction with Algora Publishing, and fictional publications with combo e-zines and print magazines; Leaves Of Ink, Short Story Lovers, The Fear Of Monkeys, CC&D Magazine with anthology, and Frontier Tales. |
The Incident In Galloway’s Quarter
Nestled in a forest of cypress trees and live oaks sheltered by Spanish moss, sits the small town of Nikina, North Carolina. The place presently has 5435 people, and is growing. According to the elders the town has been steadily growing for the past 100 years. From the Big Swamp area runs a creek referred to by locals as Panthere’ Folle Creek. This somewhat narrow flow of water moves slowly behind the small settlement, meandering passed old West Indies styled buildings in a quiet tinkle of bourbon tinted liquid.
One of these old buildings happens to be a locally famous, or infamous watering hole known as The Patriot. This pub dates back to the 1700’s according to local tradition. It sits on an inward bend of the creek. Almost every person living in the area had an ancestor who was slain there in some gun or knife fight over the years. Several enterprising people have poked around in the creek bank behind the bar over time, discovering valuable elegant antique wine, beer, and liquor bottles; since through the ages patrons inside the pub simply sat up underneath the eve on the back porch, tossing their empty beer and wine bottles into woods toward the creek. Until around ten years ago in the past, few real people spent much time worrying about trash being found somewhere in the woods by people walking around looking for it. There were far too many more important things for a man to do back then, especially in an agricultural community.
The spring door on the front porch suddenly bursts open. Out stumbled two men well known by the locals. Both stepped off the front porch nearly tripping in their stagger, then one followed the other off to the side, as if searching for a place to engage in a bit of private conversation.
The one initiating the conversation was an elder known as Mason McPherson. He was a large boned, rather muscular man, with skin tanned dark as an Indian’s from a lifetime spent out in the sun. His teeth were chipped to a slight degree in the front, and his lips were chaffed to the point of peeling. He seized the other man by the front of his shirt with a powerful sun scarred right hand, speaking through his tightly clenched teeth as he did so.
The one listening was none other than a local conservation official known as Richard King. He was much younger than Mason, being of slighter build, with much less tan in his skin. Even though he wore plain clothes and a large straw hat upon his reddish brown head, every local clearly knew who he was. He had a worried expression on his face as Mason spoke, punching Richard in the chest with his left index finger to give emphasis in his words. Mason had no expression upon his face as he continued speaking, being concealed by golden rimmed, dark sunglasses and a large, very expensive river boatman’s straw hat. His complete demeanor and general aura was one of a commanding, indisputable authority.
“You boys understand one damn thing around here right now. Its a war going on in Galloway’s Quarter, and soon to be full scale at that, I’m afraid. Out-landers don’t comprehend the fact that The Freebooters simply ain’t goin’ to give in, Richard. They can bring the Fed into the Quarter, the Mounties, The Green Barrett, Elvis, and who ever the damn hell else they wanna bring, and they’ll still never back down.”
The phrase “The Freebooters” was simply a localized slang term for mega-wealthy landowners and local business people, who controlled every aspect of the whole Tide Water region, from politics to business, and taxes. No person could ever hope to accomplish any ambition without first going through them, then he was required to uphold a rigorous moral expectation to pass their inspection, and on Freebooter terms to define morality. Any who failed had better pack up and move at least three states over to escape their broad influence, if these people ever want to succeed at anything in life. That’s just the way it is, and the way it always has been, and the way it shall forever be, the locals are fond of saying. Live in it, love it; or pack ass and get the bloody hell out, its all just that simple.
“But the law is the law, and nobody anywhere stands above it,” gasped the young officer, Richard. Sweat rolled off his face as he spoke with a clear Seppo accent, betraying the fact he originated from somewhere far outside state boundaries, and consequently assumed to live according to an opposing belief system. Automatically he was an object of mistrust.
“I don’t cotton to repeating myself, Richard. Like I said earlier, this is a three hundred year old life style around here, and these locals ain’t going to forego on it just because of some poo-boy do-gooder law dreamed up in Raleigh, Columbia, or Washington; which might as well be fairyland out here in the Greene Swamp, as far as everybody is concerned. All that I have to tell you, or anybody, but especially any out-lander; is don’t push your luck in these parts for God’s sake, fellow,” spat old man, Mason, with a firm face. “The locals take it as a person throwing his weight around at their expense, and them having such a feeling ain’t good for any bodies health.”
“The law shall be enforced, even around here, Mason,” promptly retorted Richard as he struggled to stand his ground. “That die has already been cast. Our move is being made, even as I stand here speaking. What must be done, shall be so, even if we have to bring in Federal troops. Right now we have three elitist government men on the ground marching out there, who will shirk at nothing to see their job through . They are headed out to visit the chief Formy and the Duval clans, even as we are speaking, with a very curt message for them and everybody else out there, and all of Galloway’s Quarter.”
Mason took a deep breath, then released it slowly before speaking. He turned his head to spit a mouthful of tar black juice onto the ground, then snapped back around.
“I just don’t know what to tell ya, except I told ya so, Richard. I was asked to deliver that specific message to you, personally. I am not at liberty to say specifically who told me to tell ya, but he is a man who knows how to get things done around here; and more than that, he jolly damn well means what he says,” Mason roared out of a growing frustration.
The place in Galloway’s Quarters where the Formy and the Duvall clans claim their estates, lies is in an out of the way spot called Crusoe Island. The great Waccamaw River divides, then branches outward, only to merge again some thirty miles away down stream. The isolated land tract in between this loop divide in the river is known as Crusoe Island.
Nobody knows if this name, Crusoe, came about after Defoe’s tale of Robinson Crusoe was published or not; but it might be possible, as the conclusion is deduced from historical dates. According to legend, the people who now occupy Crusoe Island originated with the great Hispaniola planter class. The famous slave revolt took more than twenty years to develop. The ides for a crushing revolution were on the wind, even ten years prior. During that time intelligent planters with plenty of foresight, sold their massive wealth producing properties to break even, or even reap a small profit. Many planters who doubted tales of future harbinger were eager to cash in on these often bargain property deals. Those thousands who saw the light and exited out while they could, scattered, going many places all across America, and into Canada. Several hundred made their way down the Waccamaw River, and onto Crusoe Island, among other places.
According to the legendary account, the descendants of Portuguese sailors escaped from a ship wreck in the mouth of the Waccamaw already occupied the island for more than 100 years. The cash laden planter refugees offered to buy them out, but kindly allowed any single Portuguese women to remain, at no charge. Since these French planter colonists often did not bring any women with them, the wealthiest members of their community found an easy bargain talking these women into marriage, thus the colony grew quickly.
The Portuguese were already living off the land, building cabins, cutting wood, planting gardens, harvesting fish from the river, and game from the woodlands. These planter Frenchmen simply carried on with this tradition, where they still do to this day. These people spend their days fishing, planting, sowing clothes, weaving gill nets, or carving four feet diameter by twenty feet long cypress logs into canoes with hatchets and glowing coals. When they are not engaging in any of this activity, they are sitting neath the shade of some huge live oak tree, quaffing down beer by the keg and eating home cut steak over fresh pan cooked corn bread.
These people have many customs borrowed from the old French and the Hispaniola planter culture. One example would be the great October bonfire ceremonies, where hard drinkers and story tellers gather around, listening to a local bard sing stories of past and present heroic deeds. Some of these deeds may or may not always be in agreement with the established present day laws of the surrounding area. There is also a heroes portion of pit roasted pork for any person brave enough to claim or take it, and often there might be rough housing to accompany a variety of riotous late night activities.
The area referred to as Galloway’s Quarter was an old borough district that occupied the areas of three adjacent present day counties. These areas included vast parts of Columbus County, parts of nearby Robinson County, in company with the portions of Horry and Marion counties in South Carolina. All of these areas claimed by Galloway’s Quarter were and still are parts of the great Green Swamp, and the Big Swamp basin areas. In some areas the swamp covered tracts of land continue, but have different identifying local names; like Spinster’s Swift , Old Fiddler’s Foot, and my personal favorite, The Crazy Woman’s Back Side.
Crusoe Island is the chief section that dominates the other areas of Galloway’s Quarter. The headmaster was a wealthy tobacco plantation, and big-time mercantile business owner named Mijj Bo Greene. The Greene clan had been among the chief planter class, and among the wealthiest in the area, going all the way backward to the earliest days of first settlement. Mijj Bo Greene was not only the chief headmaster of the entire district, he also had powerful connections reaching all the way upward into the governor’s mansions in both North and South Carolina.
Nothing that went on inside the area did so without Mijj Bo Greene’s permission. One of his right hand assistants was none other than Mason McPherson, but there were other big fish who were part of the time-honored Crusoe Dynasty. A mega-wealthy planter, business man, speculator, and local state politician, was none other than Adonias Parker. Adonias Parker had three brothers. One was named Dooley Parker. The second one was named Rascal, and the third named Ebeneezer. These brothers were known by locals as the Parker Brothers Business Enterprise executives; or more simply put, the PBBEE crew.
Their entity at large was legally a broad based business title referred to as Parker Brother’s Inc. This long revered clan was into everything from owning heating and air companies, mobile home and RV construction firms, to residential and commercial construction companies, apartment rentals, tobacco farms, hog and turkey houses, herds of goats a thousand head in size, real-estate sales enterprises at large, and so forth. There was also some low key back door money lending going on.
This quite reality of cash lending was also common place among the Crusoe Dynasty at large, who operated as a proxy in addition for lending operations from the governor mansions of North and South Carolina, to certain enterprising citizens who knew how to conduct a proper appeal. No business ever conceived by mankind can increase wealth like lending money for value appreciating collateral can. That fact of being is why government regulators in the Land Of The Free are so firmly adamant about keeping individual citizens from engaging in it.
The last thing desired is for some poor sap to raise himself up by his own boot straps, to the point that he can directly compete with the banks, not to mention work his way into state or federal congress; then change laws that only serve to repress individuals, who otherwise only exist with their necks beneath the boot heels of corporations, banks, and greed laden government officials desiring that the citizen population remain in lifetime servitude to the State and Federal tax system.
After all, people paying a never ending tax was how these congressional members maintained the high interest installment fees on unsupervised loans taken out by themselves to the Federal Reserve. They collected their portion of an undefined cost of living allowance by serving on the board of directors in some large corporation, Ivy League University, state based college or public entity that supposedly gets its funding from donations. Thus, payment for their new Lamborghini, their personal corporation or business entities, and their elegant mansions on the hill depended on citizens being compelled to half all earnings with them.
Adonias possessed a huge mansion sitting out in the middle of swamp-land a mile back from Beaufort's Inlet. The grandiose two story classic styled, thirty room luxurious home had six, two feet diameter Doric columns supporting a huge front porch. Every room had massive elegant crystal chandeliers plated with pure gold, and hanging in the center of the front porch above the foyer entrance. On the outside was a huge kitchen room maned by totally dedicated, career minded hired servants, who constantly prepare food and transported it inside the mansion estate. Some of these people, however, were rumored to be people indebted to Adonias for favors of various sorts, who were employed with him at payment plus interest.
In the yard were various animals such as goats, chickens, cows, and even hogs; but the hogs were kept on a tract of land way off in the distance, somewhere far out of sight and smell range, and strictly fed a daily diet of freshly harvest acorns. A huge garden filled with every variety of vegetable was planted behind the home, since Adonias, his clan and his associates, loved a large variety of fresh vegetables and meat on the hoof. All of this possession required constant maintenance, assuring ongoing employment opportunity to the locals.
The entire estate sat in the midst of a hundred acre land tract, surrounded by a twelve feet high masonry wall, topped by razor wire angling toward the outside, and a massive black iron bared gate at a front estate driveway lined with blossoming roses, azaleas, tulips, chrysanthemum, magnolia and live oak trees. Often paid guards were standing on either side of the gate, as they were in specially designed towers spaced every forty yards up and down the wall. No expense was spared because Adonias and his clan could well afford it.
In addition to this, the Crusoe Dynasty had hundreds of smaller fish working the rat lines for them. These smaller fish included everybody from school principals, area business men, local policemen, and state politicians; to rogues of every sort who were ever willing to engage in any request made to them from members of the ruling dynasty and their motley company of associates. Nothing was ever going to make it passed any of them, or their minions.
The reason why is because everybody wanted a piece of the golden pie and the luxurious lifestyle lived by the ever prominent Crusoe Dynasty, not to mention the fact that they and their minions held solid gate keys in at least two entire states, in virtually every area of aspiration. Being on positive terms with the entire legion, if you will, determined one’s successes or failures in life; not skills, qualifications, education, the lack thereof, nor work ethic. Even the crime labs in two states were financed, if not owned outright, by this untouchable dynasty. Fighting the system was a fool’s errand, since individual people didn’t have a leg to stand on, regardless of their status. Those that spoke out too loud also tended to have mysterious unfortunate experiences, and worse.
Things were changing in Galloway’s Quarter, so they were seeming to local people, and not for the better. Out-landers from the areas surrounding had commenced to question and criticize a few matters at hand. For example, it had long been known that there was only one way in and one way off the island, back to the mainland. The only alternative option was to wade across one of the few low points in the river, and then swag across the swamp, until one could make it out to the hill on the opposite side.
For this reason it had long been said that the isolated residents kept an army of ghosts posted all around the island at various strategic points. The people back in the larger town of Whiteville on the mainland were saying now that it was no army of ghosts, but an actual army of well camouflaged sappers, who would shoot with silent, poisonous darts or arrows, if an unfortunate did not fall into one of their hole traps down into the swamp. In any case the many alligators found throughout the river and in the surrounding swamps would quickly dispatch of any remaining evidence, and do so very thoroughly.
This situation was only one of the many concerns brought to light by the newly complaining locals in the surrounding areas. Out-landers from very far away were filling up these areas, and bringing with them their questioning, vexing ways, and bizarre alien ideas about politics, and the way life should be lived in general, according to them. The county authorities might as well be the local school principal, joked many of the long time residents in regard to the petty, whining complaints continually raining down upon them from above. God forbid if a person had no choice but to work around one of these belly aching, coo-coo, cock-a-doodle-doo, sons of bitches!
One of these idealistic do-gooders determined to force his opinions for change on all who might oppose it, claimed to be a sportsman. Since his retirement he now was a grossly overweight man, who wore a large silver band from the Mason’s lodge down in Loris on his left ring finger. He was retired ex-military; and because of this sole fact alone, thanks to the local veteran’s administration handing him a job above all other local contenders, had secured employment at the court house in Whiteville as an arrogant IRS agent employed by both the State and Federal government. He was assigned with harassing the provincial folk for every hard earned dime that he could savagely wrest from their grasp, since it was common knowledge that the residents of North and South Carolina survived only by working cash jobs on the side. Unfortunately for them, wages from public employment were far below what it cost to live in these two states, especially when the revenuers finished with extorting half of whatever they brought back home.
This man thought that he had hit a true jackpot when he purchased two large homes on the eastern edges of Whitevile, North Carolina, and Florence, South Carolina, with a ten acre tract of land for only $150,000.00; a mere fraction of what it would have cost him in Jersey State. Cash saved up in mere months easily secured his ownership rights to the properties. People in the area knew all too well that he had managed to make this purchase in hard cash stolen from the citizen base, since people were always being singled out and commanded to hand over horrendous money sums they never owed to begin with. The IRS wasn’t required to support their claims of citizens being indebted to them by hard facts, so this man had a perfect cover for crime galore, brazenly declared many among the masses in Galloway’s Quarter.
His name was Roger Borkowski. He had joined a local hunting club, many of whom were also out-landers of the same stripe, that had somehow leased a partial land tract over on Crusoe Island. He became a subject of hearth side community derision when he stormed through the brush like a Sherman tank, with hundreds of dollars worth of unnecessary equipment such as hand warmers, special overalls and fancy camping equipment, not to mention government ordained licenses and expensive club fees on top of that; all for the very simple purpose of harvesting meat and fruit from the surrounding woodlands. Needless to say, he never even got a single shot even after two years of hunting, although the land tract was readily known by most old timer heritage inhabitants to support a huge deer population.
One still clear day while he was sitting high up in a fancy store-bought tree stand, he caught a glimpse of resident islanders slinking around on the club’s rented land tract, and he was utterly appalled for lack of more descriptive words. Here these people were, wearing faded jeans and home-stitched denim dyed with black walnut hulls; and shooting deer three and four at a time over piles of pears, Indian corn or salt, like nothing was ever supposed to be said about it. To make matters worse, when Borkowski approached one of these people, asking about his lack of an orange hat, or his neglect for placing tags on the carcasses of deer he had recently slain, he and the crowd this man was accompanied by glanced over at him as if he was out of his mind for questioning anybody. Matter of fact not one of them even had any confounded idea what on earth he was talking about!
Roger quickly informed his fellow club members about this matter to behold. A number told him they were aware that the land was being hunted, but went on to say nothing was occurring that had not always been so. This was how the resident islanders made their living, and all was perfectly understood and accepted without further questioning.
Two other club members volunteered to take him on a tour of the island. He simply could not believe the sight of people hauling literal fish loads onto the river bank in home knitted gill nets, salting fish, living outside of the utility system and the standard range established by the county zoning commission, not to mention scrounging and gathering off the land in general. If these people could live like this, then why couldn’t he do the same?, Roger screamed in outrage with the voice of a spoiled brat punk boy, when he and the other three made it back to their truck.
“Because this is the only life these people know,” came the curt reply.
“Well something needs to be done about this matter,” Roger snapped back to the others with a noticeable flushed tint in his cheeks. “These people need to learn about the same laws the rest of us in this country have to live by,” he continued to whine and bellow.
“You are not from around here, fellow,” the three replied in a rather cautious low pitched voice. “You had better pipe things down, and watch your step in Galloway’s Quarter.”
“Well, we’ll see!,” the man snapped with an air of crass arrogance to the other three, “we’ll see who had better watch their step around here!”
On that note, quickly as he could make it back home he called the state conservation commission and the county zoning board, informing them of every infraction that he had bore witness to. He also screamed that if these people were allowed to live in such a fashion, then he could do so as well, and so could anyone else.
“If things were always done in such a way, then some form of change was long overdue,” he continued to cry over the phone. “This was 1981, for crying out loud here!”
With this clearly implicating information on hand, the three men reported by Richard King were on their way toward the island. They were all unshakable in their confidence. They had their two way radios bouncing on their left hips, and their order papers in hand. The local police had agreed to back them up, if indeed they needed any backing. All that the three had to do was make the prearranged emergency call.
The three were instructed to wade onto the island through a low portion of the river and the swamp. While there they were instructed to seek out signs of any illegal activities; from hunting and fishing on the sly, to people living without being hooked up to the utility municipality, and home construction done outside of code. When they found any of this horrible criminal activity, they were commanded to curtly inform the offenders of their violations, collect all proper identification, then issue prompt citations for maximum penalties to be collected. Any person offering resistance, or found to lack identification credentials would be immediately arrested, then transported to the jails back in Whiteville and Loris. The same rules would apply to any person hunting without proper licenses, and equipment. If needed be, the national guard could even be flown in; so never fear giving us an emergency call, they were politely informed.
The three officers headed down toward the bridge, then carefully parked their jeep in safe cover on the mainland side. From there they walked approximately a half mile eastward, until they arrived at a knee deep portion of the river, at a point in the slow moving river somewhere around seventy yards wide. Carefully and quietly they radioed their exact location identification back into headquarters, where a bead was taken on a new fangeled electronic map.
The agents in the office back in Whiteville carefully recorded every step as the bead on the map slowly moved from the river onto the island mainland. The bead appeared to go some twenty percent inland, then pause. The pause held for at least thirty minutes before any type of question was made in regard to the matter. The HQ commander quickly snatched a radio from the desk top.
“What’s going on? We see a pause here on our electronic map, holding for the past thirty minutes. Copy?”
Some fifteen seconds passed before a broken reply came in.
“This is CO10. We are questioning seven locals here in regard to some hunting violations. There is a fresh deer kill on the ground, but no tags. Not one of these people are admitting to the kill. They are all wearing jet black homemade overalls, with bandannas across their faces, and none of them claim to be in possession of proper identification, over..”
“This is HQ. We all copy that report. Be ever cautious with these people. None of us can stress that fact too lightly, over?”
There is a stir on the radio and a rather long pause.
“HQ requesting situational analysis here! Do you copy?”
Nothing but static for a moment.
“CO Core, do any of you copy?”
“HQ, this is CO12 reporting. We attempted to make arrest, but the seven scattered and vanished into the swampy backdrop. We are in the process of giving pursuit, copy..?”
“This is Command Center in reply,” spoke a different voice. “Give pursuit for an hour only. Take careful notes on what occurred, reactions, your possible unanticipated motivations, etc, then head on out. We need a complete observational analysis on the entire situation out there CO Core.”
“This is CO12 in reply. We all copy that directional order loud and clear.”
The three conservation officers moved on out into the swamp lands. Even though it was supposedly winter time, as they moved about in the slow moving bourbon tinted water they could hear the eerie slide and splash of what must have been three inch diameter water moccasins, a vigorous deadly snake in the king cobra family. When the officers gazed outward into the landscape all that they could behold was an endless forest of closely packed cypress trees, with a heavy screen of Spanish moss hanging from what must have been every limb, and every space in between packed with cat-claw briers and bramble in a thick screen of yuopon bushes.
As the officers moved along the air above the quagmire hung heavy with the feeling of hostile eyes gazing upon them from an unseen distance in the vegetative backdrop. In virtually no time an hour had passed. A powerful motivation for exiting this morass onto the hill loomed heavily inside the three, as visions of horrifying death traps concealed in the dark water, and pitiless snarling beasts encircling about unseen around them, danced in their heads.
The bead on the electronic map moved slowly along, then paused after what seemed like a mile or more away. From the map it was known to be a local point or small village community known as Duval’s Wake. Thirty minutes passed and no location analysis report. Time for a call back.
“This is HQ calling for a situational analysis, copy that?”
“HQ, this is CO11. We see a dozen or more property zoning violations. We are informing the residents all around here, who glare at us through hard narrowed eyes, as if failing to comprehend our words. I fear that they may not even be able to understand us when we speak, and we certainly can hardly understand them, copy HQ?”
“This is HQ, CO11. We all copy loud and clear. Take good notes on everything, and be extremely cautious around there above all else, copy that CO11?”
“This is CO11 again, and we copy. We are writing citations out left and right, worth every amount from $100.00 to $5000.00. We certainly are getting some hard angry stares now, I can tell all of you. What I can’t comprehend is how the courthouse is going to collect on anything here, since these people don’t even work public jobs for the most part. Those that do work at all only work part-time, for cash, copy HQ? They do seem to make decent money, strangely enough, in spite of their broken employment chain.”
There was static on the radio, then it suddenly cleared.
“This is HQ. We copy that. You and the CO Corp write out the tickets. Be sure to collect proper ID, with complete addresses that have been confirmed. The courthouse will concern itself regarding collections on all of this. Those tickets have a very finite life span, only a month, I think. After that time an interest increase is activated. The total on this doubles every week after that time. When the value amounts of these tickets exceed property values, a virtual army of officers will descend from the hill here onto that island, to enforce eviction notices. To be honest about it, it shouldn’t take long for that to happen, copy?,” asked a broken chuckling voice on the radio.
A long pause preceded only a static return. A stressed broken voice finally replied after some forty minutes or so.
“HQ, this is..” (static fuzz). “Situation out of control! Emergency call! Situation out of..! (static fuzz).
The red bead on the electronic screen moved backward in the direction of the swamp, then turned going northbound, before pausing a half mile into what seemed like swamp land a few hundred yards upward from the point where the three entered in.
“This is HQ. Give us a situational analysis! We demand a situational analysis immediately!”
There was no reply but static for thirty more minutes, then the static suddenly cleared.
“Stay away from de i-land territory BO,” spoke an unknown growling muffled voice. “Dis is whut happns to nosy out-landers.” Then a continuing line of static.
“HQ! HQ! We copy! Give us a report immediately.”
Nothing but static on the radio.
“I’m calling this in as an emergency rescue. Do you copy CO Corp? I am calling this scene in as an immediate emergency, over and out!”
The captain over at the headquarter grabs a phone, calling the sheriff's office at the Whiteville courthouse. He carefully explains the situation in detail, gives the logistical locations recorded on the electronic map in his office, then requests an investigation unit of twelve well armed troops. The sheriff on duty at the time immediately grants the request, and includes three detectives to accompany the troop of twelve.
Quickly the troop rides out to the bridge connecting Crusoe Island with the mainland side. They proceed eastward from the bridge in search of the jeep in which the three had driven in and made their first report from. When they arrived at the specific point indicated in which the jeep had been parked, the jeep was no longer there; but tire tracks and human foot prints in the mud from that point down the bank, toward the water, indicated that the vehicle had more than likely been taken out of gear and pushed over into the river. Notes were made regarding the observation and plastic casts were taken of the strange foot prints.
These foot prints were strange since they possessed no tread of any sort. Upon close examination, however, on some prints stitching was observed around the edges. Obviously these boots were home-made. Once the jeep had been confirmed as being underneath the river, then the conclusion could be made that islanders were responsible for the deed, since virtually nobody anywhere else were known to wear home crafted boots and shoes. The information was gathered and the reports promptly stashed, as the troop continued onward in its foregoing mission.
They slugged through what felt like a thousand miles of mud, water, and outright muck as they battled mosquitoes constantly, even though it was during the midst of winter. Then suddenly the land came to a rise. The swamp transformed into a thick dry hardwood forest, with a tree covered hill in the center, blanketed by a fine yellow grass. As the twelve proceeded upward onto that hill, an outspread live oak tree dominated the summit with a thick limb approximately twelve feet up, upon which hung the bodies of four men, upside down. Three wore the very noticeable uniforms of conservation officers. Their throats had been slit from ear to ear. One, dressed in faded jeans and a white tee-shirt with the words written across the front, Eat More Kitty Cat, It Keeps Us Dogs More Competitive , was a rather overweight corpse with a large silver Mason’s band on his left ring finger. This corpse had been completely decapitated.
To the far right of this petrifying spectacle, a four foot bamboo staff had been driven into the soil. Upon this bamboo was thrust the blood drenched severed head of this hanging corpse. A note hung underneath, with huge Gothic letters painted red on an aged cypress wood board , which said; Abandon hope, all ye out-landers who enter herein.
The twelve searched all round for any sign of evidence, while the detectives snapped pictures of the murder scene. One of the officers, who was from the Whiteville area, shook his head from side to side.
“This is it. This occurrence tops them all off thus far. There really is a war going on out here, boys. I don’t know how much any of you realize it?”
Another officer with a firm demeanor snapped around. He spoke with an accent revealing him to be from somewhere way out of state.
“There is certainly going to be a firm call for war now, if one there ever was before,” he spouted. “I would hate to be from anywhere around in these parts right about now, myself. Situations could get real sticky, and quick, as people get all emotional and start wanting us to pull the guilty out of our hats, or from out of a cypress stump somewhere.”
Another officer suddenly raised his head to the ongoing conversation. He put his radio down from his mouth, back into the sling on his left hip.
“Well I just reported this scene to the department,” he spoke in his own alien accent. “They’re calling in the US Marshal service, who will more than likely get an elite Marine Corps attachment to accompany them in. Somebody said war? This stuff is serious, and it well may be an all out war, until justice is promptly served.”
In two hours time a Chinook Helicopter over passed the area, pausing down from where the twelve police troopers stood. Out parachuted ten persons. As they slowly drifted to the ground, thirty more followed. As the first ten were taking off their jump suits, the other thirty landed. As they undressed, the group of ten began walking toward the twelve troopers and the crime scene at hand.
One specific individual walked up to the troop of twelve, removing his jump helmet, face cover and goggles. He was a rather tall man being some six feet three in height. He walked with a confident, well conditioned stride.
“Who is the commander on duty among you twelve?”
One of the twelve officers approached him.
“I am officer 4397-3 at your service, sir. Most people in the organization call me MacArnold.”
The large US Martial relied.
“I am Supervisory Deputy US Martial, Rolland Wiseman, who has been assigned to this entire case. We are going to observe the incident of this crime scene, observe the incident of the jeep being shoved downhill into the river, arrive at our own conclusions, then proceed on into this island community in pursuit of the guilty.
“Well we’re glad to have you,” spoke Arnold to the man. “None of us quite know what we are dealing with here.”
“Mr. Arnold,” the tall man replied as he swept his right hand through his tangled dark hair.
“Just for the record, every one of my men are seasoned military veterans. We have been exposed to blood drenched scenes of every stripe, on a daily basis. Rest assured, Mr Arnold, none of our investigative platoon could ever become so startled that we couldn’t function. All of this tragedy is only another day at work, and we will get to the bottom of it, no matter what. Matter of fact, I am going to divide my troop up and allow one half to proceed on with the investigation, then the other half shall accompany me and the Marines there with us, as we march onward toward this community, Duval’s Wake.”
Five US Martial's and thirty Marines from the elitist units marched undaunted through the briers, bramble tangle, the mud and the muck for about a mile, until the woods finally dried and cleared up somewhat on higher ground. In thirty minutes the thirty five men noticed a clearing in the woods, and twenty apparently aged shacks up on the hill summit. On the front porches women with sun browned hard faces donned in faded home made gowns dutifully repaired gill nets, while long bearded men dressed in tattered blue jean overalls repaired horse drawn plows, sharpened machetes, or dressed out fish and hanging pigs. Slowly they raised their heads as they put down their tools to pause in their work, as the marching troop approached. Rolland approached a man sitting on his porch chewing tobacco, appearing to be an elder with authority.
“ I am Supervisory Deputy US Martial, Rolland Wiseman, sir. I have eviction orders to immediately evacuate every man, woman, and child from these premises. The charges are that these homes are not up to code, and neither have the taxes been paid on the homes, or the land. Tickets were issued earlier ordering every person in this community to get his or her property up to code, or else pay a fine. Since none of these fines have been paid, then interest was applied to the dollar amounts until the value of the fine exceeds that of the property.
“My final word to all of you is that none of you own your property anymore. Your land and any of your valuables now belong to the county of Cumberland, the state of North Carolina, and the authority of America. On that note, sir, I am ordering every person on this land tract to exit out of his or her home, or else we are coming in to take you on suspicion of murder until we can get evidence verification. Is that understood Mr.-?”
The man appeared to be somewhere in his sixties. His body was browned from a life out in the sun, his gray hair short above his ears, but his beard hung down to his naval. He wore faded blue jean overalls with a chest bib, and a plain tee shirt.
“Just wait a cotton tailed minute here, fellow. I don’t give a flying flapjack who you claim to be. You can’t just huff in here and order people around like that.”
“Sir, you are not comprehending what I am telling,” commanded Rolland. “I don’t have time for debate. I need you and all of your neighbors here to vacate these premises immediately. Either that eviction is commenced, or we are coming in to take you.”
The old man turned his head to left, spitting a mouthful of black juice upon the white sand by his side.
“If you want us and what is our’n, then you’ll have to take us.., and be damned!,” the man yelled. The others quickly raced back into their shacks, locking the doors upon these words being yelled by the elder. Obviously it was some sort of coded message for defense.
“Whats your name, sir?,” asked Rolland.
“Name ‘s Jivus Duval,” the elder retorted as he turned to spit another wad.
Rolland suddenly grabbed Jivus by the left arm, forcing him around while handcuffs were slapped upon both his wrists.
“Have it your way, Jivus. You’ll be the first to go down here in Duval’s Wake.”
After the cuffs were placed upon Jivus, he was handed to another officer who cuffed him onto a chain around fifty feet long. The opposite end of this chain was anchored to a small dogwood tree nearby.
“Move out men, its door to door. All weapons on guard, and remember your basic training. Don’t fire unless fired upon, then promptly return fire with all due efficiency. All members of this community are potential murder suspects and deemed hostile, especially in light of their present rejection of the evacuation order given.”
The thirty Marines quickly positioned themselves on the front porch of the 29 cabins. The other five US Martial's proceeded to ransack Jivus’s cabin, emptying the drawers, turning over the beds, emptying the refrigerators and closets. The contents of all were carelessly dumped onto the floor.
The thirty Marines hammered the front doors of the cabins with their fists, screaming at the top of their lungs;
“Open up, we are members of the United States Marine Corp. Open up now or else we are coming in. Do you comprehend? Open up immediately, or else we are coming in on you!”
There was no reply from inside the cabins. Rolland nodded his head in signal, and the officers proceeded to kick in the cabin doors. When the wooden doors exploded open, to every officer’s astonishment the cabins all appeared to be empty, not only of their human inhabitants, but also of their most cherished personal property.
Every officer had now entered into one of these cabins. An extremely tense search was conducted for the inhabitants, which failed to yield anything. The old man in chains laid down on the soft grass at his feet. A teen aged youth arose from the tall yellow grass some distance behind the cabins, noticing that the old man had laid down; then placed both hands upon a plunger, pushing it all the way down with what appeared to be every ounce of might that he had to give. The cabins suddenly exploded into flames and a thousand fragments. When the wind from it all settled back down, there was peace once more again on Duval’s Wake. Gradually the residents arose from the yellow grass a hundred yards behind the cabins and the round of the hill, to survey the damage done to their homes and the effectiveness of their attack.
Back in Whitevile the HQ office knew something was afoul when his radio messages came back as dull static. For three hours this type of response had been the case. But look at the military and law enforcement professionals who had vanished seemingly into thin air! The possibility of negativity defied all logic, as every person in the office shook their heads in disbelief. A new Supervisor Deputy Marshal driving all the way from Raleigh, burst through the double doors at the office in the courthouse.
“Would somebody around here tell me just what in the ten tales of hell is going on here?,” he roared without even introducing himself, since he had been called in only an hour and a half ago. “I was interrupted from having my midday ham sandwich and coffee.”
“Something has gone afoul,” snapped the HQ supervisor, Jack Penny, a sun and liquor dried up lifetime Whiteville resident somewhere in his late 50’s. Probably the most excitement in his life he ever had was drinking liquor and chasing worn out whores around town, all the way to North Myrtle Beach on a dismal Friday night. He was also guilty of periodically slipping off into the Lime Light bordello down in Bennetsville, when his old lady of 35 years turned her back on him for a day or so; but he had given all of it up more than ten years ago now. He really was a happy man just being clean, he loved to boast. All he did now was work, and go to church on Wednesday nights and Sundays.
“Give me more information, please here!,” fired the US Marshall. “Why are you so certain that something has run afoul? Based on what are you making that conclusion? Show me the evidence, Penny,” the US Martial berated.
“Well I just know it. I always receive prompt response from my men when they are in the field. There hasn’t been a response for more than three hours now. I have your men on call out there who are law enforcement experts, but I also have elite Marines who have accompanied them, and who are battle savvy on top of that. Something is just not right, I am telling you.”
“Didn’t you even bother to send in a confirmation detachment, Penny?,” thundered the US Martial.
The US Martial took a deep breath, shook his head, then exhaled as if in disgust.
“I utterly despise incompetence,” he snapped.
A noticeable flash of sudden anger passed through the body of Penny.
“I know that you are with the US Martial Service, and that you are a supervisor, but you never gave me your full title.
“Yeah? Why does it even matter at this point?,” the Martial returned with his own display of disgust and anger combined.
“Look,” leveled Penny with the martial, “if you, are any damn body else is going to storm in here just because myself or another person bothered to call and request assistance, then proceed to speak down to me and verbalize your opinion regarding my qualifications just because of it, then the very least that you could do is tell me who you are.”
“Yeah? I can do that, if doing it matters any. My name is Albert Vollstrecker. My rank and title is Chief Supervisor Deputy US Martial. I have been a veteran of law enforcement, first with the US Army beginning at 18, whereupon I retired. I was acting veteran of nine major US battle engagements. I have seen it all in my time, practically speaking here. I have never seen anything resembling this situation, however. I have been with the US Martial Service now for 10 years.”
Penny smiled as the man spoke his title and name.
“Well if you have all of this detailed experience and title, then why don’t you begin doing something to produce a valid solution to this situation, rather than berate me, the man in charge at the moment?”
Vollstrecker paused, glaring hard at Penny, then moved toward the phone on Penny’s desk. He punched in a number, then placed the phone to his right ear, continuing to glare at Penny with a firm expression on his face. A few minutes passed, then he began to speak.
“Yes Mam, this is Albert Vollstrecker, Chief US Martial Supervisor. Could I please speak with the central command officer for the US Marines? The situation is rather urgent, to say the least.”
He paused for five minutes, then began speaking.
“Yes sir, this is Albert Vollstrecker, Chief US Martial Supervisor, rank number 30773-A. You are aware of the thirty Marine Corps men assigned to this Crusoe Island situation, aren’t you?
Another pause for a minute.
“You haven’t heard from them, you mean?”
Another pause then a tart comment coming from Vollstrecker.
“The person assigned to take charge is a local named Jack Penny, and he hasn’t called you yet?
Vollstrecker glared at Penny again as he stood with the phone hard against his right ear.
“I tell you what. I am going to take over this case now, and it will be me and you working this case into its conclusion,” fired Vollstrecker as he continued to glare at Penny.
“Yes sir, we’ll take fifty more of your elitist, with clear instructions that this situation has reached a point of no return, and must be dealt with just as any other battle situation should,” spoke Vollstrecker into the phone.
A pause for a maybe five minutes, then Vollstrecker’s face lit up.
“Yes sir, then it is a return confirmation. Fifty elite specialist will be on site inside of two hours, meeting right here in this office.”
He paused again as his face shown brighter.
“Its a proud go ahead!”
He walked back over to the desk of Penny, then placed the phone back on its hanger. Vollstrecker never spoke a single word to Penny as his eyes seemed to growl at him.
Vollstrecker walked back over to the electronic screen with the map on it, typing location coordination indicators as fast as he could punch the key pad. When these men arrived in a few minutes, every minute detail would be placed in possession of their commanding officer. They would possess a complete geographical, terrain, and population layout of the entire island and the area surrounding it back on the mainland. Matter of fact, the entire area and history of Galloway’s Quarter would be held underneath a microscope. This situation was on now, for better or worst, with Vollstrecker assuring himself, and all confident that fate would be on his side. He would be the victorious hero in this backwoods tale of rebellion.
Vollstrecker and his minions were not the only people aware of seriousness in the mounting scenario. None other than Mijj Bo Greene himself had raised his eyebrows, and drawn a few deep breaths. Suddenly he felt motivated to intervene, and for good reason. Quickly he called up the Parker brothers, and old Man, Mason. Adonias had invited them all to his mansion estate over at Beaufort Inlet.
“We can fly from over at your place, Adonias, and visit Governor Sealgair at his mansion in Raleigh. I would say that we drive there, but we simply haven’t the time. Everything around here is that urgent,” spoke Bo Greene to Adonias Parker over the phone.
Within two hours time of the phone conversation, this motley crew had met over at the mansion estate of Adonias outside of Beaufort Inlet, and without hesitation. With few words between them, they loaded up onto a small, twin engine plane behind the mansion home there. Adonias done a maintenance check and the general pre-flight inspection, and soon they were lifting off.
In seemingly no time the dynastic crew had landed in a small airport less than a mile from the Governor’s personal mansion estate in Raleigh. A cab was already parked and waiting outside the small terminal building. When the plane pulled into the hanger area, the crew exited and entered into the cab, while paid attendants moved the plane into a lock down at its proper station. Three minutes later the cab pulled up to the heavy black iron gate before the entrance way at the mansion. The cab driver spoke a few unintelligible words, and in an instant the guard in front of this gate allowed them to enter, without questioning to any extent.
These same words were spoken by Greene to the guard at the top of the outside mansion stairway, with the exact reaction. The only reaction witnessed by the Parker Brothers or Mason were smiles and nonverbal welcoming indications of relaxation in company with complete solitude. A college aged, well built female mansion attendant, wearing a low cut, almost skin tight gemstone satin dress, escorted the crew into a back parlor room.
The figure of a six foot four, man with well groomed gray hair, donned in a Stuart Hughes Diamond Edition suit and tie, arose from an elegant sofa seat in red cushioned satin over foam and rhinoceros leather. He turned toward them, smiling. He approached Greene first with his right hand fully extended. Greene returned the handshake, then Sealgair stepped forward to extend his hand toward the others.
“I swear it has been so long since I have seen all of you together in the same company,” he gasped as he smiled. “Come on toward the seat here, and relax. I have a gnawing feeling that there is some sort of situation at hand,” he said as the crew took their seats upon the huge couch. “I speak with great interest in knowing the details.”
Before them stood a heavy coffee table of teak wood, carved with elegant depictions of scantily clad native women and pirate captains lounging around in a tropical oasis. Many of these men were rowing in boats on lakes with these native women, or women donned in long dresses and gaudy luxuriant sun bonnets. Others were laid out by the lakeside with scantily native women on blankets, where picnic baskets filled with a variety of tropical fruit stood between them. The male seemed to be pouring the female a chalice of wine, as the two lay on an outstretched blanket underneath a large saw tooth palm in the cool shade.
The room itself was trimmed in pure gold, with stunning, nearly three dimensional paintings of tropical scenes depicting the luxury and elegance of life on some Caribbean plantation estate during an age of glory, enlightenment, and wealth, hanging upon the walls above glass tables with silver legs on lions feet, trimmed in pure gold. In the corner to the far right stood a glass, silver, and crystal pedestal with an elegant marble bust of Marie Antoinette, trimmed in pure gold guarding the room and the palace interior. Before this marble bust seven under-clothed belly dancers donning veils of mist moved delicately with complete silence, in a perfect beckoning rhythm for the carnal entertainment of the governor and his guests. The Parker Brothers and Mason glanced all around, saying nothing at the moment while Greene continued speaking with the Governor.
“Yes, indeed we have a situation that is both urgent and serious at the same time. I’m sure you have heard of the matter over in Galloway’s Quarter, haven’t you, sir?”
The Governor smiled warmly as he gloated at the alluring dancing display before him. He swallowed hard as he suddenly shifted his eyes toward what resembled a pool in the rear quarters of the mansion. The pleasant rustle of a whirlpool from the same area seemed to carry throughout the entire palace interior. The girls raced with smooth silent organized precision toward the pool areas on cat-like feet. The smiling governor chuckled lowly as he shifted his attention back in the direction of his guests.
“I just got wind of a concern involving Galloway’s Quarter a few minutes before you entered. Otherwise I know no specific details.”
Greene sighed, then began to speak.
“The locals have been harassed by these aliens for a long time now. One of them didn’t like the lifestyle they lived, and called the Fed on them. The conservation officers then raced out there in a frenzy to write citations for hunting violations, zoning codes, and anything else they could find to include. These citations had huge fines, that doubled with large interest charges when the locals couldn’t pay. When the value of the citations exceeded their property values, the locals had to be evacuated from their long cherished land holdings, and hard won homes.”
“Oh, I see,” sighed the Governor. “So that is when the trouble began, I presume. Was there any violence involved?”
“Yes, and deaths. Matter of fact, I haven’t had a confirmation on every detail of the situation at the moment involving the Marine Core elites and the US Martial troop who were sent in earlier, but what I did hear wasn’t good at all,” spoke Greene to the Governor.
“A hammer man I use when I need him, named Yarborough, who also ventures into the general area periodically for the purpose of helping me move backlog, radioed back that a troop of thirty marines and ten US Martial Servicemen were slain by the locals today. I know Harlan Yarborough’s reputation, governor, a career criminal with a detailed prison history and violent past; but to speak the truth he has always been dead on honest with me, in every way. Probably its because when I need a job done, I speak directly, and I always pay out on time. Being careful to take such simple measures is how I built my business reputation. This reputation is how I always succeed in getting chores completed, governor.”
The Governor smiled again with his warm sleepy sheepish grin.
“ Yes, oh yes indeed, sir, to speak the truth about it, probably you wish that he was lying this time. I am sure you could dislike him much less for it right about now.”
Greene hung his head slightly, then picked it back up, almost becoming agitated as he commenced speaking.
“What are we going to do? You well know everything that’s at steak here. These marines going in this time will be ultra thorough in their search.”
The Governor gazed momentarily at the wall, glancing back in the direction of the pools, then took a deep breath.
“I’ll call Washington and see what we can arrange. I will work for you through lawyer, C.R. Loes. We will use judge Brunne Sealgair, a distant relative of mine, you know. No matter what happens, all of you and your associates will be eased back down onto your feet. All of you have done far too much for me to simply ignore your increasingly imposing situation, even if it means that I must sacrifice my own cousin, the judge; who indeed is trustworthy, but only to an extent of requests not threatening his peculiar idealistic sense of ethics. When we have a job to do, Greene, we both are aware that we simply don’t have time for impracticality. Direction for action must be definitively determined, swift, and above all else, successful. I can’t say any more than that at the moment. Let me get on ASAP with this call. Once business is efficiently and thoroughly concluded, then we all can get on with more warmly accommodating pleasures and pass times.”
The new troop had already met at the HQ office in Whitevile, then stormed back out toward Galloway’s Quarter, beginning with Crusoe Island. Local people were forcibly arrested at machine gun point, and loaded up onto huge trucks for transporting personnel. They would be relocated to the mass containment facility at Camp Lejeune.
There had been much exchange of gunfire, with people dying on both sides. Most of the locals vanished into the swamps, in spite of the persisting determination in their persecution. More troops had been called in for reinforcement, and to assist in eradicating all local resistance from the swamps. This war in Galloway’s Quarter was gaining momentum.
As the troops stormed through Crusoe Island, they made their way intending to push through every inch of Galloway’s Quarter, beginning with the Horry County realm. Here an expansive field of pot plants standing twenty feet tall, with sticky purple buds all over was stumbled upon. As the exasperated troops patrolled cautiously, they found cocked rat traps spring loaded with shot gun shells, sitting in waiting to make a kill. Fine fishing wire running across entrances going into these fields would engage the instantaneous murder. There were swinging spike traps, pit falls, and spear sets, all anxiously awaiting their victims.
As the patrol cautiously eased along, a plan developed in the mind of their commanding officer. Instead of destroying the field and the root cellar found in the center of the field, where millions of dollars in processed cocaine was stashed, they would simply stake it out to discover whose it was. Head Quarters had long heard of rumors from informing locals speaking of such realities, but nothing like this had ever been discovered in, or even near Galloway’s Quarter.
Certain locals had also informed them of other eerie occurrences. According to claims, Bo Greene owned dozens of tobacco warehouses throughout North and South Carolina, not to mention the ones in the counties where Galloway’s Quarter extended. For several years now these warehouses had been mysteriously going up in flames at night time. For years the Federal tobacco program had been playing out, everybody was aware of that, but there was still big money to be found in warehouse insurance collections. Over the years, when these informants were sought out for further questioning, they could never be found. No person in their locality seemed to know of their whereabouts.
A twin engine airplane landed in broad daylight near the huge dope plantation on a shockingly narrow runway. Fourteen men dressed in black denim and caps rushed out of the airplane toward the center of the field. A high collar had been pulled up over their noses and mouths to conceal their identity. These men raced toward the root cellar type storage room with military precision. In less than five minutes they were seen moving back toward the plane carrying huge burlap type bags filled with something.
The commanding officer didn’t have to ask any more questions, he knew what was inside the bags. He also got a solid ID on the twin engine plane as he continued to watch through a set of binoculars. He radioed the information back to HQ for an ID check, but it came up empty. Vollstrecker failed to give clear reasons as to why this was so, saying instead that he simply didn’t know. Before the day was over, the military troop would locate seven more pot plantations, and storage cellars filled with other types of contraband, primarily cocaine, not to mention the huge amounts of small arms and stashed ammunition.
When darkness finally enveloped the land, Galloway’s Quarter was being patrolled from the air by light, almost completely silent, police helicopters. Numerous structures were a flame throughout The Quarter, and even beyond, especially below the South Carolina line. A radio call was made to determine the source of these fires and to develop a situational analysis. Virtually all of these structures turned out to be tobacco warehouses, or buildings linked back to the industry. When the identity for ownership of these buildings was investigated, a majority turned out to be none other than ole Mijj Bo Greene himself. The others were owned by the Parker Brothers, or through what was appearing more under investigation to be an established proxy.
As far as the fields of pot were concerned, under the cover of darkness the light twin engine planes returned. In some cases a light helicopter took their place. To discover the root source of these fields, only one move could be made that would work. The transport vehicle itself must be captured. To the surprise of the pursuing platoon, there was absolutely no resistance. When asked to give identity, none captured had spoken a word as of yet.
A few planes heavy laden with bales of marijuana and large plastic bags filled with cocaine, had caught sight of the pursuing troops and taken to the air in an act of escape. Military choppers from the national guard center in Whitevile were called in to pursue. When the drug smugglers realized their capture was soon eminent, they began tossing their stash out as they passed over the three or four county area of Galloway’s Quarter, and even beyond into Marion County.
Later on the locals would find some of this heavy laden stash, cut it up and sell it for five times the going price, because of its high quality. The street name for this booty was Airplane, propeller weed, or propeller dust. When the law enforcement branch back at the courthouse in Whitevile caught wind of this, they immediately placed an unusually heavy penalty and fine on any charge of possession or distribution.
The troops moving through Galloway’s Quarter formed a straight line, staggering individual troops thirty yards apart as they crept along through the swamp. When the resistance attacked the center of the line, the two ends would loop around to enclose the insurgents. If one end or the other was attacked, then the free end would loop around to make an enclosure. In any case, when an enclosure was made, the resisting insurgents would be promptly eliminated. There was one exception to this fact, however.
Once the platoon had been marching steadily for some four days without provisions. On the fifth morning when the commanding officer demanded the slumbering troops to arise and resume the march, they refused, proclaiming that they couldn’t do so without provisions. The commanding officer smiled, declaring that he would give full provision at the first opportunity. The platoon then agreed to resume marching for the purpose of full filling their duty assignment to eradicate all resistance.
No sooner had they exited camp and gone a few hundred yards outward, they encountered new resistance. These insurgents were soon encircled. To the astonishment of every person present, these insurgents only consisted of three teen aged boys and seven girls of the same age. They were all long time residents of Crusoe Island, so they informed the platoon commander as they begged for mercy.
The platoon surgeon was brought in who promptly ordered them all stripped. He closely examined their teeth, their tongues, and their bodies in general, pronouncing them all healthy. With agreement of the men, the three boys were taken to another area out of ear shot, and simply liquidated, while the young girls were transported to more open woods on higher dry ground. Here they were all tied to trees.
Seven pits were dug into the ground some ten feet long and two feet deep. Hickory wood was thrown into these pits and burned into glowing coals and ashes. Pieces of rebar were laid across the pit as the wood continued to burn. While the fire was going the girls were hanged on a tree limb by their ankles, and their throats were cut. Their bodies would be opened and eviscerated so they could drain in this fashion while the fires burned.
When the coals were ready the heads, hands, and feet were removed, and their body cavities opened and lain on the rebar over the glowing coals. On these bodies would be poured the juices of scrounged fruit. One man even had some molasses from a used up MRE container, while another had a bit of mustard on hand and a jar of honey, another some salt and vinegar. These substances were mixed to form an excellent sauce, then dutifully spread over the seven bodies on the fire pit with a field made folded leaf brush.
After a day of laying around the fires and enjoying each other’s company, every man in the entire platoon feasted until he reached his complete contentment. No person spoke a word of complaint in regard to his rations for the day, nor did a single man appear to possess any feelings of rejection, or animosity toward being given such fare. This was an unspoken measure fully allowable by military rules, to be determined according to individual situations by the commander himself, for the purpose of alleviating stress in his fighting men while moving through enemy territory. Rules were severe and secrecy was adamant, being commanded from every person involved. Penalties were harsh and unforgiving for violating this code. In the light of this final atrocity, the terrible situation on Crusoe Island had finally been brought to an unstable closure. In the whole of Galloway’s Quarter, the matter was another story.
Harlan Yarborough was a shady character of question, being seen in company with Ananias Parker, and two of his sons. Several from the HQ office in the Whitevile courthouse could attest to this. It was a well known fact among the inner circle that Harlan was capable of fulfilling virtually any request, if enough money was involved. He could be trusted to defend ones claim with his life, as long as he who expected these gracious services did according to the prearranged agreement.
Yarborough was a 275 pound man of solid statue and well built, perfectly toned muscle. A thick yellow mustache completely covered his upper lip. He wore his long blond hair parted back in the center of his head, and braided up into a tight queue that hung down between his shoulders in the back. Often he wore brand new Levis blue jeans, perfectly starched along every crease. His favorite shirts were various styles of Polo, or maybe a high fashioned Texas brand of western styled shirt. On his head he always wore a perfectly white, Stetson Fedora, with at least a $200.00 price tag.
In his pocket he carried a shop made hawk bill pocket knife. He always kept this blade razor sharp. He could retrieve this folded blade from his pocket with his right hand, opening it like it was spring loaded. Every person who knew him claimed he would slice the insides out of a person’s torso in about as much time as it took to glance over at them. He has also been sent to the brig more than once for stabbing or cutting people who ran afoul with him. A number of local people in Galloway’s Quarter had the scars around their throats, or across their stomach to prove it.
Harlan was a prodigious drinker and cocaine user. He was said to consume an entire pint of 90 proof whiskey in a single gulp. When the money flow was good, the liquor flowed inward just as deeply. He tended to trade in both bootleg liquor, powder, and weed, when other business was slow. Any request made involving violence or moving contraband, he was usually up for. He was straight up in business and despised any person who wasn’t, forever vowing to see that they got their dues.
Yarborough lived to brawl, often getting into scrapes for no apparent reason other than a person’s sour look, or no reason at all. He could be loyal, however, very loyal, and he highly admired bravery, coming to a person’s rescue who stood strong in a fight with multiple people, if he felt that the person was to be respected.
There was more about Yarborough that only a few others knew. He was actually a trained fight master. He lived for the death match, which has been outlawed in every country on earth, save only a few. Japan, under certain conditions, and Brazil, are two of only a few. Supper wealthy foreigners from Germany and France in particular, loved to watch the bloody display, and were willing to pay no less than $10000.00 per ticket, and to place bets. Every year around Christmas time, for about four months, Harlan would vanish from Galloway’s Quarter, always returning unannounced, and loaded down with cash.
A man who traded cocaine with him claimed that he traveled to Brazil every year, engaged in a challenge, returning home with more than 6 figures for accepting the contest. The single adult daughters of these ultra wealthy patrons were also known to literally throw themselves at a consistent winner, often supporting him for an entire year, with their father’s permission. It was said that only the greatest fighters from the Clan Of The Wasp were allowed to compete. Having a child from such a consistently valiant contestant was considered a badge of honor. This specific instance was the only known variant from the father’s usual rigid demeanor in questions of choice and morality, since all marriages and relationships were prearranged by parents.
The way Yarbourough brought the money back tax free and unquestioned from offshore was simple. He loaded the wealth up onto an unlimited debit card. The type he used was untraceable, and acquired when offshore for greater secrecy insurance. When he made it back home he simply called up Mijj Bo Greene, Ananias Parker, or Mason McPherson, who always made certain that Harlan could walk over to the local Wachcovia Bank teller machine and withdraw his cash, no questions asked. When he couldn’t, should all else fail, he could simply motor on out to Masons or Ananias Parker’s estate, and one of these individuals would pay it all out to him directly. Either person possessed the means to simply take back their money from the card; there again, no questions asked.
When the Crusoe Island Dynasty needed a certain type of handy man, Harlan was in, without questions. He was one of the first men the HQ detectives approached to question. Several threats were made from past allegations being pursued and punitive actions taken. When enough cash was placed before him, Harlan commenced speaking, but with great hesitation and only so much, no matter how much money they handed him.
“Tell us what ya know!,” raged the biker detective as he tossed three more thousand in cash down in front of him.
“Look, I’ve already said what I need to say. Hooker Ainsley asked me to be his torch man. He offered to hand me twenty grand in cold cash for doing it. He paid me half upfront. When the warehouse went up in flames last November night, I collected on my other half.”
The heavily tattooed detective glared down.
“There’s only one problem with that story, Harlan, and you know it. Ainsley’s warehouse wasn’t the one that burned on November 12th, 1980. That is the one, right?”
“It was last November night! I can’t recall which one after a year now, but I do clearly recall that it was last November night.”
The detective drew a deep breath on his rum soaked cigar. A cloud of black smoke went up above their heads.
“Come on, Harlan here, don’t munk around with me about this. There was only one damn warehouse that went up last November, at least in Galloway’s Quarter. That warehouse was Bo Greene’s on November 12th. Did you burn one outside of the old Quarter here? We need to know more in regard to this? So fess up and tell us all about it!,” the detective fired with a sinister laugh.
Harlan maintained an expressionless face, saying nothing in reply.
The detective took another puff, then glanced over toward Harlan
“Come on man, start talking. You’ve already admitted to burning down a tobacco warehouse on November 12, 1980. You claimed it was for Hooker Ainsley. Once we connect the dots on this you’re looking at 15 to 20 long, and hard ones, for arson. You know what prison life is like in these parts, don’t you?,” the detective sneered. “You’ve heard of Caledonia Work Farms down in Georgetown, South Carolina, haven’t you? That’s the place where a hired arsonist like you, and especially with a record like yours, winds up. What have you got to lose right now? We are all waiting for you to begin talking.”
Harlan still maintained a hard expressionless face, giving no reply. He was well acquainted with Caledonia. He had never been there, but he had spoken with plenty who had. Simply put, Caledonia Work Farms was a hell on earth. Inmates were forced to live in tents, to labor in the fields and underneath a torrid blazing sun 6 days a week, twelve hours a day. They lived in pup tents, grew their own food, and hand pumped their own water, while they existed underneath a 24hr shotgun guard.
Worse than these overall conditions, they were subjected to abuse from the guards themselves, not to mention other inmates. This abuse included random lashings, beatings, being placed into solitary confinement with only bread and water for weeks on end, then being forced to room with multiple known sodomites. Fortunately for him in this department, he could fight well. Most other inmates were not so lucky. Still, he had rather remain on the outside of Caledonia Work Farms.
“Lets be level on this, Harlan. We already know the deal here. You did torch the warehouse on November 12th, 1980. Hooker Ainsley was only Bo Greene’s proxy. Greene had better things to do the night Ainsley met with you. He only handed Ainsley ex amount of cash, and Ainsley negotiated the deal, confirming this with a quick call to Greene. After he handed you your amount, he already had his own, and the deal was done.”
Harlan still said nothing, only glaring, then glancing away.
“Look at me, boy, when I speak to you,” growled the biker detective. Harlan glared directly into his eyes. “The tobacco warehouse that you burned was Mijj Bo Greene’s. Bo Greene and Governor Sealgair have an owner partnership in many of those warehouses. This stuff is serious kimchee here. When we get finished picking around in Galloway’s Quarter, we’ll have a beeline running all the way up to D.C., directly into the presidential palace itself! You’ll wind up making history around here,” the biker detective and the other four in his company suddenly burst out laughing.
Harlan had no expression on his face, remaining silent. The detective took another deep breath.
“Lets be up front about all this? What’s it gonna take? Name your price.”
“I don’t need money!,” Harlan fired.
“What a you want then, if not money? Just let us know here, so we can be on with it.”
“Give me immunity,” Harlan snapped.
“Is that really what you want? You want immunity here? Is that it?”
Harlan made no reply.
The detective glanced around the room at the other expressionless faces, then turned to face Harlan.
“You want immunity, do you? Well then, you have it! Now start talking.”
Harlan slowly leaned inward toward the detective.
“You have all the answers, and I have already told you the rest! Now lets be strait on this matter right now. I have places I need to be, and people I need to see, if you will.”
Harlan abruptly arose from his seat, huffing out of the interrogation room. The five detectives merely sat glancing around at one another without speaking a single additional word.
With that word from Harlan three detectives motored on over to the burn site outside of Chadborn, NC. There were also burn sites near Loris, SC, and just outside of Fairmont, NC. When the three reached the site in Chadborn, all that remained were ashes, cinders, concrete blocks, and a tangle of smoldering tin and metal. Investigators were already onto the scene, sifting through the ash in search of any evidence that might connect with the suspects, or make another lead.
Several of the elder warehouse workers surveyed the scene, walking about casually. One was a frequent laborer from the local black community, named James Jessup. Most locals knew him as Dr. Jake, the creator of a local juke-joint dance known as Dr. Jake’s Shake. This dance stood somewhere between a mo-town midnight special, and The Shag. Local black and white folk relished the moves and the accompanying music. Dr. Jake was rather bent by the years a bit, being somewhat reserved, but would freely carry on a conversation when he felt moved to. Generally speaking, he was well liked. Much more than that, as it concerned the detectives, Dr. Jake tended to know lots about events occurring in the area.
One of the three detectives was a thin man dressed in new jeans and a fresh Izod shirt. His name was Bartleby Shaw. He was a quick witted man and bore the skill of being able to interact with all local people on their level in way that courted their trust. He was also well known by the locals throughout the general area, so cementing a relationship might be more readily accomplished when he approached people, more so than the other two.
“Dr. Jake, tell me something now,” smiled Bartleby.
“I’ll show tell ya anything ya want to know,” laughed the elder.
“How’s that shake comin’ along these days?,” both men laughed loudly for a bit.
“It has come along really good for many long years now. I think the years are catching up with me. It’ll still come around, but its much slow, and not quite as hard these days.”
Both men gazed at the pile of smoldering ruins laying before them.
“What a you think about this mess here?”
Dr. Jake shook his head.
“Hmm, you said the right word, mess it is.”
“But this isn’t the only such mess,” clipped Bartleby. “We have the same mess in Loris, Fairmont, and maybe five other areas.”
“What I think about it is that all this mess is just icing on the cake!,” Dr. Jake laughed. “That’s what I think about all this.”
Bartleby suddenly firmed up in a cautiously serious way.
“What a ya mean there, Dr. Jake? What are you referring to here?”
“You might need to check out Bo Greene’s and Ananias hog parlors. Somethings a stir there, from what I am hearing.”
“You have any idea what it could be?,” Bartleby asked with reserved caution.
“People round here have been scared to death, to speak the truth, for a long time now,” whispered Dr. Jake in a low tone of voice. “ Basically the rule was hear no evil, see no evil.”
“I see, Jake,” replied Bartleby.
“Well, many who saw things, things out in the woods, things here with these warehouses, things that have been going on for the past nine years, and even earlier; tended to up and disappear if they spoke out. Local people have long known it and stayed mum. These out-landers are different.”
“I’m listening,” replied Bartleby, “but I still don’t quite pick up on what you are saying.”
“Well what I am saying is this, to put in simple words; rats get killed by traps, and wooden base ball bats.”
“That certainly explains lots about informants suddenly not being available for questioning, and locals in the area not knowing anything about their whereabouts,” replied Bartleby.
“I think you ‘uns just might need to motor on out to the hog farms over on Old Red Hill Road, and those just outside of Loris,” Dr. Jake spoke as he turned to face the detective. “There were three right here who tried to sound the alarm, and are now nowhere to be found. Their families are wondering, their wives, sisters, mothers and daughters are crying.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Dr. Jake there, “I guess that we have our day cut out for us,” Bartleby spoke as he headed over toward the other two men standing off closer to the burn site. He picked up pace as he neared the other two.
“Lets go, and now!,” he fired. “We’ll speak as we head out onto the road.”
The three race over toward a brand new 1981 Lincoln, then sped off the property and onto the highway.
“We might be only a short few miles from resolving this entire horrendous situation,” spoke Bartleby to his comrades. Within fifteen minutes the car was speeding down a narrow paved road. A green sign ahead confirmed the location as Red Hill Road. Three curves were rounded, then a dirt road branched off to the left. Quickly Bartleby turned the wheel and the car began to bump along over the roots, holes, and gravel stone. Ahead was a series of twelve hog farms. Some thirty men were walking all over the dirt on one these farms, while others were sifting through the soil in search of something.
Bartleby and the other two detectives walked over toward the man writing notes and watching carefully as teams of two and three men sifted through the muck and soil.
“Hello sir, I am Bartleby Shaw, one of the detectives from the central county office at the courthouse in Whitevile. I have word that something was up.”
“Yeah, well you heard right about this mess, something was definitely up here.”
“I haven’t heard any more though. That’s why I rode over here.”
“There was a pile of what was presumed to be extremely fragmented human bone discovered by a worker here in the pig manure. He became suspicious late one night when he spotted two unidentified men throwing what he took to be a human corpse to the pigs. He was standing more than a hundred yards out, so he wasn’t clear about it, but was enough to be concerned, ” the man spoke as he carefully recorded more bone fragments being pulled from the mud.
“What made him so convinced that these bone fragments were human?,” asked Bartleby?
“Claims he found a few human teeth. Some of our investigators here on scene have made some possible discoveries of the same. All of this matter is being sent in to Raleigh for further confirmation.”
“No firm confirmation on the fact yet?,” Bartleby snapped. He quickly scribbled something on a note pad he kept in the vest pocket on his suit, then snatched the paper up, handing it to the man.
“None,” the man replied, “nothing affirmative yet.”
“There’s is my office number. Call me when something comes up that’s a definite hit.”
Slowly the links were merging. The two governors and the Crusoe Island dynasty had some nasty dirt on their hands. The problem with connecting the suggestions was that the line of evidence didn’t run out far enough to connect and form the link. For any sort of claim to ever hold up in court it would have to. Not only that, before any sort of slam could be initiated other than what had already occurred, one would have to root out all of the connections supporting what was appearing more as some sort of backwoods big time criminal association.
Detective Bartalby leaned back into his leather bound office chair as he gave thought to the overall situation. He packed a brier wood pipe full with new Raleigh tobacco, lit it up, and eased backward in deep contemplation. Five hours had passed since he met with the investigator down at the burn site. The phone suddenly blared from the desk to the left of the room. It was Randal Bowmen from the fire investigation team.
“Bartleby, we have a new lead in this case.”
“Well I’m all ears, lets hear it.”
“We’ve discovered that three torch men were involved. One of them was Harlan, the ruffian, you know the one I am speaking of. The other two were Ricky Leech, Pat Bass, two who are almost in the same league as Harlan.”
“I’m not familiar with the other two,” replied Bartleby.
“We spoke with Harlan,” Bowman continued. “Harlan seemed to be the most intelligent of the three.”
“Harlan confirmed that he had been a hired hand in this, but Leech broke down and revealed the name of their employer. You’re not going to believe it. It was senator Don Layton, a right hand associate to the cat daddy, Mijj Bo Greene, himself; the man who is said to swing the really big meat around in these parts.”
“You’re kidding me!,” fired Bartleby in surprise.
“No, no, this stuff is real. Others are in the process of questioning Don right now.”
“What about our big league suspects, the Parker brothers, Mijj Bo Greene, and Mason McPherson? Made any solid connections yet?”
“We’re following through. We haven’t made any solid connections, but I am telling you, even if we do I am not sure we can make a snag in all of this.”
“This mess on Crusoe has finally ended. The people have been allowed to enter back onto the island. At long last we finally have our suspects on the four murders opening up this massive can of worms that followed. We are making some progress in finding those who were responsible for murdering those forty officers who tried to make the property evictions. Maybe we are finally heading somewhere,” Bartleby replied. He puffed on his pipe in between word exchanges.
“This entire situation will drag on for some time still yet, possibly years. Then there is that lawyer and politician in with all of the big boys, C.R. Loes. This man has powerful connections way up into Washington D.C. Once we all get to poking around in that ka ka, we still may yet find out that it’s hasn’t any bottom to it. Like I said, even though we have goods that are getting better in quality, it will be a long fight,” Bowman assured.
Fifteen years passed. A few key elders were suspected according to scant circumstantial evidence, and pulled time on Caledonia Work Farms; but got off on reduced sentences, thanks to the help of Mijj Bo Greene via Mason McPherson. Not one served over five years time, even though they were implicated in the murders of Federal officials. After those citizens who were evacuated from Galloway’s Quarter returned, an unsteady rhythm of life continued on for some time, often putting government officials and citizens on edge. That tenseness has continued on down through time .
Senator Don Layton eventually would up being sentenced 20 years in Federal prison for arson. His right hand man, Harlan Yarborough, was in the can with him. Harlan’s mafioso connections allowed the senator to live a king’s lifestyle while there behind bars, according to local rumors. Some in the area of Gallaway’s Quarter suspect that both of them agreed to do some mysterious, dark job for the mob in exchange for their cushy lifestyle and respect garnished from the inmates, but no specifics have yet to come into light. Thanks to the connections of McPherson, Ananias Parker, and Bo Greene, with the help of C.R. Loes, Harlan and Layton were out free and clear after serving only two years.
As for the Parker brothers, McPherson, and Governor’s Sealgair, and Elire, from South Carolina; after three years of battling in federal court, all charges were finally dropped due to lack of evidence, thanks to the help of lawyer C.R. Loes, said to be the best in three states. Their eldest sons, however, were nailed on drug smuggling charges, found to be with connections reaching all the way down to great Gulf Coast cartel in Columbia, South America.
Rascal Parker owned an R.V. manufacturing company, and was found stashing the pipes in the kitchen and bathroom full with cocaine, and the space between the upper and lower floors full with the same powder. Several rooms in these R.V.’s were said to contain bales of hash and marijuana. The bales had been linked back to the huge fields of the weed discovered in Galloway’s Quarter. His eldest son took the fall for it.
In three short years the young man was back out onto the streets. His time in prison was said to be basically a stint in a high classed hotel room, where the man could come and go as he pleased. There again, a result from having connections; yet suspicions of fulfilling some yet to be discovered, tarnished orders fly out on the streets.
None of these sons who took the fall had to serve a single moment down in labor fields. The guards were said to have catered to them, rather than dared to harass. They were never in the company of other inmates; so no negative situations occurred due to interaction, as does with the average person who is forced to submit to the power structure among inmates out on the prison floor. Basically every sentence served was a slap on the wrist, and a ride on the gravy train. So it goes when people have solid connections with the right tycoons. Knowledge that a person is in possession of, is only secondary at best in the secular order of reality.
Back on Crusoe Island all of those accused were eventually released by the Fed on lack of evidence. The locals swear to this very day that all of these people who really were guilty simply allowed themselves to be swallowed up by the cypress swamp. When the dirt in all of this business finally settled down, they eventually eased back out, only to be absorbed back into the established communities, living out their mortal lives in complete contentment.
According to resident stories, the last out-lander made his exit off the island back in 1988, running with every fiber of his being up to Boston, vowing to his dying breath he would never again bother with traveling back to the South-land, anywhere. To this day the moment of that final exit is celebrated exuberantly in the streets of Duval and Formy with great elaboration and excitement. The celebration is called the Le Jour De La Seconde Libération, held on the thirteenth day of every April since ‘88. To this very moment the name, Crusoe Island, sends shivers up the spine of every out-lander back on the mainland, from Whitevile all the way up to Maine.
On clear nights during the harvest moon, if one stands on the high side back a ways from the bridge going into the island, he can still hear an arousing midnight song of the Blue Tick, and perceive distant bravado cheers of a highly individualist culture set to endure the ages forward into infinity, on its own terms, as its many long buried skeletons continue to molder down in the swamp mud.
One of these old buildings happens to be a locally famous, or infamous watering hole known as The Patriot. This pub dates back to the 1700’s according to local tradition. It sits on an inward bend of the creek. Almost every person living in the area had an ancestor who was slain there in some gun or knife fight over the years. Several enterprising people have poked around in the creek bank behind the bar over time, discovering valuable elegant antique wine, beer, and liquor bottles; since through the ages patrons inside the pub simply sat up underneath the eve on the back porch, tossing their empty beer and wine bottles into woods toward the creek. Until around ten years ago in the past, few real people spent much time worrying about trash being found somewhere in the woods by people walking around looking for it. There were far too many more important things for a man to do back then, especially in an agricultural community.
The spring door on the front porch suddenly bursts open. Out stumbled two men well known by the locals. Both stepped off the front porch nearly tripping in their stagger, then one followed the other off to the side, as if searching for a place to engage in a bit of private conversation.
The one initiating the conversation was an elder known as Mason McPherson. He was a large boned, rather muscular man, with skin tanned dark as an Indian’s from a lifetime spent out in the sun. His teeth were chipped to a slight degree in the front, and his lips were chaffed to the point of peeling. He seized the other man by the front of his shirt with a powerful sun scarred right hand, speaking through his tightly clenched teeth as he did so.
The one listening was none other than a local conservation official known as Richard King. He was much younger than Mason, being of slighter build, with much less tan in his skin. Even though he wore plain clothes and a large straw hat upon his reddish brown head, every local clearly knew who he was. He had a worried expression on his face as Mason spoke, punching Richard in the chest with his left index finger to give emphasis in his words. Mason had no expression upon his face as he continued speaking, being concealed by golden rimmed, dark sunglasses and a large, very expensive river boatman’s straw hat. His complete demeanor and general aura was one of a commanding, indisputable authority.
“You boys understand one damn thing around here right now. Its a war going on in Galloway’s Quarter, and soon to be full scale at that, I’m afraid. Out-landers don’t comprehend the fact that The Freebooters simply ain’t goin’ to give in, Richard. They can bring the Fed into the Quarter, the Mounties, The Green Barrett, Elvis, and who ever the damn hell else they wanna bring, and they’ll still never back down.”
The phrase “The Freebooters” was simply a localized slang term for mega-wealthy landowners and local business people, who controlled every aspect of the whole Tide Water region, from politics to business, and taxes. No person could ever hope to accomplish any ambition without first going through them, then he was required to uphold a rigorous moral expectation to pass their inspection, and on Freebooter terms to define morality. Any who failed had better pack up and move at least three states over to escape their broad influence, if these people ever want to succeed at anything in life. That’s just the way it is, and the way it always has been, and the way it shall forever be, the locals are fond of saying. Live in it, love it; or pack ass and get the bloody hell out, its all just that simple.
“But the law is the law, and nobody anywhere stands above it,” gasped the young officer, Richard. Sweat rolled off his face as he spoke with a clear Seppo accent, betraying the fact he originated from somewhere far outside state boundaries, and consequently assumed to live according to an opposing belief system. Automatically he was an object of mistrust.
“I don’t cotton to repeating myself, Richard. Like I said earlier, this is a three hundred year old life style around here, and these locals ain’t going to forego on it just because of some poo-boy do-gooder law dreamed up in Raleigh, Columbia, or Washington; which might as well be fairyland out here in the Greene Swamp, as far as everybody is concerned. All that I have to tell you, or anybody, but especially any out-lander; is don’t push your luck in these parts for God’s sake, fellow,” spat old man, Mason, with a firm face. “The locals take it as a person throwing his weight around at their expense, and them having such a feeling ain’t good for any bodies health.”
“The law shall be enforced, even around here, Mason,” promptly retorted Richard as he struggled to stand his ground. “That die has already been cast. Our move is being made, even as I stand here speaking. What must be done, shall be so, even if we have to bring in Federal troops. Right now we have three elitist government men on the ground marching out there, who will shirk at nothing to see their job through . They are headed out to visit the chief Formy and the Duval clans, even as we are speaking, with a very curt message for them and everybody else out there, and all of Galloway’s Quarter.”
Mason took a deep breath, then released it slowly before speaking. He turned his head to spit a mouthful of tar black juice onto the ground, then snapped back around.
“I just don’t know what to tell ya, except I told ya so, Richard. I was asked to deliver that specific message to you, personally. I am not at liberty to say specifically who told me to tell ya, but he is a man who knows how to get things done around here; and more than that, he jolly damn well means what he says,” Mason roared out of a growing frustration.
The place in Galloway’s Quarters where the Formy and the Duvall clans claim their estates, lies is in an out of the way spot called Crusoe Island. The great Waccamaw River divides, then branches outward, only to merge again some thirty miles away down stream. The isolated land tract in between this loop divide in the river is known as Crusoe Island.
Nobody knows if this name, Crusoe, came about after Defoe’s tale of Robinson Crusoe was published or not; but it might be possible, as the conclusion is deduced from historical dates. According to legend, the people who now occupy Crusoe Island originated with the great Hispaniola planter class. The famous slave revolt took more than twenty years to develop. The ides for a crushing revolution were on the wind, even ten years prior. During that time intelligent planters with plenty of foresight, sold their massive wealth producing properties to break even, or even reap a small profit. Many planters who doubted tales of future harbinger were eager to cash in on these often bargain property deals. Those thousands who saw the light and exited out while they could, scattered, going many places all across America, and into Canada. Several hundred made their way down the Waccamaw River, and onto Crusoe Island, among other places.
According to the legendary account, the descendants of Portuguese sailors escaped from a ship wreck in the mouth of the Waccamaw already occupied the island for more than 100 years. The cash laden planter refugees offered to buy them out, but kindly allowed any single Portuguese women to remain, at no charge. Since these French planter colonists often did not bring any women with them, the wealthiest members of their community found an easy bargain talking these women into marriage, thus the colony grew quickly.
The Portuguese were already living off the land, building cabins, cutting wood, planting gardens, harvesting fish from the river, and game from the woodlands. These planter Frenchmen simply carried on with this tradition, where they still do to this day. These people spend their days fishing, planting, sowing clothes, weaving gill nets, or carving four feet diameter by twenty feet long cypress logs into canoes with hatchets and glowing coals. When they are not engaging in any of this activity, they are sitting neath the shade of some huge live oak tree, quaffing down beer by the keg and eating home cut steak over fresh pan cooked corn bread.
These people have many customs borrowed from the old French and the Hispaniola planter culture. One example would be the great October bonfire ceremonies, where hard drinkers and story tellers gather around, listening to a local bard sing stories of past and present heroic deeds. Some of these deeds may or may not always be in agreement with the established present day laws of the surrounding area. There is also a heroes portion of pit roasted pork for any person brave enough to claim or take it, and often there might be rough housing to accompany a variety of riotous late night activities.
The area referred to as Galloway’s Quarter was an old borough district that occupied the areas of three adjacent present day counties. These areas included vast parts of Columbus County, parts of nearby Robinson County, in company with the portions of Horry and Marion counties in South Carolina. All of these areas claimed by Galloway’s Quarter were and still are parts of the great Green Swamp, and the Big Swamp basin areas. In some areas the swamp covered tracts of land continue, but have different identifying local names; like Spinster’s Swift , Old Fiddler’s Foot, and my personal favorite, The Crazy Woman’s Back Side.
Crusoe Island is the chief section that dominates the other areas of Galloway’s Quarter. The headmaster was a wealthy tobacco plantation, and big-time mercantile business owner named Mijj Bo Greene. The Greene clan had been among the chief planter class, and among the wealthiest in the area, going all the way backward to the earliest days of first settlement. Mijj Bo Greene was not only the chief headmaster of the entire district, he also had powerful connections reaching all the way upward into the governor’s mansions in both North and South Carolina.
Nothing that went on inside the area did so without Mijj Bo Greene’s permission. One of his right hand assistants was none other than Mason McPherson, but there were other big fish who were part of the time-honored Crusoe Dynasty. A mega-wealthy planter, business man, speculator, and local state politician, was none other than Adonias Parker. Adonias Parker had three brothers. One was named Dooley Parker. The second one was named Rascal, and the third named Ebeneezer. These brothers were known by locals as the Parker Brothers Business Enterprise executives; or more simply put, the PBBEE crew.
Their entity at large was legally a broad based business title referred to as Parker Brother’s Inc. This long revered clan was into everything from owning heating and air companies, mobile home and RV construction firms, to residential and commercial construction companies, apartment rentals, tobacco farms, hog and turkey houses, herds of goats a thousand head in size, real-estate sales enterprises at large, and so forth. There was also some low key back door money lending going on.
This quite reality of cash lending was also common place among the Crusoe Dynasty at large, who operated as a proxy in addition for lending operations from the governor mansions of North and South Carolina, to certain enterprising citizens who knew how to conduct a proper appeal. No business ever conceived by mankind can increase wealth like lending money for value appreciating collateral can. That fact of being is why government regulators in the Land Of The Free are so firmly adamant about keeping individual citizens from engaging in it.
The last thing desired is for some poor sap to raise himself up by his own boot straps, to the point that he can directly compete with the banks, not to mention work his way into state or federal congress; then change laws that only serve to repress individuals, who otherwise only exist with their necks beneath the boot heels of corporations, banks, and greed laden government officials desiring that the citizen population remain in lifetime servitude to the State and Federal tax system.
After all, people paying a never ending tax was how these congressional members maintained the high interest installment fees on unsupervised loans taken out by themselves to the Federal Reserve. They collected their portion of an undefined cost of living allowance by serving on the board of directors in some large corporation, Ivy League University, state based college or public entity that supposedly gets its funding from donations. Thus, payment for their new Lamborghini, their personal corporation or business entities, and their elegant mansions on the hill depended on citizens being compelled to half all earnings with them.
Adonias possessed a huge mansion sitting out in the middle of swamp-land a mile back from Beaufort's Inlet. The grandiose two story classic styled, thirty room luxurious home had six, two feet diameter Doric columns supporting a huge front porch. Every room had massive elegant crystal chandeliers plated with pure gold, and hanging in the center of the front porch above the foyer entrance. On the outside was a huge kitchen room maned by totally dedicated, career minded hired servants, who constantly prepare food and transported it inside the mansion estate. Some of these people, however, were rumored to be people indebted to Adonias for favors of various sorts, who were employed with him at payment plus interest.
In the yard were various animals such as goats, chickens, cows, and even hogs; but the hogs were kept on a tract of land way off in the distance, somewhere far out of sight and smell range, and strictly fed a daily diet of freshly harvest acorns. A huge garden filled with every variety of vegetable was planted behind the home, since Adonias, his clan and his associates, loved a large variety of fresh vegetables and meat on the hoof. All of this possession required constant maintenance, assuring ongoing employment opportunity to the locals.
The entire estate sat in the midst of a hundred acre land tract, surrounded by a twelve feet high masonry wall, topped by razor wire angling toward the outside, and a massive black iron bared gate at a front estate driveway lined with blossoming roses, azaleas, tulips, chrysanthemum, magnolia and live oak trees. Often paid guards were standing on either side of the gate, as they were in specially designed towers spaced every forty yards up and down the wall. No expense was spared because Adonias and his clan could well afford it.
In addition to this, the Crusoe Dynasty had hundreds of smaller fish working the rat lines for them. These smaller fish included everybody from school principals, area business men, local policemen, and state politicians; to rogues of every sort who were ever willing to engage in any request made to them from members of the ruling dynasty and their motley company of associates. Nothing was ever going to make it passed any of them, or their minions.
The reason why is because everybody wanted a piece of the golden pie and the luxurious lifestyle lived by the ever prominent Crusoe Dynasty, not to mention the fact that they and their minions held solid gate keys in at least two entire states, in virtually every area of aspiration. Being on positive terms with the entire legion, if you will, determined one’s successes or failures in life; not skills, qualifications, education, the lack thereof, nor work ethic. Even the crime labs in two states were financed, if not owned outright, by this untouchable dynasty. Fighting the system was a fool’s errand, since individual people didn’t have a leg to stand on, regardless of their status. Those that spoke out too loud also tended to have mysterious unfortunate experiences, and worse.
Things were changing in Galloway’s Quarter, so they were seeming to local people, and not for the better. Out-landers from the areas surrounding had commenced to question and criticize a few matters at hand. For example, it had long been known that there was only one way in and one way off the island, back to the mainland. The only alternative option was to wade across one of the few low points in the river, and then swag across the swamp, until one could make it out to the hill on the opposite side.
For this reason it had long been said that the isolated residents kept an army of ghosts posted all around the island at various strategic points. The people back in the larger town of Whiteville on the mainland were saying now that it was no army of ghosts, but an actual army of well camouflaged sappers, who would shoot with silent, poisonous darts or arrows, if an unfortunate did not fall into one of their hole traps down into the swamp. In any case the many alligators found throughout the river and in the surrounding swamps would quickly dispatch of any remaining evidence, and do so very thoroughly.
This situation was only one of the many concerns brought to light by the newly complaining locals in the surrounding areas. Out-landers from very far away were filling up these areas, and bringing with them their questioning, vexing ways, and bizarre alien ideas about politics, and the way life should be lived in general, according to them. The county authorities might as well be the local school principal, joked many of the long time residents in regard to the petty, whining complaints continually raining down upon them from above. God forbid if a person had no choice but to work around one of these belly aching, coo-coo, cock-a-doodle-doo, sons of bitches!
One of these idealistic do-gooders determined to force his opinions for change on all who might oppose it, claimed to be a sportsman. Since his retirement he now was a grossly overweight man, who wore a large silver band from the Mason’s lodge down in Loris on his left ring finger. He was retired ex-military; and because of this sole fact alone, thanks to the local veteran’s administration handing him a job above all other local contenders, had secured employment at the court house in Whiteville as an arrogant IRS agent employed by both the State and Federal government. He was assigned with harassing the provincial folk for every hard earned dime that he could savagely wrest from their grasp, since it was common knowledge that the residents of North and South Carolina survived only by working cash jobs on the side. Unfortunately for them, wages from public employment were far below what it cost to live in these two states, especially when the revenuers finished with extorting half of whatever they brought back home.
This man thought that he had hit a true jackpot when he purchased two large homes on the eastern edges of Whitevile, North Carolina, and Florence, South Carolina, with a ten acre tract of land for only $150,000.00; a mere fraction of what it would have cost him in Jersey State. Cash saved up in mere months easily secured his ownership rights to the properties. People in the area knew all too well that he had managed to make this purchase in hard cash stolen from the citizen base, since people were always being singled out and commanded to hand over horrendous money sums they never owed to begin with. The IRS wasn’t required to support their claims of citizens being indebted to them by hard facts, so this man had a perfect cover for crime galore, brazenly declared many among the masses in Galloway’s Quarter.
His name was Roger Borkowski. He had joined a local hunting club, many of whom were also out-landers of the same stripe, that had somehow leased a partial land tract over on Crusoe Island. He became a subject of hearth side community derision when he stormed through the brush like a Sherman tank, with hundreds of dollars worth of unnecessary equipment such as hand warmers, special overalls and fancy camping equipment, not to mention government ordained licenses and expensive club fees on top of that; all for the very simple purpose of harvesting meat and fruit from the surrounding woodlands. Needless to say, he never even got a single shot even after two years of hunting, although the land tract was readily known by most old timer heritage inhabitants to support a huge deer population.
One still clear day while he was sitting high up in a fancy store-bought tree stand, he caught a glimpse of resident islanders slinking around on the club’s rented land tract, and he was utterly appalled for lack of more descriptive words. Here these people were, wearing faded jeans and home-stitched denim dyed with black walnut hulls; and shooting deer three and four at a time over piles of pears, Indian corn or salt, like nothing was ever supposed to be said about it. To make matters worse, when Borkowski approached one of these people, asking about his lack of an orange hat, or his neglect for placing tags on the carcasses of deer he had recently slain, he and the crowd this man was accompanied by glanced over at him as if he was out of his mind for questioning anybody. Matter of fact not one of them even had any confounded idea what on earth he was talking about!
Roger quickly informed his fellow club members about this matter to behold. A number told him they were aware that the land was being hunted, but went on to say nothing was occurring that had not always been so. This was how the resident islanders made their living, and all was perfectly understood and accepted without further questioning.
Two other club members volunteered to take him on a tour of the island. He simply could not believe the sight of people hauling literal fish loads onto the river bank in home knitted gill nets, salting fish, living outside of the utility system and the standard range established by the county zoning commission, not to mention scrounging and gathering off the land in general. If these people could live like this, then why couldn’t he do the same?, Roger screamed in outrage with the voice of a spoiled brat punk boy, when he and the other three made it back to their truck.
“Because this is the only life these people know,” came the curt reply.
“Well something needs to be done about this matter,” Roger snapped back to the others with a noticeable flushed tint in his cheeks. “These people need to learn about the same laws the rest of us in this country have to live by,” he continued to whine and bellow.
“You are not from around here, fellow,” the three replied in a rather cautious low pitched voice. “You had better pipe things down, and watch your step in Galloway’s Quarter.”
“Well, we’ll see!,” the man snapped with an air of crass arrogance to the other three, “we’ll see who had better watch their step around here!”
On that note, quickly as he could make it back home he called the state conservation commission and the county zoning board, informing them of every infraction that he had bore witness to. He also screamed that if these people were allowed to live in such a fashion, then he could do so as well, and so could anyone else.
“If things were always done in such a way, then some form of change was long overdue,” he continued to cry over the phone. “This was 1981, for crying out loud here!”
With this clearly implicating information on hand, the three men reported by Richard King were on their way toward the island. They were all unshakable in their confidence. They had their two way radios bouncing on their left hips, and their order papers in hand. The local police had agreed to back them up, if indeed they needed any backing. All that the three had to do was make the prearranged emergency call.
The three were instructed to wade onto the island through a low portion of the river and the swamp. While there they were instructed to seek out signs of any illegal activities; from hunting and fishing on the sly, to people living without being hooked up to the utility municipality, and home construction done outside of code. When they found any of this horrible criminal activity, they were commanded to curtly inform the offenders of their violations, collect all proper identification, then issue prompt citations for maximum penalties to be collected. Any person offering resistance, or found to lack identification credentials would be immediately arrested, then transported to the jails back in Whiteville and Loris. The same rules would apply to any person hunting without proper licenses, and equipment. If needed be, the national guard could even be flown in; so never fear giving us an emergency call, they were politely informed.
The three officers headed down toward the bridge, then carefully parked their jeep in safe cover on the mainland side. From there they walked approximately a half mile eastward, until they arrived at a knee deep portion of the river, at a point in the slow moving river somewhere around seventy yards wide. Carefully and quietly they radioed their exact location identification back into headquarters, where a bead was taken on a new fangeled electronic map.
The agents in the office back in Whiteville carefully recorded every step as the bead on the map slowly moved from the river onto the island mainland. The bead appeared to go some twenty percent inland, then pause. The pause held for at least thirty minutes before any type of question was made in regard to the matter. The HQ commander quickly snatched a radio from the desk top.
“What’s going on? We see a pause here on our electronic map, holding for the past thirty minutes. Copy?”
Some fifteen seconds passed before a broken reply came in.
“This is CO10. We are questioning seven locals here in regard to some hunting violations. There is a fresh deer kill on the ground, but no tags. Not one of these people are admitting to the kill. They are all wearing jet black homemade overalls, with bandannas across their faces, and none of them claim to be in possession of proper identification, over..”
“This is HQ. We all copy that report. Be ever cautious with these people. None of us can stress that fact too lightly, over?”
There is a stir on the radio and a rather long pause.
“HQ requesting situational analysis here! Do you copy?”
Nothing but static for a moment.
“CO Core, do any of you copy?”
“HQ, this is CO12 reporting. We attempted to make arrest, but the seven scattered and vanished into the swampy backdrop. We are in the process of giving pursuit, copy..?”
“This is Command Center in reply,” spoke a different voice. “Give pursuit for an hour only. Take careful notes on what occurred, reactions, your possible unanticipated motivations, etc, then head on out. We need a complete observational analysis on the entire situation out there CO Core.”
“This is CO12 in reply. We all copy that directional order loud and clear.”
The three conservation officers moved on out into the swamp lands. Even though it was supposedly winter time, as they moved about in the slow moving bourbon tinted water they could hear the eerie slide and splash of what must have been three inch diameter water moccasins, a vigorous deadly snake in the king cobra family. When the officers gazed outward into the landscape all that they could behold was an endless forest of closely packed cypress trees, with a heavy screen of Spanish moss hanging from what must have been every limb, and every space in between packed with cat-claw briers and bramble in a thick screen of yuopon bushes.
As the officers moved along the air above the quagmire hung heavy with the feeling of hostile eyes gazing upon them from an unseen distance in the vegetative backdrop. In virtually no time an hour had passed. A powerful motivation for exiting this morass onto the hill loomed heavily inside the three, as visions of horrifying death traps concealed in the dark water, and pitiless snarling beasts encircling about unseen around them, danced in their heads.
The bead on the electronic map moved slowly along, then paused after what seemed like a mile or more away. From the map it was known to be a local point or small village community known as Duval’s Wake. Thirty minutes passed and no location analysis report. Time for a call back.
“This is HQ calling for a situational analysis, copy that?”
“HQ, this is CO11. We see a dozen or more property zoning violations. We are informing the residents all around here, who glare at us through hard narrowed eyes, as if failing to comprehend our words. I fear that they may not even be able to understand us when we speak, and we certainly can hardly understand them, copy HQ?”
“This is HQ, CO11. We all copy loud and clear. Take good notes on everything, and be extremely cautious around there above all else, copy that CO11?”
“This is CO11 again, and we copy. We are writing citations out left and right, worth every amount from $100.00 to $5000.00. We certainly are getting some hard angry stares now, I can tell all of you. What I can’t comprehend is how the courthouse is going to collect on anything here, since these people don’t even work public jobs for the most part. Those that do work at all only work part-time, for cash, copy HQ? They do seem to make decent money, strangely enough, in spite of their broken employment chain.”
There was static on the radio, then it suddenly cleared.
“This is HQ. We copy that. You and the CO Corp write out the tickets. Be sure to collect proper ID, with complete addresses that have been confirmed. The courthouse will concern itself regarding collections on all of this. Those tickets have a very finite life span, only a month, I think. After that time an interest increase is activated. The total on this doubles every week after that time. When the value amounts of these tickets exceed property values, a virtual army of officers will descend from the hill here onto that island, to enforce eviction notices. To be honest about it, it shouldn’t take long for that to happen, copy?,” asked a broken chuckling voice on the radio.
A long pause preceded only a static return. A stressed broken voice finally replied after some forty minutes or so.
“HQ, this is..” (static fuzz). “Situation out of control! Emergency call! Situation out of..! (static fuzz).
The red bead on the electronic screen moved backward in the direction of the swamp, then turned going northbound, before pausing a half mile into what seemed like swamp land a few hundred yards upward from the point where the three entered in.
“This is HQ. Give us a situational analysis! We demand a situational analysis immediately!”
There was no reply but static for thirty more minutes, then the static suddenly cleared.
“Stay away from de i-land territory BO,” spoke an unknown growling muffled voice. “Dis is whut happns to nosy out-landers.” Then a continuing line of static.
“HQ! HQ! We copy! Give us a report immediately.”
Nothing but static on the radio.
“I’m calling this in as an emergency rescue. Do you copy CO Corp? I am calling this scene in as an immediate emergency, over and out!”
The captain over at the headquarter grabs a phone, calling the sheriff's office at the Whiteville courthouse. He carefully explains the situation in detail, gives the logistical locations recorded on the electronic map in his office, then requests an investigation unit of twelve well armed troops. The sheriff on duty at the time immediately grants the request, and includes three detectives to accompany the troop of twelve.
Quickly the troop rides out to the bridge connecting Crusoe Island with the mainland side. They proceed eastward from the bridge in search of the jeep in which the three had driven in and made their first report from. When they arrived at the specific point indicated in which the jeep had been parked, the jeep was no longer there; but tire tracks and human foot prints in the mud from that point down the bank, toward the water, indicated that the vehicle had more than likely been taken out of gear and pushed over into the river. Notes were made regarding the observation and plastic casts were taken of the strange foot prints.
These foot prints were strange since they possessed no tread of any sort. Upon close examination, however, on some prints stitching was observed around the edges. Obviously these boots were home-made. Once the jeep had been confirmed as being underneath the river, then the conclusion could be made that islanders were responsible for the deed, since virtually nobody anywhere else were known to wear home crafted boots and shoes. The information was gathered and the reports promptly stashed, as the troop continued onward in its foregoing mission.
They slugged through what felt like a thousand miles of mud, water, and outright muck as they battled mosquitoes constantly, even though it was during the midst of winter. Then suddenly the land came to a rise. The swamp transformed into a thick dry hardwood forest, with a tree covered hill in the center, blanketed by a fine yellow grass. As the twelve proceeded upward onto that hill, an outspread live oak tree dominated the summit with a thick limb approximately twelve feet up, upon which hung the bodies of four men, upside down. Three wore the very noticeable uniforms of conservation officers. Their throats had been slit from ear to ear. One, dressed in faded jeans and a white tee-shirt with the words written across the front, Eat More Kitty Cat, It Keeps Us Dogs More Competitive , was a rather overweight corpse with a large silver Mason’s band on his left ring finger. This corpse had been completely decapitated.
To the far right of this petrifying spectacle, a four foot bamboo staff had been driven into the soil. Upon this bamboo was thrust the blood drenched severed head of this hanging corpse. A note hung underneath, with huge Gothic letters painted red on an aged cypress wood board , which said; Abandon hope, all ye out-landers who enter herein.
The twelve searched all round for any sign of evidence, while the detectives snapped pictures of the murder scene. One of the officers, who was from the Whiteville area, shook his head from side to side.
“This is it. This occurrence tops them all off thus far. There really is a war going on out here, boys. I don’t know how much any of you realize it?”
Another officer with a firm demeanor snapped around. He spoke with an accent revealing him to be from somewhere way out of state.
“There is certainly going to be a firm call for war now, if one there ever was before,” he spouted. “I would hate to be from anywhere around in these parts right about now, myself. Situations could get real sticky, and quick, as people get all emotional and start wanting us to pull the guilty out of our hats, or from out of a cypress stump somewhere.”
Another officer suddenly raised his head to the ongoing conversation. He put his radio down from his mouth, back into the sling on his left hip.
“Well I just reported this scene to the department,” he spoke in his own alien accent. “They’re calling in the US Marshal service, who will more than likely get an elite Marine Corps attachment to accompany them in. Somebody said war? This stuff is serious, and it well may be an all out war, until justice is promptly served.”
In two hours time a Chinook Helicopter over passed the area, pausing down from where the twelve police troopers stood. Out parachuted ten persons. As they slowly drifted to the ground, thirty more followed. As the first ten were taking off their jump suits, the other thirty landed. As they undressed, the group of ten began walking toward the twelve troopers and the crime scene at hand.
One specific individual walked up to the troop of twelve, removing his jump helmet, face cover and goggles. He was a rather tall man being some six feet three in height. He walked with a confident, well conditioned stride.
“Who is the commander on duty among you twelve?”
One of the twelve officers approached him.
“I am officer 4397-3 at your service, sir. Most people in the organization call me MacArnold.”
The large US Martial relied.
“I am Supervisory Deputy US Martial, Rolland Wiseman, who has been assigned to this entire case. We are going to observe the incident of this crime scene, observe the incident of the jeep being shoved downhill into the river, arrive at our own conclusions, then proceed on into this island community in pursuit of the guilty.
“Well we’re glad to have you,” spoke Arnold to the man. “None of us quite know what we are dealing with here.”
“Mr. Arnold,” the tall man replied as he swept his right hand through his tangled dark hair.
“Just for the record, every one of my men are seasoned military veterans. We have been exposed to blood drenched scenes of every stripe, on a daily basis. Rest assured, Mr Arnold, none of our investigative platoon could ever become so startled that we couldn’t function. All of this tragedy is only another day at work, and we will get to the bottom of it, no matter what. Matter of fact, I am going to divide my troop up and allow one half to proceed on with the investigation, then the other half shall accompany me and the Marines there with us, as we march onward toward this community, Duval’s Wake.”
Five US Martial's and thirty Marines from the elitist units marched undaunted through the briers, bramble tangle, the mud and the muck for about a mile, until the woods finally dried and cleared up somewhat on higher ground. In thirty minutes the thirty five men noticed a clearing in the woods, and twenty apparently aged shacks up on the hill summit. On the front porches women with sun browned hard faces donned in faded home made gowns dutifully repaired gill nets, while long bearded men dressed in tattered blue jean overalls repaired horse drawn plows, sharpened machetes, or dressed out fish and hanging pigs. Slowly they raised their heads as they put down their tools to pause in their work, as the marching troop approached. Rolland approached a man sitting on his porch chewing tobacco, appearing to be an elder with authority.
“ I am Supervisory Deputy US Martial, Rolland Wiseman, sir. I have eviction orders to immediately evacuate every man, woman, and child from these premises. The charges are that these homes are not up to code, and neither have the taxes been paid on the homes, or the land. Tickets were issued earlier ordering every person in this community to get his or her property up to code, or else pay a fine. Since none of these fines have been paid, then interest was applied to the dollar amounts until the value of the fine exceeds that of the property.
“My final word to all of you is that none of you own your property anymore. Your land and any of your valuables now belong to the county of Cumberland, the state of North Carolina, and the authority of America. On that note, sir, I am ordering every person on this land tract to exit out of his or her home, or else we are coming in to take you on suspicion of murder until we can get evidence verification. Is that understood Mr.-?”
The man appeared to be somewhere in his sixties. His body was browned from a life out in the sun, his gray hair short above his ears, but his beard hung down to his naval. He wore faded blue jean overalls with a chest bib, and a plain tee shirt.
“Just wait a cotton tailed minute here, fellow. I don’t give a flying flapjack who you claim to be. You can’t just huff in here and order people around like that.”
“Sir, you are not comprehending what I am telling,” commanded Rolland. “I don’t have time for debate. I need you and all of your neighbors here to vacate these premises immediately. Either that eviction is commenced, or we are coming in to take you.”
The old man turned his head to left, spitting a mouthful of black juice upon the white sand by his side.
“If you want us and what is our’n, then you’ll have to take us.., and be damned!,” the man yelled. The others quickly raced back into their shacks, locking the doors upon these words being yelled by the elder. Obviously it was some sort of coded message for defense.
“Whats your name, sir?,” asked Rolland.
“Name ‘s Jivus Duval,” the elder retorted as he turned to spit another wad.
Rolland suddenly grabbed Jivus by the left arm, forcing him around while handcuffs were slapped upon both his wrists.
“Have it your way, Jivus. You’ll be the first to go down here in Duval’s Wake.”
After the cuffs were placed upon Jivus, he was handed to another officer who cuffed him onto a chain around fifty feet long. The opposite end of this chain was anchored to a small dogwood tree nearby.
“Move out men, its door to door. All weapons on guard, and remember your basic training. Don’t fire unless fired upon, then promptly return fire with all due efficiency. All members of this community are potential murder suspects and deemed hostile, especially in light of their present rejection of the evacuation order given.”
The thirty Marines quickly positioned themselves on the front porch of the 29 cabins. The other five US Martial's proceeded to ransack Jivus’s cabin, emptying the drawers, turning over the beds, emptying the refrigerators and closets. The contents of all were carelessly dumped onto the floor.
The thirty Marines hammered the front doors of the cabins with their fists, screaming at the top of their lungs;
“Open up, we are members of the United States Marine Corp. Open up now or else we are coming in. Do you comprehend? Open up immediately, or else we are coming in on you!”
There was no reply from inside the cabins. Rolland nodded his head in signal, and the officers proceeded to kick in the cabin doors. When the wooden doors exploded open, to every officer’s astonishment the cabins all appeared to be empty, not only of their human inhabitants, but also of their most cherished personal property.
Every officer had now entered into one of these cabins. An extremely tense search was conducted for the inhabitants, which failed to yield anything. The old man in chains laid down on the soft grass at his feet. A teen aged youth arose from the tall yellow grass some distance behind the cabins, noticing that the old man had laid down; then placed both hands upon a plunger, pushing it all the way down with what appeared to be every ounce of might that he had to give. The cabins suddenly exploded into flames and a thousand fragments. When the wind from it all settled back down, there was peace once more again on Duval’s Wake. Gradually the residents arose from the yellow grass a hundred yards behind the cabins and the round of the hill, to survey the damage done to their homes and the effectiveness of their attack.
Back in Whitevile the HQ office knew something was afoul when his radio messages came back as dull static. For three hours this type of response had been the case. But look at the military and law enforcement professionals who had vanished seemingly into thin air! The possibility of negativity defied all logic, as every person in the office shook their heads in disbelief. A new Supervisor Deputy Marshal driving all the way from Raleigh, burst through the double doors at the office in the courthouse.
“Would somebody around here tell me just what in the ten tales of hell is going on here?,” he roared without even introducing himself, since he had been called in only an hour and a half ago. “I was interrupted from having my midday ham sandwich and coffee.”
“Something has gone afoul,” snapped the HQ supervisor, Jack Penny, a sun and liquor dried up lifetime Whiteville resident somewhere in his late 50’s. Probably the most excitement in his life he ever had was drinking liquor and chasing worn out whores around town, all the way to North Myrtle Beach on a dismal Friday night. He was also guilty of periodically slipping off into the Lime Light bordello down in Bennetsville, when his old lady of 35 years turned her back on him for a day or so; but he had given all of it up more than ten years ago now. He really was a happy man just being clean, he loved to boast. All he did now was work, and go to church on Wednesday nights and Sundays.
“Give me more information, please here!,” fired the US Marshall. “Why are you so certain that something has run afoul? Based on what are you making that conclusion? Show me the evidence, Penny,” the US Martial berated.
“Well I just know it. I always receive prompt response from my men when they are in the field. There hasn’t been a response for more than three hours now. I have your men on call out there who are law enforcement experts, but I also have elite Marines who have accompanied them, and who are battle savvy on top of that. Something is just not right, I am telling you.”
“Didn’t you even bother to send in a confirmation detachment, Penny?,” thundered the US Martial.
The US Martial took a deep breath, shook his head, then exhaled as if in disgust.
“I utterly despise incompetence,” he snapped.
A noticeable flash of sudden anger passed through the body of Penny.
“I know that you are with the US Martial Service, and that you are a supervisor, but you never gave me your full title.
“Yeah? Why does it even matter at this point?,” the Martial returned with his own display of disgust and anger combined.
“Look,” leveled Penny with the martial, “if you, are any damn body else is going to storm in here just because myself or another person bothered to call and request assistance, then proceed to speak down to me and verbalize your opinion regarding my qualifications just because of it, then the very least that you could do is tell me who you are.”
“Yeah? I can do that, if doing it matters any. My name is Albert Vollstrecker. My rank and title is Chief Supervisor Deputy US Martial. I have been a veteran of law enforcement, first with the US Army beginning at 18, whereupon I retired. I was acting veteran of nine major US battle engagements. I have seen it all in my time, practically speaking here. I have never seen anything resembling this situation, however. I have been with the US Martial Service now for 10 years.”
Penny smiled as the man spoke his title and name.
“Well if you have all of this detailed experience and title, then why don’t you begin doing something to produce a valid solution to this situation, rather than berate me, the man in charge at the moment?”
Vollstrecker paused, glaring hard at Penny, then moved toward the phone on Penny’s desk. He punched in a number, then placed the phone to his right ear, continuing to glare at Penny with a firm expression on his face. A few minutes passed, then he began to speak.
“Yes Mam, this is Albert Vollstrecker, Chief US Martial Supervisor. Could I please speak with the central command officer for the US Marines? The situation is rather urgent, to say the least.”
He paused for five minutes, then began speaking.
“Yes sir, this is Albert Vollstrecker, Chief US Martial Supervisor, rank number 30773-A. You are aware of the thirty Marine Corps men assigned to this Crusoe Island situation, aren’t you?
Another pause for a minute.
“You haven’t heard from them, you mean?”
Another pause then a tart comment coming from Vollstrecker.
“The person assigned to take charge is a local named Jack Penny, and he hasn’t called you yet?
Vollstrecker glared at Penny again as he stood with the phone hard against his right ear.
“I tell you what. I am going to take over this case now, and it will be me and you working this case into its conclusion,” fired Vollstrecker as he continued to glare at Penny.
“Yes sir, we’ll take fifty more of your elitist, with clear instructions that this situation has reached a point of no return, and must be dealt with just as any other battle situation should,” spoke Vollstrecker into the phone.
A pause for a maybe five minutes, then Vollstrecker’s face lit up.
“Yes sir, then it is a return confirmation. Fifty elite specialist will be on site inside of two hours, meeting right here in this office.”
He paused again as his face shown brighter.
“Its a proud go ahead!”
He walked back over to the desk of Penny, then placed the phone back on its hanger. Vollstrecker never spoke a single word to Penny as his eyes seemed to growl at him.
Vollstrecker walked back over to the electronic screen with the map on it, typing location coordination indicators as fast as he could punch the key pad. When these men arrived in a few minutes, every minute detail would be placed in possession of their commanding officer. They would possess a complete geographical, terrain, and population layout of the entire island and the area surrounding it back on the mainland. Matter of fact, the entire area and history of Galloway’s Quarter would be held underneath a microscope. This situation was on now, for better or worst, with Vollstrecker assuring himself, and all confident that fate would be on his side. He would be the victorious hero in this backwoods tale of rebellion.
Vollstrecker and his minions were not the only people aware of seriousness in the mounting scenario. None other than Mijj Bo Greene himself had raised his eyebrows, and drawn a few deep breaths. Suddenly he felt motivated to intervene, and for good reason. Quickly he called up the Parker brothers, and old Man, Mason. Adonias had invited them all to his mansion estate over at Beaufort Inlet.
“We can fly from over at your place, Adonias, and visit Governor Sealgair at his mansion in Raleigh. I would say that we drive there, but we simply haven’t the time. Everything around here is that urgent,” spoke Bo Greene to Adonias Parker over the phone.
Within two hours time of the phone conversation, this motley crew had met over at the mansion estate of Adonias outside of Beaufort Inlet, and without hesitation. With few words between them, they loaded up onto a small, twin engine plane behind the mansion home there. Adonias done a maintenance check and the general pre-flight inspection, and soon they were lifting off.
In seemingly no time the dynastic crew had landed in a small airport less than a mile from the Governor’s personal mansion estate in Raleigh. A cab was already parked and waiting outside the small terminal building. When the plane pulled into the hanger area, the crew exited and entered into the cab, while paid attendants moved the plane into a lock down at its proper station. Three minutes later the cab pulled up to the heavy black iron gate before the entrance way at the mansion. The cab driver spoke a few unintelligible words, and in an instant the guard in front of this gate allowed them to enter, without questioning to any extent.
These same words were spoken by Greene to the guard at the top of the outside mansion stairway, with the exact reaction. The only reaction witnessed by the Parker Brothers or Mason were smiles and nonverbal welcoming indications of relaxation in company with complete solitude. A college aged, well built female mansion attendant, wearing a low cut, almost skin tight gemstone satin dress, escorted the crew into a back parlor room.
The figure of a six foot four, man with well groomed gray hair, donned in a Stuart Hughes Diamond Edition suit and tie, arose from an elegant sofa seat in red cushioned satin over foam and rhinoceros leather. He turned toward them, smiling. He approached Greene first with his right hand fully extended. Greene returned the handshake, then Sealgair stepped forward to extend his hand toward the others.
“I swear it has been so long since I have seen all of you together in the same company,” he gasped as he smiled. “Come on toward the seat here, and relax. I have a gnawing feeling that there is some sort of situation at hand,” he said as the crew took their seats upon the huge couch. “I speak with great interest in knowing the details.”
Before them stood a heavy coffee table of teak wood, carved with elegant depictions of scantily clad native women and pirate captains lounging around in a tropical oasis. Many of these men were rowing in boats on lakes with these native women, or women donned in long dresses and gaudy luxuriant sun bonnets. Others were laid out by the lakeside with scantily native women on blankets, where picnic baskets filled with a variety of tropical fruit stood between them. The male seemed to be pouring the female a chalice of wine, as the two lay on an outstretched blanket underneath a large saw tooth palm in the cool shade.
The room itself was trimmed in pure gold, with stunning, nearly three dimensional paintings of tropical scenes depicting the luxury and elegance of life on some Caribbean plantation estate during an age of glory, enlightenment, and wealth, hanging upon the walls above glass tables with silver legs on lions feet, trimmed in pure gold. In the corner to the far right stood a glass, silver, and crystal pedestal with an elegant marble bust of Marie Antoinette, trimmed in pure gold guarding the room and the palace interior. Before this marble bust seven under-clothed belly dancers donning veils of mist moved delicately with complete silence, in a perfect beckoning rhythm for the carnal entertainment of the governor and his guests. The Parker Brothers and Mason glanced all around, saying nothing at the moment while Greene continued speaking with the Governor.
“Yes, indeed we have a situation that is both urgent and serious at the same time. I’m sure you have heard of the matter over in Galloway’s Quarter, haven’t you, sir?”
The Governor smiled warmly as he gloated at the alluring dancing display before him. He swallowed hard as he suddenly shifted his eyes toward what resembled a pool in the rear quarters of the mansion. The pleasant rustle of a whirlpool from the same area seemed to carry throughout the entire palace interior. The girls raced with smooth silent organized precision toward the pool areas on cat-like feet. The smiling governor chuckled lowly as he shifted his attention back in the direction of his guests.
“I just got wind of a concern involving Galloway’s Quarter a few minutes before you entered. Otherwise I know no specific details.”
Greene sighed, then began to speak.
“The locals have been harassed by these aliens for a long time now. One of them didn’t like the lifestyle they lived, and called the Fed on them. The conservation officers then raced out there in a frenzy to write citations for hunting violations, zoning codes, and anything else they could find to include. These citations had huge fines, that doubled with large interest charges when the locals couldn’t pay. When the value of the citations exceeded their property values, the locals had to be evacuated from their long cherished land holdings, and hard won homes.”
“Oh, I see,” sighed the Governor. “So that is when the trouble began, I presume. Was there any violence involved?”
“Yes, and deaths. Matter of fact, I haven’t had a confirmation on every detail of the situation at the moment involving the Marine Core elites and the US Martial troop who were sent in earlier, but what I did hear wasn’t good at all,” spoke Greene to the Governor.
“A hammer man I use when I need him, named Yarborough, who also ventures into the general area periodically for the purpose of helping me move backlog, radioed back that a troop of thirty marines and ten US Martial Servicemen were slain by the locals today. I know Harlan Yarborough’s reputation, governor, a career criminal with a detailed prison history and violent past; but to speak the truth he has always been dead on honest with me, in every way. Probably its because when I need a job done, I speak directly, and I always pay out on time. Being careful to take such simple measures is how I built my business reputation. This reputation is how I always succeed in getting chores completed, governor.”
The Governor smiled again with his warm sleepy sheepish grin.
“ Yes, oh yes indeed, sir, to speak the truth about it, probably you wish that he was lying this time. I am sure you could dislike him much less for it right about now.”
Greene hung his head slightly, then picked it back up, almost becoming agitated as he commenced speaking.
“What are we going to do? You well know everything that’s at steak here. These marines going in this time will be ultra thorough in their search.”
The Governor gazed momentarily at the wall, glancing back in the direction of the pools, then took a deep breath.
“I’ll call Washington and see what we can arrange. I will work for you through lawyer, C.R. Loes. We will use judge Brunne Sealgair, a distant relative of mine, you know. No matter what happens, all of you and your associates will be eased back down onto your feet. All of you have done far too much for me to simply ignore your increasingly imposing situation, even if it means that I must sacrifice my own cousin, the judge; who indeed is trustworthy, but only to an extent of requests not threatening his peculiar idealistic sense of ethics. When we have a job to do, Greene, we both are aware that we simply don’t have time for impracticality. Direction for action must be definitively determined, swift, and above all else, successful. I can’t say any more than that at the moment. Let me get on ASAP with this call. Once business is efficiently and thoroughly concluded, then we all can get on with more warmly accommodating pleasures and pass times.”
The new troop had already met at the HQ office in Whitevile, then stormed back out toward Galloway’s Quarter, beginning with Crusoe Island. Local people were forcibly arrested at machine gun point, and loaded up onto huge trucks for transporting personnel. They would be relocated to the mass containment facility at Camp Lejeune.
There had been much exchange of gunfire, with people dying on both sides. Most of the locals vanished into the swamps, in spite of the persisting determination in their persecution. More troops had been called in for reinforcement, and to assist in eradicating all local resistance from the swamps. This war in Galloway’s Quarter was gaining momentum.
As the troops stormed through Crusoe Island, they made their way intending to push through every inch of Galloway’s Quarter, beginning with the Horry County realm. Here an expansive field of pot plants standing twenty feet tall, with sticky purple buds all over was stumbled upon. As the exasperated troops patrolled cautiously, they found cocked rat traps spring loaded with shot gun shells, sitting in waiting to make a kill. Fine fishing wire running across entrances going into these fields would engage the instantaneous murder. There were swinging spike traps, pit falls, and spear sets, all anxiously awaiting their victims.
As the patrol cautiously eased along, a plan developed in the mind of their commanding officer. Instead of destroying the field and the root cellar found in the center of the field, where millions of dollars in processed cocaine was stashed, they would simply stake it out to discover whose it was. Head Quarters had long heard of rumors from informing locals speaking of such realities, but nothing like this had ever been discovered in, or even near Galloway’s Quarter.
Certain locals had also informed them of other eerie occurrences. According to claims, Bo Greene owned dozens of tobacco warehouses throughout North and South Carolina, not to mention the ones in the counties where Galloway’s Quarter extended. For several years now these warehouses had been mysteriously going up in flames at night time. For years the Federal tobacco program had been playing out, everybody was aware of that, but there was still big money to be found in warehouse insurance collections. Over the years, when these informants were sought out for further questioning, they could never be found. No person in their locality seemed to know of their whereabouts.
A twin engine airplane landed in broad daylight near the huge dope plantation on a shockingly narrow runway. Fourteen men dressed in black denim and caps rushed out of the airplane toward the center of the field. A high collar had been pulled up over their noses and mouths to conceal their identity. These men raced toward the root cellar type storage room with military precision. In less than five minutes they were seen moving back toward the plane carrying huge burlap type bags filled with something.
The commanding officer didn’t have to ask any more questions, he knew what was inside the bags. He also got a solid ID on the twin engine plane as he continued to watch through a set of binoculars. He radioed the information back to HQ for an ID check, but it came up empty. Vollstrecker failed to give clear reasons as to why this was so, saying instead that he simply didn’t know. Before the day was over, the military troop would locate seven more pot plantations, and storage cellars filled with other types of contraband, primarily cocaine, not to mention the huge amounts of small arms and stashed ammunition.
When darkness finally enveloped the land, Galloway’s Quarter was being patrolled from the air by light, almost completely silent, police helicopters. Numerous structures were a flame throughout The Quarter, and even beyond, especially below the South Carolina line. A radio call was made to determine the source of these fires and to develop a situational analysis. Virtually all of these structures turned out to be tobacco warehouses, or buildings linked back to the industry. When the identity for ownership of these buildings was investigated, a majority turned out to be none other than ole Mijj Bo Greene himself. The others were owned by the Parker Brothers, or through what was appearing more under investigation to be an established proxy.
As far as the fields of pot were concerned, under the cover of darkness the light twin engine planes returned. In some cases a light helicopter took their place. To discover the root source of these fields, only one move could be made that would work. The transport vehicle itself must be captured. To the surprise of the pursuing platoon, there was absolutely no resistance. When asked to give identity, none captured had spoken a word as of yet.
A few planes heavy laden with bales of marijuana and large plastic bags filled with cocaine, had caught sight of the pursuing troops and taken to the air in an act of escape. Military choppers from the national guard center in Whitevile were called in to pursue. When the drug smugglers realized their capture was soon eminent, they began tossing their stash out as they passed over the three or four county area of Galloway’s Quarter, and even beyond into Marion County.
Later on the locals would find some of this heavy laden stash, cut it up and sell it for five times the going price, because of its high quality. The street name for this booty was Airplane, propeller weed, or propeller dust. When the law enforcement branch back at the courthouse in Whitevile caught wind of this, they immediately placed an unusually heavy penalty and fine on any charge of possession or distribution.
The troops moving through Galloway’s Quarter formed a straight line, staggering individual troops thirty yards apart as they crept along through the swamp. When the resistance attacked the center of the line, the two ends would loop around to enclose the insurgents. If one end or the other was attacked, then the free end would loop around to make an enclosure. In any case, when an enclosure was made, the resisting insurgents would be promptly eliminated. There was one exception to this fact, however.
Once the platoon had been marching steadily for some four days without provisions. On the fifth morning when the commanding officer demanded the slumbering troops to arise and resume the march, they refused, proclaiming that they couldn’t do so without provisions. The commanding officer smiled, declaring that he would give full provision at the first opportunity. The platoon then agreed to resume marching for the purpose of full filling their duty assignment to eradicate all resistance.
No sooner had they exited camp and gone a few hundred yards outward, they encountered new resistance. These insurgents were soon encircled. To the astonishment of every person present, these insurgents only consisted of three teen aged boys and seven girls of the same age. They were all long time residents of Crusoe Island, so they informed the platoon commander as they begged for mercy.
The platoon surgeon was brought in who promptly ordered them all stripped. He closely examined their teeth, their tongues, and their bodies in general, pronouncing them all healthy. With agreement of the men, the three boys were taken to another area out of ear shot, and simply liquidated, while the young girls were transported to more open woods on higher dry ground. Here they were all tied to trees.
Seven pits were dug into the ground some ten feet long and two feet deep. Hickory wood was thrown into these pits and burned into glowing coals and ashes. Pieces of rebar were laid across the pit as the wood continued to burn. While the fire was going the girls were hanged on a tree limb by their ankles, and their throats were cut. Their bodies would be opened and eviscerated so they could drain in this fashion while the fires burned.
When the coals were ready the heads, hands, and feet were removed, and their body cavities opened and lain on the rebar over the glowing coals. On these bodies would be poured the juices of scrounged fruit. One man even had some molasses from a used up MRE container, while another had a bit of mustard on hand and a jar of honey, another some salt and vinegar. These substances were mixed to form an excellent sauce, then dutifully spread over the seven bodies on the fire pit with a field made folded leaf brush.
After a day of laying around the fires and enjoying each other’s company, every man in the entire platoon feasted until he reached his complete contentment. No person spoke a word of complaint in regard to his rations for the day, nor did a single man appear to possess any feelings of rejection, or animosity toward being given such fare. This was an unspoken measure fully allowable by military rules, to be determined according to individual situations by the commander himself, for the purpose of alleviating stress in his fighting men while moving through enemy territory. Rules were severe and secrecy was adamant, being commanded from every person involved. Penalties were harsh and unforgiving for violating this code. In the light of this final atrocity, the terrible situation on Crusoe Island had finally been brought to an unstable closure. In the whole of Galloway’s Quarter, the matter was another story.
Harlan Yarborough was a shady character of question, being seen in company with Ananias Parker, and two of his sons. Several from the HQ office in the Whitevile courthouse could attest to this. It was a well known fact among the inner circle that Harlan was capable of fulfilling virtually any request, if enough money was involved. He could be trusted to defend ones claim with his life, as long as he who expected these gracious services did according to the prearranged agreement.
Yarborough was a 275 pound man of solid statue and well built, perfectly toned muscle. A thick yellow mustache completely covered his upper lip. He wore his long blond hair parted back in the center of his head, and braided up into a tight queue that hung down between his shoulders in the back. Often he wore brand new Levis blue jeans, perfectly starched along every crease. His favorite shirts were various styles of Polo, or maybe a high fashioned Texas brand of western styled shirt. On his head he always wore a perfectly white, Stetson Fedora, with at least a $200.00 price tag.
In his pocket he carried a shop made hawk bill pocket knife. He always kept this blade razor sharp. He could retrieve this folded blade from his pocket with his right hand, opening it like it was spring loaded. Every person who knew him claimed he would slice the insides out of a person’s torso in about as much time as it took to glance over at them. He has also been sent to the brig more than once for stabbing or cutting people who ran afoul with him. A number of local people in Galloway’s Quarter had the scars around their throats, or across their stomach to prove it.
Harlan was a prodigious drinker and cocaine user. He was said to consume an entire pint of 90 proof whiskey in a single gulp. When the money flow was good, the liquor flowed inward just as deeply. He tended to trade in both bootleg liquor, powder, and weed, when other business was slow. Any request made involving violence or moving contraband, he was usually up for. He was straight up in business and despised any person who wasn’t, forever vowing to see that they got their dues.
Yarborough lived to brawl, often getting into scrapes for no apparent reason other than a person’s sour look, or no reason at all. He could be loyal, however, very loyal, and he highly admired bravery, coming to a person’s rescue who stood strong in a fight with multiple people, if he felt that the person was to be respected.
There was more about Yarborough that only a few others knew. He was actually a trained fight master. He lived for the death match, which has been outlawed in every country on earth, save only a few. Japan, under certain conditions, and Brazil, are two of only a few. Supper wealthy foreigners from Germany and France in particular, loved to watch the bloody display, and were willing to pay no less than $10000.00 per ticket, and to place bets. Every year around Christmas time, for about four months, Harlan would vanish from Galloway’s Quarter, always returning unannounced, and loaded down with cash.
A man who traded cocaine with him claimed that he traveled to Brazil every year, engaged in a challenge, returning home with more than 6 figures for accepting the contest. The single adult daughters of these ultra wealthy patrons were also known to literally throw themselves at a consistent winner, often supporting him for an entire year, with their father’s permission. It was said that only the greatest fighters from the Clan Of The Wasp were allowed to compete. Having a child from such a consistently valiant contestant was considered a badge of honor. This specific instance was the only known variant from the father’s usual rigid demeanor in questions of choice and morality, since all marriages and relationships were prearranged by parents.
The way Yarbourough brought the money back tax free and unquestioned from offshore was simple. He loaded the wealth up onto an unlimited debit card. The type he used was untraceable, and acquired when offshore for greater secrecy insurance. When he made it back home he simply called up Mijj Bo Greene, Ananias Parker, or Mason McPherson, who always made certain that Harlan could walk over to the local Wachcovia Bank teller machine and withdraw his cash, no questions asked. When he couldn’t, should all else fail, he could simply motor on out to Masons or Ananias Parker’s estate, and one of these individuals would pay it all out to him directly. Either person possessed the means to simply take back their money from the card; there again, no questions asked.
When the Crusoe Island Dynasty needed a certain type of handy man, Harlan was in, without questions. He was one of the first men the HQ detectives approached to question. Several threats were made from past allegations being pursued and punitive actions taken. When enough cash was placed before him, Harlan commenced speaking, but with great hesitation and only so much, no matter how much money they handed him.
“Tell us what ya know!,” raged the biker detective as he tossed three more thousand in cash down in front of him.
“Look, I’ve already said what I need to say. Hooker Ainsley asked me to be his torch man. He offered to hand me twenty grand in cold cash for doing it. He paid me half upfront. When the warehouse went up in flames last November night, I collected on my other half.”
The heavily tattooed detective glared down.
“There’s only one problem with that story, Harlan, and you know it. Ainsley’s warehouse wasn’t the one that burned on November 12th, 1980. That is the one, right?”
“It was last November night! I can’t recall which one after a year now, but I do clearly recall that it was last November night.”
The detective drew a deep breath on his rum soaked cigar. A cloud of black smoke went up above their heads.
“Come on, Harlan here, don’t munk around with me about this. There was only one damn warehouse that went up last November, at least in Galloway’s Quarter. That warehouse was Bo Greene’s on November 12th. Did you burn one outside of the old Quarter here? We need to know more in regard to this? So fess up and tell us all about it!,” the detective fired with a sinister laugh.
Harlan maintained an expressionless face, saying nothing in reply.
The detective took another puff, then glanced over toward Harlan
“Come on man, start talking. You’ve already admitted to burning down a tobacco warehouse on November 12, 1980. You claimed it was for Hooker Ainsley. Once we connect the dots on this you’re looking at 15 to 20 long, and hard ones, for arson. You know what prison life is like in these parts, don’t you?,” the detective sneered. “You’ve heard of Caledonia Work Farms down in Georgetown, South Carolina, haven’t you? That’s the place where a hired arsonist like you, and especially with a record like yours, winds up. What have you got to lose right now? We are all waiting for you to begin talking.”
Harlan still maintained a hard expressionless face, giving no reply. He was well acquainted with Caledonia. He had never been there, but he had spoken with plenty who had. Simply put, Caledonia Work Farms was a hell on earth. Inmates were forced to live in tents, to labor in the fields and underneath a torrid blazing sun 6 days a week, twelve hours a day. They lived in pup tents, grew their own food, and hand pumped their own water, while they existed underneath a 24hr shotgun guard.
Worse than these overall conditions, they were subjected to abuse from the guards themselves, not to mention other inmates. This abuse included random lashings, beatings, being placed into solitary confinement with only bread and water for weeks on end, then being forced to room with multiple known sodomites. Fortunately for him in this department, he could fight well. Most other inmates were not so lucky. Still, he had rather remain on the outside of Caledonia Work Farms.
“Lets be level on this, Harlan. We already know the deal here. You did torch the warehouse on November 12th, 1980. Hooker Ainsley was only Bo Greene’s proxy. Greene had better things to do the night Ainsley met with you. He only handed Ainsley ex amount of cash, and Ainsley negotiated the deal, confirming this with a quick call to Greene. After he handed you your amount, he already had his own, and the deal was done.”
Harlan still said nothing, only glaring, then glancing away.
“Look at me, boy, when I speak to you,” growled the biker detective. Harlan glared directly into his eyes. “The tobacco warehouse that you burned was Mijj Bo Greene’s. Bo Greene and Governor Sealgair have an owner partnership in many of those warehouses. This stuff is serious kimchee here. When we get finished picking around in Galloway’s Quarter, we’ll have a beeline running all the way up to D.C., directly into the presidential palace itself! You’ll wind up making history around here,” the biker detective and the other four in his company suddenly burst out laughing.
Harlan had no expression on his face, remaining silent. The detective took another deep breath.
“Lets be up front about all this? What’s it gonna take? Name your price.”
“I don’t need money!,” Harlan fired.
“What a you want then, if not money? Just let us know here, so we can be on with it.”
“Give me immunity,” Harlan snapped.
“Is that really what you want? You want immunity here? Is that it?”
Harlan made no reply.
The detective glanced around the room at the other expressionless faces, then turned to face Harlan.
“You want immunity, do you? Well then, you have it! Now start talking.”
Harlan slowly leaned inward toward the detective.
“You have all the answers, and I have already told you the rest! Now lets be strait on this matter right now. I have places I need to be, and people I need to see, if you will.”
Harlan abruptly arose from his seat, huffing out of the interrogation room. The five detectives merely sat glancing around at one another without speaking a single additional word.
With that word from Harlan three detectives motored on over to the burn site outside of Chadborn, NC. There were also burn sites near Loris, SC, and just outside of Fairmont, NC. When the three reached the site in Chadborn, all that remained were ashes, cinders, concrete blocks, and a tangle of smoldering tin and metal. Investigators were already onto the scene, sifting through the ash in search of any evidence that might connect with the suspects, or make another lead.
Several of the elder warehouse workers surveyed the scene, walking about casually. One was a frequent laborer from the local black community, named James Jessup. Most locals knew him as Dr. Jake, the creator of a local juke-joint dance known as Dr. Jake’s Shake. This dance stood somewhere between a mo-town midnight special, and The Shag. Local black and white folk relished the moves and the accompanying music. Dr. Jake was rather bent by the years a bit, being somewhat reserved, but would freely carry on a conversation when he felt moved to. Generally speaking, he was well liked. Much more than that, as it concerned the detectives, Dr. Jake tended to know lots about events occurring in the area.
One of the three detectives was a thin man dressed in new jeans and a fresh Izod shirt. His name was Bartleby Shaw. He was a quick witted man and bore the skill of being able to interact with all local people on their level in way that courted their trust. He was also well known by the locals throughout the general area, so cementing a relationship might be more readily accomplished when he approached people, more so than the other two.
“Dr. Jake, tell me something now,” smiled Bartleby.
“I’ll show tell ya anything ya want to know,” laughed the elder.
“How’s that shake comin’ along these days?,” both men laughed loudly for a bit.
“It has come along really good for many long years now. I think the years are catching up with me. It’ll still come around, but its much slow, and not quite as hard these days.”
Both men gazed at the pile of smoldering ruins laying before them.
“What a you think about this mess here?”
Dr. Jake shook his head.
“Hmm, you said the right word, mess it is.”
“But this isn’t the only such mess,” clipped Bartleby. “We have the same mess in Loris, Fairmont, and maybe five other areas.”
“What I think about it is that all this mess is just icing on the cake!,” Dr. Jake laughed. “That’s what I think about all this.”
Bartleby suddenly firmed up in a cautiously serious way.
“What a ya mean there, Dr. Jake? What are you referring to here?”
“You might need to check out Bo Greene’s and Ananias hog parlors. Somethings a stir there, from what I am hearing.”
“You have any idea what it could be?,” Bartleby asked with reserved caution.
“People round here have been scared to death, to speak the truth, for a long time now,” whispered Dr. Jake in a low tone of voice. “ Basically the rule was hear no evil, see no evil.”
“I see, Jake,” replied Bartleby.
“Well, many who saw things, things out in the woods, things here with these warehouses, things that have been going on for the past nine years, and even earlier; tended to up and disappear if they spoke out. Local people have long known it and stayed mum. These out-landers are different.”
“I’m listening,” replied Bartleby, “but I still don’t quite pick up on what you are saying.”
“Well what I am saying is this, to put in simple words; rats get killed by traps, and wooden base ball bats.”
“That certainly explains lots about informants suddenly not being available for questioning, and locals in the area not knowing anything about their whereabouts,” replied Bartleby.
“I think you ‘uns just might need to motor on out to the hog farms over on Old Red Hill Road, and those just outside of Loris,” Dr. Jake spoke as he turned to face the detective. “There were three right here who tried to sound the alarm, and are now nowhere to be found. Their families are wondering, their wives, sisters, mothers and daughters are crying.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Dr. Jake there, “I guess that we have our day cut out for us,” Bartleby spoke as he headed over toward the other two men standing off closer to the burn site. He picked up pace as he neared the other two.
“Lets go, and now!,” he fired. “We’ll speak as we head out onto the road.”
The three race over toward a brand new 1981 Lincoln, then sped off the property and onto the highway.
“We might be only a short few miles from resolving this entire horrendous situation,” spoke Bartleby to his comrades. Within fifteen minutes the car was speeding down a narrow paved road. A green sign ahead confirmed the location as Red Hill Road. Three curves were rounded, then a dirt road branched off to the left. Quickly Bartleby turned the wheel and the car began to bump along over the roots, holes, and gravel stone. Ahead was a series of twelve hog farms. Some thirty men were walking all over the dirt on one these farms, while others were sifting through the soil in search of something.
Bartleby and the other two detectives walked over toward the man writing notes and watching carefully as teams of two and three men sifted through the muck and soil.
“Hello sir, I am Bartleby Shaw, one of the detectives from the central county office at the courthouse in Whitevile. I have word that something was up.”
“Yeah, well you heard right about this mess, something was definitely up here.”
“I haven’t heard any more though. That’s why I rode over here.”
“There was a pile of what was presumed to be extremely fragmented human bone discovered by a worker here in the pig manure. He became suspicious late one night when he spotted two unidentified men throwing what he took to be a human corpse to the pigs. He was standing more than a hundred yards out, so he wasn’t clear about it, but was enough to be concerned, ” the man spoke as he carefully recorded more bone fragments being pulled from the mud.
“What made him so convinced that these bone fragments were human?,” asked Bartleby?
“Claims he found a few human teeth. Some of our investigators here on scene have made some possible discoveries of the same. All of this matter is being sent in to Raleigh for further confirmation.”
“No firm confirmation on the fact yet?,” Bartleby snapped. He quickly scribbled something on a note pad he kept in the vest pocket on his suit, then snatched the paper up, handing it to the man.
“None,” the man replied, “nothing affirmative yet.”
“There’s is my office number. Call me when something comes up that’s a definite hit.”
Slowly the links were merging. The two governors and the Crusoe Island dynasty had some nasty dirt on their hands. The problem with connecting the suggestions was that the line of evidence didn’t run out far enough to connect and form the link. For any sort of claim to ever hold up in court it would have to. Not only that, before any sort of slam could be initiated other than what had already occurred, one would have to root out all of the connections supporting what was appearing more as some sort of backwoods big time criminal association.
Detective Bartalby leaned back into his leather bound office chair as he gave thought to the overall situation. He packed a brier wood pipe full with new Raleigh tobacco, lit it up, and eased backward in deep contemplation. Five hours had passed since he met with the investigator down at the burn site. The phone suddenly blared from the desk to the left of the room. It was Randal Bowmen from the fire investigation team.
“Bartleby, we have a new lead in this case.”
“Well I’m all ears, lets hear it.”
“We’ve discovered that three torch men were involved. One of them was Harlan, the ruffian, you know the one I am speaking of. The other two were Ricky Leech, Pat Bass, two who are almost in the same league as Harlan.”
“I’m not familiar with the other two,” replied Bartleby.
“We spoke with Harlan,” Bowman continued. “Harlan seemed to be the most intelligent of the three.”
“Harlan confirmed that he had been a hired hand in this, but Leech broke down and revealed the name of their employer. You’re not going to believe it. It was senator Don Layton, a right hand associate to the cat daddy, Mijj Bo Greene, himself; the man who is said to swing the really big meat around in these parts.”
“You’re kidding me!,” fired Bartleby in surprise.
“No, no, this stuff is real. Others are in the process of questioning Don right now.”
“What about our big league suspects, the Parker brothers, Mijj Bo Greene, and Mason McPherson? Made any solid connections yet?”
“We’re following through. We haven’t made any solid connections, but I am telling you, even if we do I am not sure we can make a snag in all of this.”
“This mess on Crusoe has finally ended. The people have been allowed to enter back onto the island. At long last we finally have our suspects on the four murders opening up this massive can of worms that followed. We are making some progress in finding those who were responsible for murdering those forty officers who tried to make the property evictions. Maybe we are finally heading somewhere,” Bartleby replied. He puffed on his pipe in between word exchanges.
“This entire situation will drag on for some time still yet, possibly years. Then there is that lawyer and politician in with all of the big boys, C.R. Loes. This man has powerful connections way up into Washington D.C. Once we all get to poking around in that ka ka, we still may yet find out that it’s hasn’t any bottom to it. Like I said, even though we have goods that are getting better in quality, it will be a long fight,” Bowman assured.
Fifteen years passed. A few key elders were suspected according to scant circumstantial evidence, and pulled time on Caledonia Work Farms; but got off on reduced sentences, thanks to the help of Mijj Bo Greene via Mason McPherson. Not one served over five years time, even though they were implicated in the murders of Federal officials. After those citizens who were evacuated from Galloway’s Quarter returned, an unsteady rhythm of life continued on for some time, often putting government officials and citizens on edge. That tenseness has continued on down through time .
Senator Don Layton eventually would up being sentenced 20 years in Federal prison for arson. His right hand man, Harlan Yarborough, was in the can with him. Harlan’s mafioso connections allowed the senator to live a king’s lifestyle while there behind bars, according to local rumors. Some in the area of Gallaway’s Quarter suspect that both of them agreed to do some mysterious, dark job for the mob in exchange for their cushy lifestyle and respect garnished from the inmates, but no specifics have yet to come into light. Thanks to the connections of McPherson, Ananias Parker, and Bo Greene, with the help of C.R. Loes, Harlan and Layton were out free and clear after serving only two years.
As for the Parker brothers, McPherson, and Governor’s Sealgair, and Elire, from South Carolina; after three years of battling in federal court, all charges were finally dropped due to lack of evidence, thanks to the help of lawyer C.R. Loes, said to be the best in three states. Their eldest sons, however, were nailed on drug smuggling charges, found to be with connections reaching all the way down to great Gulf Coast cartel in Columbia, South America.
Rascal Parker owned an R.V. manufacturing company, and was found stashing the pipes in the kitchen and bathroom full with cocaine, and the space between the upper and lower floors full with the same powder. Several rooms in these R.V.’s were said to contain bales of hash and marijuana. The bales had been linked back to the huge fields of the weed discovered in Galloway’s Quarter. His eldest son took the fall for it.
In three short years the young man was back out onto the streets. His time in prison was said to be basically a stint in a high classed hotel room, where the man could come and go as he pleased. There again, a result from having connections; yet suspicions of fulfilling some yet to be discovered, tarnished orders fly out on the streets.
None of these sons who took the fall had to serve a single moment down in labor fields. The guards were said to have catered to them, rather than dared to harass. They were never in the company of other inmates; so no negative situations occurred due to interaction, as does with the average person who is forced to submit to the power structure among inmates out on the prison floor. Basically every sentence served was a slap on the wrist, and a ride on the gravy train. So it goes when people have solid connections with the right tycoons. Knowledge that a person is in possession of, is only secondary at best in the secular order of reality.
Back on Crusoe Island all of those accused were eventually released by the Fed on lack of evidence. The locals swear to this very day that all of these people who really were guilty simply allowed themselves to be swallowed up by the cypress swamp. When the dirt in all of this business finally settled down, they eventually eased back out, only to be absorbed back into the established communities, living out their mortal lives in complete contentment.
According to resident stories, the last out-lander made his exit off the island back in 1988, running with every fiber of his being up to Boston, vowing to his dying breath he would never again bother with traveling back to the South-land, anywhere. To this day the moment of that final exit is celebrated exuberantly in the streets of Duval and Formy with great elaboration and excitement. The celebration is called the Le Jour De La Seconde Libération, held on the thirteenth day of every April since ‘88. To this very moment the name, Crusoe Island, sends shivers up the spine of every out-lander back on the mainland, from Whitevile all the way up to Maine.
On clear nights during the harvest moon, if one stands on the high side back a ways from the bridge going into the island, he can still hear an arousing midnight song of the Blue Tick, and perceive distant bravado cheers of a highly individualist culture set to endure the ages forward into infinity, on its own terms, as its many long buried skeletons continue to molder down in the swamp mud.
Patrick Eades writes stories about people who are misunderstood, whose voices don’t get heard despite having something important to say. He has worked in the healthcare industry for nearly a decade, giving him a perspective into life, death and everything in between. Themes of heartache, regret, and sometimes even redemption run strong. He lives sandwiched between the National Parks of southern Sydney with his wife and dog, and has appeared in one film, where he played a drunken boxer with a strong dislike of DJs who think they can sing. |
We Tried so Hard
'My name is Allison, and my son was convicted for the rape of three women,' the woman said, perched on her chair like a potato, legs not quite reaching the ground. She had dark circles around her eyes, which she cast down when she spoke.
I waited for the mumbled response from the group, syllables drawn out like children saying good morning to a school teacher.
'Good evening Allison, we are sorry for your loss.'
My lips moved in synch with the others (to avoid another stare from the facilitator), but I made no sound. I wasn't sorry for her loss. I felt for the three women whose lives would never be the same, but for her son? No.
'Allison,' the facilitator asked, 'would you like to share your story?'
He phrased it as a question, as though we had a choice. My therapist emphatically encouraged attendance. Tell our story, ask for forgiveness, and all ours and our children's sins would be absolved. Bible basher’s always ran these things. We sat in a dimly lit community theatre hall that felt like a bloated confession booth. I couldn’t tell if the candles were for effect or the result of an unpaid electricity bill.
'I always told him I loved him, tried to teach him how to be a gentleman,' the woman said.
I'm sure she did, the type of gentleman who believes women should be seen and not heard. That’s why he carried the gaffer tape.
'We paid for him to attend the best schools, we valued his education, you know?'
The facilitator nodded away like a drinking bird, the others murmured their assent.
'We raised him in a home of faith.'
Bingo.
That should be enough for the tick of approval. Real top-notch parenting, raise them to value an institution that covered up, encouraged and institutionalised rape for centuries.
'Isaac fell into the wrong crowd.'
She lowered her voice. 'They were taking… drugs.'
I mean, please. After everything he did, that's what she worried most about? Drugs didn't make your son hold a knife to those women's throats, didn't make him slap them in the face, over and over again.
'Let us take a moment,' the facilitator interjected, 'and direct our thoughts and prayers to Allison's son.'
I took a quick glance around the circle of chairs, everyone else stared at the ground in reflection or prayer, except for a man across to my right. Built like a fridge, a splash of orange hair lit up against his pale skin. His grey eyes sought mine. He had a certain animal magnetism that some women would find irresistible. My stomach convulsed and I had to look away.
'Are there any questions, or reflections for Allison from the group?' the facilitator asked. A young man with close cropped hair and muscles hidden beneath a button-up shirt, he could have been in the army, or a new age priest.
My arm creaked up, rusted from disuse.
'Yes, Jane.'
'I was wondering, at any point in your evidently dedicated raising of your boy, did you teach him the concept of consent?'
The woman reddened, and the facilitator shot me a look, flexed his biceps across his chest. I dare say he performed extra counselling after class. He’d landed in the middle of divorcee city, with a better female to male ratio than most nightclubs.
'Well, not directly, per se,' she said, stuttering. 'But we raised him to be a gentleman.'
Yes, you said that already. And what a gentleman he was.
The facilitator thanked Allison for sharing before I could say anymore.
#
A silver-haired man with skin like pork crackling spoke next. He could have been anywhere from forty to seventy. Golfer or fisher, I figured.
'My name is Tim, and I'd like to talk about my daughter, Tiffany.'
Tiffany? He did not look like the father of a Tiffany. Maybe he had a porn star wife. First time we’d heard a story about a girl. I sensed a current of energy run through the group. A deviant daughter? That’s next level fucked up.
'Tiff was a good kid, always eager to help. When she was three, she almost burnt the house down trying to cook us bacon and eggs for breakfast at five in the morning.'
Another sob story, I could feel it.
'She helped out the other kids at school, especially the weak—she’d stand up to the bullies. When she joined the army after school, I begged her to change her mind. I told her the military is the bully, they don't need your help.'
He had that right.
'She wouldn't listen,' he paused, gathered himself. 'She did three tours of Iraq. The last one broke her.'
I felt his pain. Violence begets violence. I would know.
'When she came back, she was never the same. Jumpy. On edge. She slept with her gun under her pillow.
'One day, she was up the street getting a coffee. An old car backfired as it turned right at the traffic lights. Tiff saw a man on the other side of the road reach for a gun. She didn't see anything else. Pulled out her Browning 9mm and shot him in the chest. It was only afterwards she saw the uniform. A cop, jumpy enough himself to reach for his weapon.''
His voice faltered. 'She's serving fifteen years non-parole. Her life is over.'
Poor Tim, his grief was understandable. But he needed to hear the truth.
A few sniffles broke the silence. I coughed, my arm already vertical. Looser, muscle memory taking over.
'Yes, Jane?'
The facilitator’s voice sounded resigned. He didn't want me to speak, but I couldn’t stay silent. Not anymore.
'Thanks for sharing Tim, that's a tough break. Why do you really think she joined the military?'
'Well, I don't know. I guess she was looking for purpose, trying to figure her life out.'
'Can I ask—your job—it keep you away from home often?'
'I'm skipper of a fishing trawler, we could be out there for months.'
The facilitator watched with concern.
'I'm only stating the obvious, but we’re role models for our kids. Your daughter—Tiff—grows up watching you travel away from home for long periods, coming back with tales of excitement and adventure. Seems like she was trying to follow in your footsteps.'
Tim's face dropped, I could see the realisation flooding his brain. I could have said more, but I needed to save my ammo. Bigger fish to fry.
‘OK, thank you for sharing, Tim,’ the facilitator said in a strained voice. ‘We’ve got time for a couple more. Any volunteers?’
No one moved. Lips sealed shut, hands tucked away. The truth is a scary beast.
The facilitator searched for eyes not yet averted.
‘Josh,’ he said, the ginger fridge caught in the headlights. ‘Would you like to share with the group?’
Josh shifted his weight, and the wooden chair underneath him groaned in response. He pulled his lips together in a tight smile and nodded.
‘My name is Josh, and I would like to share a story about my son, Fabian.’
Fabian? I covered my mouth to suppress a snort of laughter.
‘Good evening Josh, we are sorry for your loss,’ the group replied.
Josh ran a hand across the stubble on his chin before continuing.
‘I won’t bore you with the details of his childhood. Fabian seemed like a normal enough kid to me. Bit quiet, not many friends. I was the same. Growing up as a bloodnut… it’s not easy.’
I saw a few sympathetic smiles, a couple of nodding heads.
‘I blame myself. I tried to involve him in outdoor activities—hiking, hunting, spear fishing, but he wasn’t interested. I couldn’t reach him. I bought him one of those video game consoles for his twelfth birthday, to try and cheer him up after no one showed up to his birthday party. He worked out how to download whatever game he wanted from the internet. Those games he played…’ Josh trailed off, shook his head. ‘I’d never seen such violence before.’
You slaughtered innocent animals for pleasure, dickhead.
‘Fabian started to change, and we couldn’t stop it. I caught him one time out back. He had a rat tied to a garden stake, and had built a little fire underneath. The rat was squealing, a horrible sound. Fabian’s eyes were just, blank, you know?’
Thought you weren’t going to bore us with the details, Josh? I had to give him credit though, the rat story was gold.
‘Me and my wife…’ he paused, rolled a silver wedding band around his finger and shot a glance up above. To the heavens.
‘We tried so hard. So, goddamn hard. One evening, I came home after work, and as soon as I opened the front door, I knew something was wrong. There was a quietness, a stillness. A space no longer filled. I made my way to the kitchen, hoping against hope.’
He shut his eyes, as if reliving the trauma in his mind. The group, a captive audience, couldn’t tear their eyes away. I’d never seen a better actor.
‘I could hear Fabian’s television on through the ceiling. Muffled gun shots, screams. When I found my wife, lying in a pool of blood, I couldn’t even recognise her. Her face… gone. She was gone.’
Josh let out a sob as he finished his story, and I wondered if a part of that was genuine. Then I saw the slit of his eye dance around the room, like a stage performer gauging the audience’s reaction.
‘That must have been hard, Josh,’ the facilitator said, ‘We’re here for you. Are there any reflections for Josh?’
I waited a minute, let the anger settle in my stomach. A few wiped away tears, others still bowed in prayer. The facilitator narrowed his eyes when he saw my hand creep up again.
‘Yes, Jane?’
‘I wanted to thank Josh for sharing such a harrowing tale. I can only imagine what you went through. Can I ask what happened to Fabian?’
‘Thank you,’ Josh replied. He sounded surprised. ‘Fabian was arrested and tried as a minor. He’s in juvie, they’ll transfer him to the adult prison once he turns 18.’
I nodded my head with all the solemness as I could muster. ‘Scott?’ I asked the facilitator, addressing him by name. ‘Would it be alright if I share my story next?’
The facilitator glanced at the clock, 8:55. He had a choice to make. Only five minutes until the scheduled finish time, my story would push well into overtime. But if he didn’t let me speak now, I’d be back next week, and I might ruin another class for him.
‘OK,’ he said, nodding. He glanced back at the clock once more before leaving the stage to me.
#
'Hello, my name is Jane, and I would like to share about my son, Dylan.'
Josh’s eyes flicked up as I said my name, and sharpened when I mentioned my son’s.
‘I’ve come here to speak the truth, the whole point of this exercise, right?’ I asked, directing my question to the facilitator, but making sure I hit eye contact with everyone. ‘It won’t be pretty, and a lot of you won’t agree with my actions. But if the truth can’t save us, I don’t know what can.’
'Dylan came late—two and a half weeks after I was due—they dragged him kicking and screaming into the world. Like he knew what lay ahead. The nurses had to pry him off the cord, he wouldn’t let them cut it.’
I dreamt about those tiny hands—such strength—for years to come.
'Dylan was such a gentle boy, he played nicely with the other children, listened to his mother and his teachers. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. I was convinced I’d been sent an angel. I should have known; angels are sent to fight off demons, but I couldn’t see mine at the time.’
I paused to assess the group, most looked bored. Only the facilitator and Josh seemed to pay attention.
‘But as Dylan became older, his kindness grew into timidness. Little things scared him, like the clang of a saucepan dropped in the cupboard, a dog barking. He wet the bed, wet his pants.’
Josh stared at me, his face empty. A tiny flicker danced across his eyes, a memory perhaps, a whisper from the unconscious.
'By the time Dylan turned five,' I continued, 'I realised the man I married, the father of my child, was not the man I thought he was. The love had trickled away. I clung to nostalgia and dreams of the happy family I never had.'
They lapped it up. A juicy soap opera with darkness on the horizon.
'My husband first hit me when Dylan was seven. Dylan saw the bruise the next day and asked what happened to me. I told him I walked into street sign.’
‘He broke my arm with a rolling pin when Dylan was ten, and I told him I fell down the stairs. Dylan wasn’t stupid. He knew. Every time I lied, he cried a little more.’
My voice broke, memories swirled through my mind. Our crystal vase flying in slow motion at my head. Dylan cowering under the dining table as my husband smashed our television against the wall. Dylan with a damp cloth, wiping the discharge from my swollen eye so I could see his handsome face.
I took a deep breath, looked back up at the room. Their eyes had softened. One of the women wiped a tear from beneath her sunglasses. Even the facilitator stopped staring at the clock. One person stood out from the group like a dog turd in a cookie jar. Josh glowed with a sheen of pink amongst the gloom.
‘Dylan started acting out at school. Swore at the teachers, fought with other kids. His grades dropped—I thought the report cards he brought home were for the wrong child. I didn’t know what to do. I came close to leaving, had my bag packed and everything. But where the fuck could I go? I had no family, no friends either by this stage—my husband made sure of that.’
‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’ a man sitting opposite asked.
‘If you grew up like I did, you don’t run to the cops. You sort your own shit out.
‘But I couldn’t sort my shit out. I made a mess of it all. Pride, ego, stupidity—call it what you want, I kept myself and my son inside a volcano on the brink of eruption. I failed him.’
I paused, tried to swallow past the lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit.
‘I find myself coming back to what Josh said before; “We tried so hard.” It’s what we tell ourselves each night before sleep—if we’re granted any—it’s what we tell our family, our friends, the police when they come calling. It’s bullshit. If we tried a bit harder none of us would be here right now.’
‘One day, I woke up to the brightest light my I’d ever seen. I thought I was in heaven. I knew I should be happy, but I couldn’t stop crying, I’d left my son behind. When I opened my mouth to speak no sound came out, and I caught sight of a blue hose sticking out of my throat. My head was so swollen I couldn’t breathe through my mouth, so they had to cut a hole in my neck to let the air in and out. A nurse appeared—told me I was in the intensive care unit at St. George Hospital. Another week passed before I became conscious enough to understand what happened. I’d been in a coma for three weeks after someone bashed the living shit out of me. I had no memory of it. Post traumatic amnesia, apparently.
‘A police officer told me my son had been arrested, scheduled to be tried for attempted murder. I couldn’t work it out, how could they arrest my son? It didn’t make sense. When the court case arrived, my husband testified against our son. I wanted to defend him, but I couldn’t. My memory hadn’t come back, and I refused to lie. Still refuse to.’
I looked up into the blackness behind the stage, thought I saw a flicker of light amongst the gloom. I glanced at the faces of the group, transfixed. I had them in the palm of my hand. I hoped it would be enough, for later.
‘What I came to realise, as will you, my husband could sell fire extinguishers to the devil. I’ve been trying to unravel his stories for the last four years, and they led me to this spot right here,’ I said, tapping the wooden floor with my foot. The sound echoed throughout the hall, and a shadow emerged from behind the stage curtains.
‘I spent two years in reconstructive plastic surgery, thousands of dollars on private investigators, tried to trawl my mind for the memories hidden below.’
I stood from my chair, legs trembling, and tapped the side of my head.
‘They came back.’
Oh, they came back. The floodgates opened, violent memories surged past my defences, near crippled me.
Resolved me.
‘This man here,’ I said, pointing my finger at Josh—red as a beetroot and with eyes like a bull, ‘Bashed me near to death with a frying pan in our kitchen, and blamed our son for his evil.’
I felt a wave roll over me as I let the words out. It left me light headed, and I had to curl my toes against the floor to stay upright.
‘Josh here—or should I say Jarrod—as I know him,’ I said, now addressing him directly, ‘Fucked up. You made two major mistakes.’
He glared back at me, his pink skin glistened with sweat, as if caught under the stage’s spotlight. The others stared at him too.
‘The first mistake; you didn’t finish the job. You thought I’d run and hide. You underestimated me, like you have for the last 18 years. You even posted your wedding pictures to your new wife on Facebook. What is she, like 25?
‘The part I didn’t understand, is why you would come to something like this?’ I continued, waved my arm at the group. The facilitator looked about to shit his pants.
‘For sympathy? To wash away the guilt? Nah, I know you better than that. Let me guess, you’re bored of your new wife already, and thought this sounded like an easy pick up joint. A sob story like yours is worth its weight in gold to grieving, lonely widows.’
The shadow crept down off the stage, slid closer.
‘Look at my face,’ I said to Jarrod, and the group swung their eyes back to me. ‘It’s packed full of silicone, titanium, and a toxic soup of chemicals. But truth is what binds it all together, stops me falling apart, helps me survive. You’ll never get that.’
My heart hammered against my chest. Jarrod stood up from his chair, a smirk plastered across his face.
‘Nice story, bitch,’ he said. ‘You forgot though. What was my second mistake?’
‘Dylan was granted early release from juvenile detention five days ago. If you gave a shit about him, you would have known that.’
His smirk fell, uncertainty whipped across his face. The shadow behind him covered the last few steps in an instant. I heard a noise like the flick of a rubber band, and watched the tip of a spear emerge through Jarrod’s chest, a blossom of red radiating out from its tip. He toppled forwards, like a felled tree. I heard screams, but all I could focus on was the shadow who had emerged in the space my husband left behind. Under the light he looked younger than I remembered, still just a boy. The spear gun fell from his hands, clattered against the ground. Those sitting on either side jumped out of their chairs, shrieks echoed through the hall. I opened my arms, tears streaming down my cheeks. Dylan stepped into the circle, edged around his fallen father and let out a gasp of air as I squeezed him. I felt his hands on my back, their strength energising me.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket, opened the sound recording app and pressed record.
‘Jarrod,’ I said.
He lay face down on the wooden floor, the spear lodged in his back like a flagpole. I rolled him onto his side with Dylan’s help. His breaths, soggy wheezes, sounded water-logged. His eyes registered me kneeling beside him.
‘I’m dying,’ he said, and it came out more like a question.
A sour smell like rotting vegetables and vinegar hit my throat as I opened my mouth to speak. ‘Yes, you are.’
His fight ebbedThe fight was leaving him. The anger, rage and ego that had destroyed our lives seeped out in his blood. Stripped him back to the man I had first met, the man I had fallen in love with two decades ago.
‘Jarrod, you have a choice. You can die right here—and send our son back to prison, for the better part of his life. Or you can tell the truth. Clear his name and give him a chance.
‘Jarrod,’ I said, a tremble in my voice, ‘Who beat me in the kitchen of our house. Who left me for dead with my face smashed in and my brain swollen against my skull?’
A sigh escaped his lips, his chest barely rose.
‘Jarrod, please.’
I watched him grimace as he took his next breath, sucked in all the air he could. I held my phone next to his lips.
‘I did.’
He fell silent, the trueness of his last breath a cold kiss upon my cheek.
I heard sirens wail, not far away. I stood, my legs wobbled, head fluttered. I stumbled over to the speargun on the floor and picked it up, the handle still slick with sweat. I wiped it on my shirt, then made sure to touch every part of the weapon with my fingers, and dry fired the weapon twice.
I turned to the group of parents huddled against the wall, fear in their eyes. ‘I’m sorry you had to witness that. Please—hear me out. I know violence has already torn apart your lives, taken your children from you. When they ask you what happened, I need you to tell them it was me. Because that’s the truth. I pulled that trigger.’
I screamed above the sirens. ‘I fucking pulled that trigger.’
I held Dylan against me as the doors burst open, whispered into his ear.
‘I tried.’
END
I waited for the mumbled response from the group, syllables drawn out like children saying good morning to a school teacher.
'Good evening Allison, we are sorry for your loss.'
My lips moved in synch with the others (to avoid another stare from the facilitator), but I made no sound. I wasn't sorry for her loss. I felt for the three women whose lives would never be the same, but for her son? No.
'Allison,' the facilitator asked, 'would you like to share your story?'
He phrased it as a question, as though we had a choice. My therapist emphatically encouraged attendance. Tell our story, ask for forgiveness, and all ours and our children's sins would be absolved. Bible basher’s always ran these things. We sat in a dimly lit community theatre hall that felt like a bloated confession booth. I couldn’t tell if the candles were for effect or the result of an unpaid electricity bill.
'I always told him I loved him, tried to teach him how to be a gentleman,' the woman said.
I'm sure she did, the type of gentleman who believes women should be seen and not heard. That’s why he carried the gaffer tape.
'We paid for him to attend the best schools, we valued his education, you know?'
The facilitator nodded away like a drinking bird, the others murmured their assent.
'We raised him in a home of faith.'
Bingo.
That should be enough for the tick of approval. Real top-notch parenting, raise them to value an institution that covered up, encouraged and institutionalised rape for centuries.
'Isaac fell into the wrong crowd.'
She lowered her voice. 'They were taking… drugs.'
I mean, please. After everything he did, that's what she worried most about? Drugs didn't make your son hold a knife to those women's throats, didn't make him slap them in the face, over and over again.
'Let us take a moment,' the facilitator interjected, 'and direct our thoughts and prayers to Allison's son.'
I took a quick glance around the circle of chairs, everyone else stared at the ground in reflection or prayer, except for a man across to my right. Built like a fridge, a splash of orange hair lit up against his pale skin. His grey eyes sought mine. He had a certain animal magnetism that some women would find irresistible. My stomach convulsed and I had to look away.
'Are there any questions, or reflections for Allison from the group?' the facilitator asked. A young man with close cropped hair and muscles hidden beneath a button-up shirt, he could have been in the army, or a new age priest.
My arm creaked up, rusted from disuse.
'Yes, Jane.'
'I was wondering, at any point in your evidently dedicated raising of your boy, did you teach him the concept of consent?'
The woman reddened, and the facilitator shot me a look, flexed his biceps across his chest. I dare say he performed extra counselling after class. He’d landed in the middle of divorcee city, with a better female to male ratio than most nightclubs.
'Well, not directly, per se,' she said, stuttering. 'But we raised him to be a gentleman.'
Yes, you said that already. And what a gentleman he was.
The facilitator thanked Allison for sharing before I could say anymore.
#
A silver-haired man with skin like pork crackling spoke next. He could have been anywhere from forty to seventy. Golfer or fisher, I figured.
'My name is Tim, and I'd like to talk about my daughter, Tiffany.'
Tiffany? He did not look like the father of a Tiffany. Maybe he had a porn star wife. First time we’d heard a story about a girl. I sensed a current of energy run through the group. A deviant daughter? That’s next level fucked up.
'Tiff was a good kid, always eager to help. When she was three, she almost burnt the house down trying to cook us bacon and eggs for breakfast at five in the morning.'
Another sob story, I could feel it.
'She helped out the other kids at school, especially the weak—she’d stand up to the bullies. When she joined the army after school, I begged her to change her mind. I told her the military is the bully, they don't need your help.'
He had that right.
'She wouldn't listen,' he paused, gathered himself. 'She did three tours of Iraq. The last one broke her.'
I felt his pain. Violence begets violence. I would know.
'When she came back, she was never the same. Jumpy. On edge. She slept with her gun under her pillow.
'One day, she was up the street getting a coffee. An old car backfired as it turned right at the traffic lights. Tiff saw a man on the other side of the road reach for a gun. She didn't see anything else. Pulled out her Browning 9mm and shot him in the chest. It was only afterwards she saw the uniform. A cop, jumpy enough himself to reach for his weapon.''
His voice faltered. 'She's serving fifteen years non-parole. Her life is over.'
Poor Tim, his grief was understandable. But he needed to hear the truth.
A few sniffles broke the silence. I coughed, my arm already vertical. Looser, muscle memory taking over.
'Yes, Jane?'
The facilitator’s voice sounded resigned. He didn't want me to speak, but I couldn’t stay silent. Not anymore.
'Thanks for sharing Tim, that's a tough break. Why do you really think she joined the military?'
'Well, I don't know. I guess she was looking for purpose, trying to figure her life out.'
'Can I ask—your job—it keep you away from home often?'
'I'm skipper of a fishing trawler, we could be out there for months.'
The facilitator watched with concern.
'I'm only stating the obvious, but we’re role models for our kids. Your daughter—Tiff—grows up watching you travel away from home for long periods, coming back with tales of excitement and adventure. Seems like she was trying to follow in your footsteps.'
Tim's face dropped, I could see the realisation flooding his brain. I could have said more, but I needed to save my ammo. Bigger fish to fry.
‘OK, thank you for sharing, Tim,’ the facilitator said in a strained voice. ‘We’ve got time for a couple more. Any volunteers?’
No one moved. Lips sealed shut, hands tucked away. The truth is a scary beast.
The facilitator searched for eyes not yet averted.
‘Josh,’ he said, the ginger fridge caught in the headlights. ‘Would you like to share with the group?’
Josh shifted his weight, and the wooden chair underneath him groaned in response. He pulled his lips together in a tight smile and nodded.
‘My name is Josh, and I would like to share a story about my son, Fabian.’
Fabian? I covered my mouth to suppress a snort of laughter.
‘Good evening Josh, we are sorry for your loss,’ the group replied.
Josh ran a hand across the stubble on his chin before continuing.
‘I won’t bore you with the details of his childhood. Fabian seemed like a normal enough kid to me. Bit quiet, not many friends. I was the same. Growing up as a bloodnut… it’s not easy.’
I saw a few sympathetic smiles, a couple of nodding heads.
‘I blame myself. I tried to involve him in outdoor activities—hiking, hunting, spear fishing, but he wasn’t interested. I couldn’t reach him. I bought him one of those video game consoles for his twelfth birthday, to try and cheer him up after no one showed up to his birthday party. He worked out how to download whatever game he wanted from the internet. Those games he played…’ Josh trailed off, shook his head. ‘I’d never seen such violence before.’
You slaughtered innocent animals for pleasure, dickhead.
‘Fabian started to change, and we couldn’t stop it. I caught him one time out back. He had a rat tied to a garden stake, and had built a little fire underneath. The rat was squealing, a horrible sound. Fabian’s eyes were just, blank, you know?’
Thought you weren’t going to bore us with the details, Josh? I had to give him credit though, the rat story was gold.
‘Me and my wife…’ he paused, rolled a silver wedding band around his finger and shot a glance up above. To the heavens.
‘We tried so hard. So, goddamn hard. One evening, I came home after work, and as soon as I opened the front door, I knew something was wrong. There was a quietness, a stillness. A space no longer filled. I made my way to the kitchen, hoping against hope.’
He shut his eyes, as if reliving the trauma in his mind. The group, a captive audience, couldn’t tear their eyes away. I’d never seen a better actor.
‘I could hear Fabian’s television on through the ceiling. Muffled gun shots, screams. When I found my wife, lying in a pool of blood, I couldn’t even recognise her. Her face… gone. She was gone.’
Josh let out a sob as he finished his story, and I wondered if a part of that was genuine. Then I saw the slit of his eye dance around the room, like a stage performer gauging the audience’s reaction.
‘That must have been hard, Josh,’ the facilitator said, ‘We’re here for you. Are there any reflections for Josh?’
I waited a minute, let the anger settle in my stomach. A few wiped away tears, others still bowed in prayer. The facilitator narrowed his eyes when he saw my hand creep up again.
‘Yes, Jane?’
‘I wanted to thank Josh for sharing such a harrowing tale. I can only imagine what you went through. Can I ask what happened to Fabian?’
‘Thank you,’ Josh replied. He sounded surprised. ‘Fabian was arrested and tried as a minor. He’s in juvie, they’ll transfer him to the adult prison once he turns 18.’
I nodded my head with all the solemness as I could muster. ‘Scott?’ I asked the facilitator, addressing him by name. ‘Would it be alright if I share my story next?’
The facilitator glanced at the clock, 8:55. He had a choice to make. Only five minutes until the scheduled finish time, my story would push well into overtime. But if he didn’t let me speak now, I’d be back next week, and I might ruin another class for him.
‘OK,’ he said, nodding. He glanced back at the clock once more before leaving the stage to me.
#
'Hello, my name is Jane, and I would like to share about my son, Dylan.'
Josh’s eyes flicked up as I said my name, and sharpened when I mentioned my son’s.
‘I’ve come here to speak the truth, the whole point of this exercise, right?’ I asked, directing my question to the facilitator, but making sure I hit eye contact with everyone. ‘It won’t be pretty, and a lot of you won’t agree with my actions. But if the truth can’t save us, I don’t know what can.’
'Dylan came late—two and a half weeks after I was due—they dragged him kicking and screaming into the world. Like he knew what lay ahead. The nurses had to pry him off the cord, he wouldn’t let them cut it.’
I dreamt about those tiny hands—such strength—for years to come.
'Dylan was such a gentle boy, he played nicely with the other children, listened to his mother and his teachers. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. I was convinced I’d been sent an angel. I should have known; angels are sent to fight off demons, but I couldn’t see mine at the time.’
I paused to assess the group, most looked bored. Only the facilitator and Josh seemed to pay attention.
‘But as Dylan became older, his kindness grew into timidness. Little things scared him, like the clang of a saucepan dropped in the cupboard, a dog barking. He wet the bed, wet his pants.’
Josh stared at me, his face empty. A tiny flicker danced across his eyes, a memory perhaps, a whisper from the unconscious.
'By the time Dylan turned five,' I continued, 'I realised the man I married, the father of my child, was not the man I thought he was. The love had trickled away. I clung to nostalgia and dreams of the happy family I never had.'
They lapped it up. A juicy soap opera with darkness on the horizon.
'My husband first hit me when Dylan was seven. Dylan saw the bruise the next day and asked what happened to me. I told him I walked into street sign.’
‘He broke my arm with a rolling pin when Dylan was ten, and I told him I fell down the stairs. Dylan wasn’t stupid. He knew. Every time I lied, he cried a little more.’
My voice broke, memories swirled through my mind. Our crystal vase flying in slow motion at my head. Dylan cowering under the dining table as my husband smashed our television against the wall. Dylan with a damp cloth, wiping the discharge from my swollen eye so I could see his handsome face.
I took a deep breath, looked back up at the room. Their eyes had softened. One of the women wiped a tear from beneath her sunglasses. Even the facilitator stopped staring at the clock. One person stood out from the group like a dog turd in a cookie jar. Josh glowed with a sheen of pink amongst the gloom.
‘Dylan started acting out at school. Swore at the teachers, fought with other kids. His grades dropped—I thought the report cards he brought home were for the wrong child. I didn’t know what to do. I came close to leaving, had my bag packed and everything. But where the fuck could I go? I had no family, no friends either by this stage—my husband made sure of that.’
‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’ a man sitting opposite asked.
‘If you grew up like I did, you don’t run to the cops. You sort your own shit out.
‘But I couldn’t sort my shit out. I made a mess of it all. Pride, ego, stupidity—call it what you want, I kept myself and my son inside a volcano on the brink of eruption. I failed him.’
I paused, tried to swallow past the lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit.
‘I find myself coming back to what Josh said before; “We tried so hard.” It’s what we tell ourselves each night before sleep—if we’re granted any—it’s what we tell our family, our friends, the police when they come calling. It’s bullshit. If we tried a bit harder none of us would be here right now.’
‘One day, I woke up to the brightest light my I’d ever seen. I thought I was in heaven. I knew I should be happy, but I couldn’t stop crying, I’d left my son behind. When I opened my mouth to speak no sound came out, and I caught sight of a blue hose sticking out of my throat. My head was so swollen I couldn’t breathe through my mouth, so they had to cut a hole in my neck to let the air in and out. A nurse appeared—told me I was in the intensive care unit at St. George Hospital. Another week passed before I became conscious enough to understand what happened. I’d been in a coma for three weeks after someone bashed the living shit out of me. I had no memory of it. Post traumatic amnesia, apparently.
‘A police officer told me my son had been arrested, scheduled to be tried for attempted murder. I couldn’t work it out, how could they arrest my son? It didn’t make sense. When the court case arrived, my husband testified against our son. I wanted to defend him, but I couldn’t. My memory hadn’t come back, and I refused to lie. Still refuse to.’
I looked up into the blackness behind the stage, thought I saw a flicker of light amongst the gloom. I glanced at the faces of the group, transfixed. I had them in the palm of my hand. I hoped it would be enough, for later.
‘What I came to realise, as will you, my husband could sell fire extinguishers to the devil. I’ve been trying to unravel his stories for the last four years, and they led me to this spot right here,’ I said, tapping the wooden floor with my foot. The sound echoed throughout the hall, and a shadow emerged from behind the stage curtains.
‘I spent two years in reconstructive plastic surgery, thousands of dollars on private investigators, tried to trawl my mind for the memories hidden below.’
I stood from my chair, legs trembling, and tapped the side of my head.
‘They came back.’
Oh, they came back. The floodgates opened, violent memories surged past my defences, near crippled me.
Resolved me.
‘This man here,’ I said, pointing my finger at Josh—red as a beetroot and with eyes like a bull, ‘Bashed me near to death with a frying pan in our kitchen, and blamed our son for his evil.’
I felt a wave roll over me as I let the words out. It left me light headed, and I had to curl my toes against the floor to stay upright.
‘Josh here—or should I say Jarrod—as I know him,’ I said, now addressing him directly, ‘Fucked up. You made two major mistakes.’
He glared back at me, his pink skin glistened with sweat, as if caught under the stage’s spotlight. The others stared at him too.
‘The first mistake; you didn’t finish the job. You thought I’d run and hide. You underestimated me, like you have for the last 18 years. You even posted your wedding pictures to your new wife on Facebook. What is she, like 25?
‘The part I didn’t understand, is why you would come to something like this?’ I continued, waved my arm at the group. The facilitator looked about to shit his pants.
‘For sympathy? To wash away the guilt? Nah, I know you better than that. Let me guess, you’re bored of your new wife already, and thought this sounded like an easy pick up joint. A sob story like yours is worth its weight in gold to grieving, lonely widows.’
The shadow crept down off the stage, slid closer.
‘Look at my face,’ I said to Jarrod, and the group swung their eyes back to me. ‘It’s packed full of silicone, titanium, and a toxic soup of chemicals. But truth is what binds it all together, stops me falling apart, helps me survive. You’ll never get that.’
My heart hammered against my chest. Jarrod stood up from his chair, a smirk plastered across his face.
‘Nice story, bitch,’ he said. ‘You forgot though. What was my second mistake?’
‘Dylan was granted early release from juvenile detention five days ago. If you gave a shit about him, you would have known that.’
His smirk fell, uncertainty whipped across his face. The shadow behind him covered the last few steps in an instant. I heard a noise like the flick of a rubber band, and watched the tip of a spear emerge through Jarrod’s chest, a blossom of red radiating out from its tip. He toppled forwards, like a felled tree. I heard screams, but all I could focus on was the shadow who had emerged in the space my husband left behind. Under the light he looked younger than I remembered, still just a boy. The spear gun fell from his hands, clattered against the ground. Those sitting on either side jumped out of their chairs, shrieks echoed through the hall. I opened my arms, tears streaming down my cheeks. Dylan stepped into the circle, edged around his fallen father and let out a gasp of air as I squeezed him. I felt his hands on my back, their strength energising me.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket, opened the sound recording app and pressed record.
‘Jarrod,’ I said.
He lay face down on the wooden floor, the spear lodged in his back like a flagpole. I rolled him onto his side with Dylan’s help. His breaths, soggy wheezes, sounded water-logged. His eyes registered me kneeling beside him.
‘I’m dying,’ he said, and it came out more like a question.
A sour smell like rotting vegetables and vinegar hit my throat as I opened my mouth to speak. ‘Yes, you are.’
His fight ebbedThe fight was leaving him. The anger, rage and ego that had destroyed our lives seeped out in his blood. Stripped him back to the man I had first met, the man I had fallen in love with two decades ago.
‘Jarrod, you have a choice. You can die right here—and send our son back to prison, for the better part of his life. Or you can tell the truth. Clear his name and give him a chance.
‘Jarrod,’ I said, a tremble in my voice, ‘Who beat me in the kitchen of our house. Who left me for dead with my face smashed in and my brain swollen against my skull?’
A sigh escaped his lips, his chest barely rose.
‘Jarrod, please.’
I watched him grimace as he took his next breath, sucked in all the air he could. I held my phone next to his lips.
‘I did.’
He fell silent, the trueness of his last breath a cold kiss upon my cheek.
I heard sirens wail, not far away. I stood, my legs wobbled, head fluttered. I stumbled over to the speargun on the floor and picked it up, the handle still slick with sweat. I wiped it on my shirt, then made sure to touch every part of the weapon with my fingers, and dry fired the weapon twice.
I turned to the group of parents huddled against the wall, fear in their eyes. ‘I’m sorry you had to witness that. Please—hear me out. I know violence has already torn apart your lives, taken your children from you. When they ask you what happened, I need you to tell them it was me. Because that’s the truth. I pulled that trigger.’
I screamed above the sirens. ‘I fucking pulled that trigger.’
I held Dylan against me as the doors burst open, whispered into his ear.
‘I tried.’
END
THE KILLDEER
December
The rambling house sat on low-lying land, nearly surrounded by a grove of mature alders. The large, arched windows of one brightly lit room looked out onto a field, now covered by freshly fallen snow. No sound rankled the air of the darkening twilight, until the sharp cry of a single killdeer briefly pierced the quietude. Hearing it, the solitary figure of an elderly man standing in the warm window light spoke:
“Guess you missed the migration bus, buddy. Going to be a long winter for you.”
Arthur Buscomb turned away from the window and returned to his large desk. His laptop was open, its screen showing the poem on which he had been working. His study was nearly as silent as the outdoors, its only sound the persistent beat of an antique clock, and that was mostly absorbed by the few thousand books he had gathered over a lifetime of passionate reading. He pushed several piles of paper—correspondence with editors and authors, a contract for his current book, other ephemera he had hardly bothered to read—away from the machine, as if to create a more clearly defined field of vision. He held his head in his hands as he read over his work again, matting the leonine mane of grey hair that had been one of the hallmarks of his appearance for many years. In less than a minute, his immersion in his work was complete; he neither saw nor heard Madeleine, his wife of over forty years, enter his study.
“Art, so here are you are! You hardly ever work this late anymore.”
“I’m up against a blasted deadline. And, foolishly, I promised new work for this edition of collected poems. Big mistake. I’m stuck trying to retrieve a dactyl that means a spontaneous enthusiastic speech or rant—I know it exists. How’d things go in the lab today?”
“Oh, you know how geology works! We published something, somebody else has contrary findings, we point out that our data explain what their data can’t. There’s another go-round in the journals. Business as usual. Is it jeremiad?”
“No, good guess, but that’s not a dactyl.”
“Why don’t you just look it up in a thesaurus or something?” Madeleine parked herself on the edge of his desk, her attention drawn to the photo on the wall behind him, taken thirty years ago when he won the Pulitzer for poetry. The ice-blue eyes. How could it be that he was even better looking now, she wondered. As she perched on the corner of his desk, Arthur looked at her long shapely legs, still taut despite her age. But that was true of her whole body, really. She won her age division in every 5K she entered. Defeated younger women too. Some much younger.
Finally, he responded. “Well, I could look it up. But that wouldn’t be writing poetry anymore, now would it? Still, you have a point. I know I don’t have the retrieval I used to. And that means my lexicon is shrinking. Shrinking. And a poet without his lexicon is lost. But you: You’re not afraid of loss, are you, Maddie?”
They had been over this terrain before. His aging and his fears. And now it seemed those fears were increasing. Fear of dying. Or of being left. She thought it might be the latter this time.
“You know, Art, I happened to read an article recently in a sociology journal, of all places. Do you know what it said? There were findings showing that the idea that men die soon after the death of their wives is a myth. In fact, happily married men actually survive the death of their spouses better than happily married women survive their husbands’ death.”
“That’s baloney.”
“No, Art, that’s what the literature shows!”
“I don’t care what ‘the literature’ shows! In fact, I think ‘the literature’ can go to hell!”
Madeleine cocked her head and pursed her lips. She said nothing, but her expression nevertheless began a process. In a few seconds, Arthur reliably decoded several sequences of facework they had learned in their decades of partnership. He spoke next.
“Yes, well, yes, of course. I’m sorry. I let myself get worked up. It’s just that, all this ‘literature,’ these findings, results, reports: eat this, do this, think this, marry this one. But let me tell you, here’s how life really works. You look for someone and you find them. You know who they are. And here’s how you know: You hold hands with them and jump off a cliff. And then you find you fly instead of fall.”
Madeleine responded with her robust, pleasant laugh. “That’s lyrical and wonderful! Forget about the dactyl you were looking for, write about that instead!”
“Well, it’s not quite that simple. Poetry is kind of a ballistic process—once you’re launched, you need to land.” He eased back in his chair, seeming to relax. She watched the tension leave his face.
“Just before you came in, Maddie, I heard a killdeer, of all things, out at the edge of the alders. I was surprised; it’s been weeks since I’ve seen one. I don’t think he’ll come to our feeder, but I hope he makes it.”
“We’ll come up with some way to feed him.” Then she fixed her husband with an intense look. “Grab your coat, Arthur. We’re going out.”
“Tonight? With all that snow! What are we looking for?”
“An open restaurant. Or a cliff. Whichever comes first.”
January
Madeleine Boatwright was insistent. “Come on Art, it’s a beautiful January morning. What else do we have to do? And besides, our running shoes cost too much to just let them sit in the box.” Arthur, her husband and now reluctant running partner, looked out the window. The Minnesota sky was as blue as a Pharaoh’s lapis lazuli, the sun dazzling on the inch of snow that had fallen overnight.
“What about the snow? We’re older now; we might slip and fall.”
“Oh, tosh. Hardly more than a dusting. Let’s go, and we’ll have pancakes when we get back!”
“Okay. Wait—whose pancakes, yours or mine?”
“Yours, of course.”
The day was still and the country road empty of traffic. Every twig that snapped in the crystalline sky seemed amplified even as their footfalls were muffled. They ran silently side by side for two miles.
Finally Madeleine spoke up. “It’s a cliché, but even an inch of snow makes the woods and landscape look magical.”
“Well, even an inch would be a surfeit in Arkansas, for sure.”
She looked at him sharply, taking in the details of his face as if they told a story. Which they practically did: the hardscrabble childhood in Little Rock, escaping the abusive father by enlisting, the ambush on the Quang Tri highway, the undiagnosed PTSD, the drinking. Who could have foreseen that all of this was just the precursor to the flowering of a once-in-a-generation poetic talent? He had just started talking about Arkansas again after all these years. Was that past creeping back into their lives like a malignancy? Arthur didn’t notice her staring. His breathing had become a little labored.
She decided to lighten up the situation. “Breathe in that winter air! It’s invigorating!”
“You know, Maddie, this whole thing kind of hurts a little.”
“Of course it hurts. This is running, you silly man!”
“It’s just that it was lot easier to run before I acquired a certain embonpoint.”
“And that means exactly what, dear?”
“You know, having a somewhat rounded, fleshy form.”
“Not like you to use a French word. I would have thought you’d go with an old Anglo-Saxon word like pudgy.”
“Actually, the etymology of pudgy is uncertain. Still, you make a good point. Pudgy does have that slightly irregular orthography I crave.” He sucked in a quick breath. “Problem is, pudgy sounds like a word you’d use for a kid. And I’m no kid.”
“Maybe so, but still I’d rather be called pudgy than fat.”
“Hey, who’re you calling fat?”
Her quick laugh erupted like a pistol shot in the frigid air. “Knew I could get you to bite. You know that song ‘Irresistible You?’”
“A little before my time, but yeah: Tommy Dorsey.”
“I should write a takeoff called ‘Irascible You.’”
It was his turn to laugh despite himself. But now he was breathing heavily. “Had a perfectly lovely time running with you, but I have to stop. What about you?”
“I’ll be okay on my own for just a few more miles.” She paused for a second and looked at him. “And so will you, Art.”
“Debatable. But okay. See you back at the house.”
He stopped. He hadn’t noticed the sky clouding up and now issuing a few swirling flurries. He watched his wife’s purposeful stride into the sudden snow squall, her image graying out in less than a minute. She did not look back. He turned to trudge home, then shivered, and thought it might be a good idea to start running again to stay warm. “At a gentle pace,” he told himself. But once underway, he seemed to find a second wind. This isn’t that bad after all, he thought. He moved with a fluidity that surprised him. He was about halfway home when he heard the unmistakable, astringent cry of a killdeer. It could only be the one he had heard a month ago, the one that somehow, inexplicably, had not left in the fall. They had been feeding it every day since, with bait left out in a box of compost by the edge of the alder grove.
“Well, buddy, it sounds like you survived another winter night in Minnesota. Who would have thought it?” He started to whistle: “The Two Grenadiers.” The sun had already come back out. He picked up his pace.
April
Arthur was searching for a word, and he was stuck. Well, he thought with resignation, that’s happening a lot these days. He gazed out the oversized leaded-glass window of his spacious study. Spring had finally come to Minnesota. The stream was flowing freely; the alders on its banks were beginning to leaf out. It was no longer necessary to feed the solitary killdeer that had mysteriously overwintered on their property. As was his practice when stuck, Arthur got up and started to pace, absently looking at the titles on the built-in bookshelves. How many books did he own? He had never cataloged them. Must be at least five thousand. His eye came upon his beat-up copy of Strunk and White, and he smiled appreciatively. You just can’t improve on some things, he thought. He had circled the room and now he began to read the text of a framed citation mounted on the wall behind his desk:
On the afternoon of June 15th, 1968, on Highway 1 in Quang Tri province, Republic of South Vietnam, a convoy of the 4th Engineer Battalion (4th Infantry Division), under the command of Lieutenant Arthur G. Buscomb, . . .
Reading the reference to himself as “Lieutenant,” Arthur turned away, no longer focusing on the words, which he knew anyway. Despite his efforts, it all came back again . . .
Arthur tore yesterday’s page off his calendar and looked at today’s date: June 15, 1968. Another stinking hot day in the Republic of Vietnam. What was on the docket? It looked like his platoon of men and trucks was scheduled to transport rations and medical supplies from Da Nang, through Hue, along the coastal road to Quang Tri, where they would be off-loaded at 1st Cav’s supply dump. Arthur knew VC cadres were still in the area; they had attacked Quang Tri in the Tet Offensive, and again just last month. No question, it was dangerous that close to the DMZ.
The cruel sun of Vietnam was riding high in the sky when they saw the marker: Quang Tri, 10 Kilometers. Arthur rode shotgun in the lead deuce-and-a-half. Both he and the driver, SFC Michael Jones, were in full battle gear; Arthur cradled his M16. The third crewmember, Spec 4 Alfonso Lincoln, armed with an M60 machine gun, provided rear security in the truck bed. Now Arthur heard him clatter forward. Lincoln pushed aside the canvas curtain separating the truck body from the cab, and stuck his head and upper body over the seat bolster between Arthur and Jones.
“Whew! What a hot one! Shame we can’t grill out. I love to grill.”
Arthur kept his eyes on the road. “I bet you’re pretty good at it, too.”
“Yes sir! When we get outta this hellhole I’m gonna have everybody from this platoon down home to Mississippi. And we’ll grill out a whole mess of stuff—barbecue, catfish, you name it! What about you, sir? What’s the first thing you’re gonna do when you get home?”
Arthur had an instant image of his alcoholic father sleeping it off on a day like today. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m going to do.” He looked over at Lincoln for the first time and saw he was wearing a boonie cap. “Hey, Lincoln, get your helmet on! We’re the lead vehicle.”
“Yes sir, I will. But sir, that Victor-Charley? He’s nowhere in these parts, sir. I can smell him when he comes around.”
Then a susurration of air as if expelled from a pipe was followed by a concussive roar from the back of the convoy. In a second, a huge plume of smoke shot into the air.
“That was a mortar round! It hit the back of the convoy!” Jones called out as he jammed on the brakes.
Arthur looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the men of his platoon tumble out of their trucks and run in scared circles, their weapons drawn and blazing away at the enfolding jungle. And now an enemy machine gun opened up from a position on Arthur’s side of the truck. A bullet shattered the windshield. Arthur instinctively ducked under the dash. The bullet had whistled past his face by only inches. The machine gun played on the rest of the convoy. Arthur lifted up his head to see, with horror, that the bullet had shattered Lincoln’s skull. His upper body drooped over the seat bolster where a river of blood was flowing and making a puddle on the seat.
“Jonesy, grab Lincoln’s gun! I’ll get the bandolier.” In a split second, the two men burst out of the cab and tumbled to the ground together. Arthur hopped up instantly and set the machine gun on the truck’s hood, pulling Jones up and putting the gunstock in his hands. “Gimme suppression at two o’clock—the whole string.”
“Sir, you can’t—”
“Just do it.”
Jones inserted the bandolier and pulled the trigger. The gun began hopping all over the hood of the truck, adding its crazy chatter to the enemy machine gun’s bark, and the foomp of additional mortar rounds.
Arthur crouched down behind the left front tire as he calculated the time it would take for the VC crew to stop firing and get their heads down. Then he took off, sprinting up the road sixty feet before swerving into the jungle. The enemy position was barely visible through the thick jungle vegetation. Arthur removed a fragmentation grenade from his combat vest. Can’t lob it, he thought, the canopy is too thick—it’ll deflect it. It’ll have to be a baseball throw. Easy does it, just like tossing batting practice back in high school. He pulled the pin, counted three seconds, threw the grenade, and then dug his face and arms into the moist regur on the jungle floor. “Christ,” he said to himself, “it’s only been five years since I was in high school?”
Just as Jones’s machine gun reached the end of the belt, the grenade went off with a head-splitting blast. Arthur was about to jump up when a second blast wave passed over him, with even greater intensity, blinding white and oven-hot. Before the air stilled, Arthur sprang to this feet and ran to the enemy emplacement, firing short bursts from his M16 as he advanced.
In seconds, he was at the edge of a clearing in the jungle. The grenade had landed near one of the mortar’s WP rounds and cooked it off. Phosphorous—that was the second explosion, thought Arthur. His ears were ringing. He was concussed and disoriented.
Arthur entered the space created by the destruction he had caused. It was wicked hot. Small tongues of flame ignited by the incendiary round licked their way up the tree trunks. The light shifted spasmodically, diffused by smoke and dappled by the remaining leaves, some of them also crackling in flames. Something dripped on his shoulder. Then again on his sleeve. Arthur looked up into the remaining low branches of the jungle canopy. Tattered fragments of the enemy soldiers’ uniforms. Body parts too, in shreds of dark green uniforms, now black with blood. Dripping, spattering the jungle floor. Directly above him, Arthur saw a handless arm hanging neatly in the crook of a branch, blood from the wrist and shoulder drizzling onto his uniform, and now, as he looked up, onto his face. He closed his eyes, overpowered by the heat and death, the flames, and the blood. He wondered, Where the hell am I? Then another drop of blood fell on his face, and he realized where he was, and where he was doomed to be.
Arthur looked down at what was left of the mortar and machine-gun crews. All dead. Wait—one of them a few feet away had begun to move, first raising his upper body and then kneeling back. Blood was coming from his ears—no doubt he was concussed too—but other than that, he seemed miraculously unhurt. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen; there wasn’t a trace of a beard on his almost-girlish face. Arthur approached the soldier, who suddenly became aware of his presence but did not grab a weapon. Still kneeling, the soldier raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Tôi đầu hàng! Tôi đầu hàng!”
Arthur saw just the hint of a smirk on the young soldier’s face. Maybe that was what did it.
“Oh, now you want to surrender? It’s way too late for that.”
Arthur changed the fire selector of his weapon from short burst to single shot. He walked the final few feet to where the VC was still kneeling, pointed his gun at the soldier’s head, and fired a single bullet into the middle of his forehead. The VC rocked back onto the jungle floor, his body contorted impossibly. But his open, unblinking eyes stared back at Arthur. In death, his face looked even younger. The smirk was gone. But in its place, Arthur could almost hear a question from the full, half-open lips: “I’m just a kid. Why did you kill me?”
Arthur looked at the body and spoke. “I told you. It was too late. Understand? It was too late.” He continued to stare at the soldier’s corpse. Then he turned and walked out of the jungle and back to the highway.
He emerged into Vietnam’s naked sunlight to find Jones loping toward him from the back from the convoy.
“What’s our situation?” Arthur asked.
“Three dead, six more wounded, a couple pretty bad. Karp left a leg in the truck.”
“Tell Battalion?”
“Yes sir. Choppers are on their way. Battalion advised us to get to Quang Tri as fast as we could.”
“No shit. Like we couldn’t have figured that out.” Arthur put his head down, as if to clear his mind. Then he lifted his gaze and spoke again. “As soon as the choppers are off, we’ll get back on the road.” He turned and walked to the back of the convoy, where two trucks were still burning. When he got there, he found Private Karpinski being tended by his truck mates. They had managed to stop the worst of the bleeding. Pieces of bone, muscle, and white fat were visible at the raw end of Karpinski’s missing right leg. He was ranting in pain and panic.
“Oh Christ! Look at me! Look at my leg! What’s that white shit? Oh Christ! This goddam place!”
Arthur knelt down and brought his face close to the wounded soldier. He moved his hand up to the man’s face, blocking his sight of the mangled and severed leg.
“Karp, listen,” Arthur said gently. “You’re going to be okay. You’re getting out of here, and you’ll never have to come back. They’ll fix you up. I’ve seen what they can do.”
“Oh Christ.” Karpinski was sobbing. “My mom told me not enlist, said I’d get killed. That woulda been better than this.”
“Karp, don’t talk like that. You’re going home. Home, Karp. And your mom is going to be so glad to see you, she won’t know what to do.”
Karpinski focused on Arthur’s face. “You think so, sir? You mean it?”
“Sure, Karp. It’ll be okay, you’ll see.” The roar of helicopter rotors now made it impossible to hear as the medevac unit landed on the road behind the convoy. Arthur stood up. A squad of corpsmen leaped out of the helicopters and immediately began to gather the wounded and the dead. The squad leader approached Arthur.
“Any more, Lieutenant?”
“Yeah. One dead in the lead truck.”
“We’ll get that taken care of right away.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Arthur took off his helmet and squinted again at the implacable sun. Jones had something to say to him after the corpsman moved off to the lead truck.
“Sir, I’m going to write this up and put in for you, sir. We all would have been killed except for what you did.”
Arthur looked at him blankly.
“Sir?” Jones responded.
“All would have been killed?” Arthur looked down at the blood on his uniform. Lincoln. The VC squad. The unarmed boy. Arthur rubbed his face. “Sometimes I think we’re all dead anyway. Thanks just the same, Jonesy. But there’s really no need.”
Arthur rubbed his face and turned back to the citation.
. . . under the command of Lieutenant Arthur G. Buscomb, began to receive hostile machine gun and mortar fire from a concealed enemy position. Lieutenant Buscomb immediately ordered suppressive fire in response. With no regard for his own safety, he maneuvered to the enemy’s flank and single-handedly brought the enemy emplacement under attack with grenade and automatic rifle fire, silencing it, and thus saving the lives of the soldiers entrusted to his command. In recognition of his selfless devotion to duty, the grateful people of the United States of America do hereby present Lieutenant Arthur G. Buscomb the Bronze Star for valor in combat.
He hadn’t noticed Madeleine quietly enter the study. She walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Leaning against him, she nestled her head between his shoulder blades.
“Take it down, Art. Take it down if it’s causing you trouble again.”
He turned around in her arms.
“Not that easy.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you so torn apart by what happened. Now, just in this last year, it seems like it’s all coming back again. You’re talking about Arkansas and brooding over that damned citation.”
He met her steady gaze and said quietly, “I don’t think you can possibly know what it’s like to wake up every morning with one question burning its way through your mind.”
“And that is?”
“Can I ever be redeemed?” He looked away but continued to speak. “What can I do to repay my debt? To make up for what I’ve done? One day I walked into the jungle and killed a boy in cold blood. What can I do to make up for that?”
“Art, listen,” she began with tenderness, “Who knows what you’ve taken out of this world? All we know is what you have put into it. And that’s your redemption, Art. As far as we know, whatever we do here is the most redemption any of us will ever get.”
He looked into her eyes again, and what he said chilled her. “I don’t know if I can accept that. But whether I accept it or not, death is back, Maddie. It’s in my nostrils. It’s in my brain. The whole thing, the blood and the body parts, the boy, I can see them, their eyes. I can hear them calling me back. And I can feel them; they never really let go.”
He held his eye contact with her until she looked down. Her eyes still downcast, she nodded, “I know Art. I know.”
May
As if emerging from a fog, Arthur looked up to see that he was standing at the entrance to a brightly lit dance hall. It must be Saturday night, he thought. The gentle warm breeze and the fragrance of magnolia told him he was somewhere in the South. He looked at his watch and saw that he was wearing his uniform. This didn’t surprise him. As if programmed, he went in. It was dark inside, the only light provided by a few garish bulbs. He stood at the edge of the room and glanced around self-consciously. The dance hall was crowded. He discovered without alarm that he seemed to have wandered in sometime during World War II. Most of the men were like him—soldiers, and young. A few older couples dotted the crowd. Almost all the women were taxi dancers, standing together in clumps waiting for a partner, ten cents a dance. The band was playing a hot, brassy, jazzy number.
Arthur noticed that one of the taxi dancers was an exquisitely beautiful girl. Tall, with shining brown hair, medium length, swept back from her face onto the top of her head, and ending in a flipped-up curl at her shoulders. The girl saw him too, and she left the crowd to walk toward him, smiling as if she knew him. As she approached, she began speaking in the melodious, soft consonants he remembered from the girls of his youth:
You and me--
Now, we go back.
Now don’t we?
She cocked her head just a bit, a faint smile on her voluptuous lips. She continued to walk toward him, her steps becoming lighter and more dance-like as she got closer. She seemed to float as she put her face up to his, smiling more broadly and, moving her hand toward her body, offering herself as a dance partner:
A bit blue?
Come over here!
We’re not through!
With her glistening eyes and forward expression suggesting that being alone was no way for a young man to spend a Saturday night, she spun with a surprising suddenness to cling to his left shoulder. Arthur stood rooted. A musical laugh escaped her as she coiled her body against his and spoke again:
A nice girl!
Just what you need!
I’m that pearl.
Then she gracefully swirled away from his shoulder with a dancer’s limber, light steps. In an instant she was leaning against his back, her beautiful face downcast in a frown:
Dance with me?
I wish you would.
Set you free!
Then she stood tall, drawing herself to her full height. Her right hand fluttered out from her body, and she tucked her left forearm against the small of his back, pirouetting on her left foot like a point guard driving for the basket. She interlocked her fingers on his right shoulder and, raising her supple body on tiptoes, she spoke into his ear. The breath from her generous lips, not an inch away, was arousing:
Feel how warm!
But Death it is,
In my form.
She separated her hands abruptly, drawing her fingers down the front and back of his body for just a second before spinning with balletic poise on her right foot to face him, shooting him a sidelong glance over her shoulder, her hair and dress continuing to move in slow motion entrancingly as she stepped up to him, her face almost touching his, and grabbed the lapels of his uniform, her beautiful mouth now twisted into a cruel smile:
Play for time?
Yer outta luck!
Honey:
It’s my dime.
Arthur was making pancakes the next day when Madeleine came in the kitchen door, shedding her soggy running shoes.
“Hi, hon. How was the run? Muddy out there today?” His greeting was formulaic and toneless.
“Hi, Art. A bit muddy, yes, but it was fine. Those pancakes smell great!” She sniffed. “But there’s something wrong with the refrigerator—it smells electric-y for some reason, and Art, for the love of God, please don’t say it’s because it’s old like everything else around here.”
He ignored the invitation to chuckle, keeping his gaze on the pancake griddle. “Okay, I won’t say it. I’ll call Tony tomorrow morning.”
“What’s the matter, Art? A bit blue?”
He jerked his head in her direction. She couldn’t have known, but still, it was eerie. “I had the dream again last night.”
“Same girl?”
“Same girl. She had her hair done up a little differently this time, more like the bouffant Jackie Kennedy wore in the sixties. But it was her.”
“Same topic?”
“Yeah, same as always. She did something a little different this time, though. She made fun of poetry, speaking in a kind of degenerate terza rima.”
“I noticed you had Dante by the nightstand.”
“Right, I’m sure that was it.” He turned back to the griddle, and flipped the pancakes robotically.
She came up behind him, placed her hands on his right shoulder, and whispered in his ear. “Maybe it’s time to see Dr. Keffler again, Art. He’s helped you before.”
He turned his head and saw the worry on her face. “Okay, I’ll call him. But you know I can’t stand making two phone calls in one day, so which is it, Keffler or Tony?”
Hearing him joke about it melted at least some of her concerns. She smiled. “I guess I’d rather have a husband than a refrigerator.”
“A choice not all wives would endorse. But I’m happy you feel that way. Now let’s have breakfast, shall we, before the pancakes get cold.”
October
Arthur pedaled hard through the wan sunlight, well aware that the biting breeze out of the north was just a harbinger of what Minnesota would offer her residents in the months ahead. A small flock of killdeer by the road started a ruckus when he invaded their space. He stopped, wondering if the killdeer that had overwintered on their property last year was among them.
“Listen up, you simple-minded bastard, if you’re still out there. This time, when you see all your friends fly away, you go with them, okay? This winter is going to be hard enough without having to worry about you too.”
For a minute, Arthur remained there, one leg down, his gloved hands on the bicycle’s brake hoods. His eyes drifted up, reflecting the pristine blue of the cloudless sky. Then he clipped his shoe back into the pedal and cycled off, the killdeer’s petulant, piercing cries slowly fading away as he rode on.
There was no traffic on the country road. He found himself at the cemetery entrance in just a few minutes. He turned in, and slowly cycled through its lanes until he came to the row of gravestones he was already too familiar with. There he stopped, dismounted, and walked the bike to the most recently added stone in the row. He touched it, and the glacier-blue eyes went skyward again for a moment before he steeled himself to look down at the name and dates on the stone:
Madeleine R. Boatwright
May 1, 1945—August 16, 2017
De Terra Stabiliter
Arthur removed his bicycle helmet and held it in front of him. His signature mane of lank, plentiful silver-grey hair had been replaced by a military haircut. “Well, Maddie, seems I was right. Death did come back. But you had an idea it would, didn’t you? You knew what was up, way sooner than I did.” What did she know? And when? That thought had often set his brain on fire these last few months, but then . . .
“But then, what’s the point of trying to figure that out now,” he finished out loud.
He reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a pebble that he had hacked out of their backyard that morning, using her favorite rock pick, a wicked twenty-two ounces of composite steel. She had promised him once that she would bury it in the chest of any intruder who dared to break into their isolated home. He smiled. He didn’t doubt that for a second. He looked at the pebble absently: it was a piece of the Precambrian metamorphic rock known as Canadian Shield. It was not a rare stone—far from it.
“Right under our feet, from Alberta all the way to Maine,” she had told him.
He fingered the jagged slate-grey stone. “Well, if we were actually Jewish this would mean a whole lot more. I’m not sure it’s even going to work coming from a lapsed Baptist to an Episcopalian, but anyway, here you go.” He put the rock atop the gravestone and stepped back.
There was a crackling in his helmet’s earpiece. It was his longtime friend Henry Gaffigan, an emeritus historian. “I’m down at the cemetery gate. No hurry, Art.”
Arthur looked at his watch; it was time for their weekly ride together. He patted the gravestone. Then he walked the bike back to the lane and rode to the gate, where he met his friend.
“Hi, Hank.”
“Hi, Art. Ready for some serious riding?”
“As serious as it pays two old men to be about anything, sure.”
They rode deliberately, exchanging only a few words. The singing spokes of their wheels, and the clicking and clacking of their derailleurs played a mournful obbligato to the birdcalls and lonely windsong of the Minnesota prairie. At an hour’s end, tired, but satisfied with their ride, they pulled up side by side at the lane of Arthur’s home.
Henry took off his helmet and looked at his friend searchingly. “Art, I must say, you’re doing well, considering how quickly Madeleine was taken. But I hope you continue to give yourself time. When I lost Nancy, I felt I had to throw myself into my work. And you, you’ve always been so driven. But don’t do it. Give yourself a break before you get back to the poetry.”
“But I’m not going to write poetry anymore, Hank.”
“What? Why not?”
“Don’t need to. I’ve said what I had to, or what I thought I had to. I’m done with poetry. But I’m not done writing. I’m going to do something different now. Not trying to imply anything about your profession, Hank, but I think I’d like to write history now.”
Henry smiled. “Well, if anybody could make that switch, you’d be the one. So tell me, what do you want to write about?”
“Vietnam.”
“For heaven’s sake, Art! Nothing like starting off with the hard problems! So many people have worked on trying to understand Vietnam—historians, political scientists, writers, even poets, right? And are we any closer?”
“Hank, I don’t think I can tell people how to understand Vietnam. But I think I can explain when the understanding will begin. And that is, when we learn that we don’t have to see it through our pain anymore. When we realize that Vietnam was one more time in an endless march of times in which we discovered, too late, that we couldn’t stop ourselves from doing terrible things to each other. Understanding will begin when we learn that we no longer have to sing our sad lament about all those terrible things. Because the dead, all of them, have found their peace by now.”
As the sun slipped earthward, a cold wind rose up behind them, flapping their helmet straps and blowing debris from the harvested field down the road. Henry shuffled his feet, but said nothing. Arthur continued, “She told me something, right before the end. ‘Don’t you understand, Art? This will release you,’ she said. ‘You won’t be tormented anymore.’ I didn’t get it then. Now I do. She was trying to tell me about the paradox of death. Death destroyed people in Vietnam, but it created the poet Arthur Buscomb. Her death meant the end of the poet, but it freed this new me to be whoever I am going to be for the rest of my life.”
The sun’s final rays illuminated the prairie and all that was on it: the killdeer, the debris in the fields, the bicycles, and the two old men, their clothing, their faces.
Henry looked up, one tear shining in the last golden light. “Take care, Art. See you next week.”
“Sure thing. Same time, Hank.” Gaffigan saddled up and pedaled away.
Arthur watched his friend go. Then he pedaled up the soft lane to the large house next to alder grove and stream, the house that had sheltered them for over forty years. He parked the bike and strode up the front steps. Flinging the door open, he plunged inside. Dark as a crypt in here, he thought. He felt his way down the hall and into his office, where he turned on the green-shaded banker’s lamp on his desk. His gaze followed the pattern of light and shadows cast over the familiar contents of his office: the leather-bound first editions, the bric-a-brac accumulated over a career, the well-worn copy of Strunk and White, and finally, the Bronze Star citation. He gently lifted the framed citation off the wall, and held it in both hands for a moment. Then, just as gently, he slowly opened a bottom drawer in his desk, slid the citation inside, and closed the drawer. He exhaled. It was good to be home.
The rambling house sat on low-lying land, nearly surrounded by a grove of mature alders. The large, arched windows of one brightly lit room looked out onto a field, now covered by freshly fallen snow. No sound rankled the air of the darkening twilight, until the sharp cry of a single killdeer briefly pierced the quietude. Hearing it, the solitary figure of an elderly man standing in the warm window light spoke:
“Guess you missed the migration bus, buddy. Going to be a long winter for you.”
Arthur Buscomb turned away from the window and returned to his large desk. His laptop was open, its screen showing the poem on which he had been working. His study was nearly as silent as the outdoors, its only sound the persistent beat of an antique clock, and that was mostly absorbed by the few thousand books he had gathered over a lifetime of passionate reading. He pushed several piles of paper—correspondence with editors and authors, a contract for his current book, other ephemera he had hardly bothered to read—away from the machine, as if to create a more clearly defined field of vision. He held his head in his hands as he read over his work again, matting the leonine mane of grey hair that had been one of the hallmarks of his appearance for many years. In less than a minute, his immersion in his work was complete; he neither saw nor heard Madeleine, his wife of over forty years, enter his study.
“Art, so here are you are! You hardly ever work this late anymore.”
“I’m up against a blasted deadline. And, foolishly, I promised new work for this edition of collected poems. Big mistake. I’m stuck trying to retrieve a dactyl that means a spontaneous enthusiastic speech or rant—I know it exists. How’d things go in the lab today?”
“Oh, you know how geology works! We published something, somebody else has contrary findings, we point out that our data explain what their data can’t. There’s another go-round in the journals. Business as usual. Is it jeremiad?”
“No, good guess, but that’s not a dactyl.”
“Why don’t you just look it up in a thesaurus or something?” Madeleine parked herself on the edge of his desk, her attention drawn to the photo on the wall behind him, taken thirty years ago when he won the Pulitzer for poetry. The ice-blue eyes. How could it be that he was even better looking now, she wondered. As she perched on the corner of his desk, Arthur looked at her long shapely legs, still taut despite her age. But that was true of her whole body, really. She won her age division in every 5K she entered. Defeated younger women too. Some much younger.
Finally, he responded. “Well, I could look it up. But that wouldn’t be writing poetry anymore, now would it? Still, you have a point. I know I don’t have the retrieval I used to. And that means my lexicon is shrinking. Shrinking. And a poet without his lexicon is lost. But you: You’re not afraid of loss, are you, Maddie?”
They had been over this terrain before. His aging and his fears. And now it seemed those fears were increasing. Fear of dying. Or of being left. She thought it might be the latter this time.
“You know, Art, I happened to read an article recently in a sociology journal, of all places. Do you know what it said? There were findings showing that the idea that men die soon after the death of their wives is a myth. In fact, happily married men actually survive the death of their spouses better than happily married women survive their husbands’ death.”
“That’s baloney.”
“No, Art, that’s what the literature shows!”
“I don’t care what ‘the literature’ shows! In fact, I think ‘the literature’ can go to hell!”
Madeleine cocked her head and pursed her lips. She said nothing, but her expression nevertheless began a process. In a few seconds, Arthur reliably decoded several sequences of facework they had learned in their decades of partnership. He spoke next.
“Yes, well, yes, of course. I’m sorry. I let myself get worked up. It’s just that, all this ‘literature,’ these findings, results, reports: eat this, do this, think this, marry this one. But let me tell you, here’s how life really works. You look for someone and you find them. You know who they are. And here’s how you know: You hold hands with them and jump off a cliff. And then you find you fly instead of fall.”
Madeleine responded with her robust, pleasant laugh. “That’s lyrical and wonderful! Forget about the dactyl you were looking for, write about that instead!”
“Well, it’s not quite that simple. Poetry is kind of a ballistic process—once you’re launched, you need to land.” He eased back in his chair, seeming to relax. She watched the tension leave his face.
“Just before you came in, Maddie, I heard a killdeer, of all things, out at the edge of the alders. I was surprised; it’s been weeks since I’ve seen one. I don’t think he’ll come to our feeder, but I hope he makes it.”
“We’ll come up with some way to feed him.” Then she fixed her husband with an intense look. “Grab your coat, Arthur. We’re going out.”
“Tonight? With all that snow! What are we looking for?”
“An open restaurant. Or a cliff. Whichever comes first.”
January
Madeleine Boatwright was insistent. “Come on Art, it’s a beautiful January morning. What else do we have to do? And besides, our running shoes cost too much to just let them sit in the box.” Arthur, her husband and now reluctant running partner, looked out the window. The Minnesota sky was as blue as a Pharaoh’s lapis lazuli, the sun dazzling on the inch of snow that had fallen overnight.
“What about the snow? We’re older now; we might slip and fall.”
“Oh, tosh. Hardly more than a dusting. Let’s go, and we’ll have pancakes when we get back!”
“Okay. Wait—whose pancakes, yours or mine?”
“Yours, of course.”
The day was still and the country road empty of traffic. Every twig that snapped in the crystalline sky seemed amplified even as their footfalls were muffled. They ran silently side by side for two miles.
Finally Madeleine spoke up. “It’s a cliché, but even an inch of snow makes the woods and landscape look magical.”
“Well, even an inch would be a surfeit in Arkansas, for sure.”
She looked at him sharply, taking in the details of his face as if they told a story. Which they practically did: the hardscrabble childhood in Little Rock, escaping the abusive father by enlisting, the ambush on the Quang Tri highway, the undiagnosed PTSD, the drinking. Who could have foreseen that all of this was just the precursor to the flowering of a once-in-a-generation poetic talent? He had just started talking about Arkansas again after all these years. Was that past creeping back into their lives like a malignancy? Arthur didn’t notice her staring. His breathing had become a little labored.
She decided to lighten up the situation. “Breathe in that winter air! It’s invigorating!”
“You know, Maddie, this whole thing kind of hurts a little.”
“Of course it hurts. This is running, you silly man!”
“It’s just that it was lot easier to run before I acquired a certain embonpoint.”
“And that means exactly what, dear?”
“You know, having a somewhat rounded, fleshy form.”
“Not like you to use a French word. I would have thought you’d go with an old Anglo-Saxon word like pudgy.”
“Actually, the etymology of pudgy is uncertain. Still, you make a good point. Pudgy does have that slightly irregular orthography I crave.” He sucked in a quick breath. “Problem is, pudgy sounds like a word you’d use for a kid. And I’m no kid.”
“Maybe so, but still I’d rather be called pudgy than fat.”
“Hey, who’re you calling fat?”
Her quick laugh erupted like a pistol shot in the frigid air. “Knew I could get you to bite. You know that song ‘Irresistible You?’”
“A little before my time, but yeah: Tommy Dorsey.”
“I should write a takeoff called ‘Irascible You.’”
It was his turn to laugh despite himself. But now he was breathing heavily. “Had a perfectly lovely time running with you, but I have to stop. What about you?”
“I’ll be okay on my own for just a few more miles.” She paused for a second and looked at him. “And so will you, Art.”
“Debatable. But okay. See you back at the house.”
He stopped. He hadn’t noticed the sky clouding up and now issuing a few swirling flurries. He watched his wife’s purposeful stride into the sudden snow squall, her image graying out in less than a minute. She did not look back. He turned to trudge home, then shivered, and thought it might be a good idea to start running again to stay warm. “At a gentle pace,” he told himself. But once underway, he seemed to find a second wind. This isn’t that bad after all, he thought. He moved with a fluidity that surprised him. He was about halfway home when he heard the unmistakable, astringent cry of a killdeer. It could only be the one he had heard a month ago, the one that somehow, inexplicably, had not left in the fall. They had been feeding it every day since, with bait left out in a box of compost by the edge of the alder grove.
“Well, buddy, it sounds like you survived another winter night in Minnesota. Who would have thought it?” He started to whistle: “The Two Grenadiers.” The sun had already come back out. He picked up his pace.
April
Arthur was searching for a word, and he was stuck. Well, he thought with resignation, that’s happening a lot these days. He gazed out the oversized leaded-glass window of his spacious study. Spring had finally come to Minnesota. The stream was flowing freely; the alders on its banks were beginning to leaf out. It was no longer necessary to feed the solitary killdeer that had mysteriously overwintered on their property. As was his practice when stuck, Arthur got up and started to pace, absently looking at the titles on the built-in bookshelves. How many books did he own? He had never cataloged them. Must be at least five thousand. His eye came upon his beat-up copy of Strunk and White, and he smiled appreciatively. You just can’t improve on some things, he thought. He had circled the room and now he began to read the text of a framed citation mounted on the wall behind his desk:
On the afternoon of June 15th, 1968, on Highway 1 in Quang Tri province, Republic of South Vietnam, a convoy of the 4th Engineer Battalion (4th Infantry Division), under the command of Lieutenant Arthur G. Buscomb, . . .
Reading the reference to himself as “Lieutenant,” Arthur turned away, no longer focusing on the words, which he knew anyway. Despite his efforts, it all came back again . . .
Arthur tore yesterday’s page off his calendar and looked at today’s date: June 15, 1968. Another stinking hot day in the Republic of Vietnam. What was on the docket? It looked like his platoon of men and trucks was scheduled to transport rations and medical supplies from Da Nang, through Hue, along the coastal road to Quang Tri, where they would be off-loaded at 1st Cav’s supply dump. Arthur knew VC cadres were still in the area; they had attacked Quang Tri in the Tet Offensive, and again just last month. No question, it was dangerous that close to the DMZ.
The cruel sun of Vietnam was riding high in the sky when they saw the marker: Quang Tri, 10 Kilometers. Arthur rode shotgun in the lead deuce-and-a-half. Both he and the driver, SFC Michael Jones, were in full battle gear; Arthur cradled his M16. The third crewmember, Spec 4 Alfonso Lincoln, armed with an M60 machine gun, provided rear security in the truck bed. Now Arthur heard him clatter forward. Lincoln pushed aside the canvas curtain separating the truck body from the cab, and stuck his head and upper body over the seat bolster between Arthur and Jones.
“Whew! What a hot one! Shame we can’t grill out. I love to grill.”
Arthur kept his eyes on the road. “I bet you’re pretty good at it, too.”
“Yes sir! When we get outta this hellhole I’m gonna have everybody from this platoon down home to Mississippi. And we’ll grill out a whole mess of stuff—barbecue, catfish, you name it! What about you, sir? What’s the first thing you’re gonna do when you get home?”
Arthur had an instant image of his alcoholic father sleeping it off on a day like today. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m going to do.” He looked over at Lincoln for the first time and saw he was wearing a boonie cap. “Hey, Lincoln, get your helmet on! We’re the lead vehicle.”
“Yes sir, I will. But sir, that Victor-Charley? He’s nowhere in these parts, sir. I can smell him when he comes around.”
Then a susurration of air as if expelled from a pipe was followed by a concussive roar from the back of the convoy. In a second, a huge plume of smoke shot into the air.
“That was a mortar round! It hit the back of the convoy!” Jones called out as he jammed on the brakes.
Arthur looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the men of his platoon tumble out of their trucks and run in scared circles, their weapons drawn and blazing away at the enfolding jungle. And now an enemy machine gun opened up from a position on Arthur’s side of the truck. A bullet shattered the windshield. Arthur instinctively ducked under the dash. The bullet had whistled past his face by only inches. The machine gun played on the rest of the convoy. Arthur lifted up his head to see, with horror, that the bullet had shattered Lincoln’s skull. His upper body drooped over the seat bolster where a river of blood was flowing and making a puddle on the seat.
“Jonesy, grab Lincoln’s gun! I’ll get the bandolier.” In a split second, the two men burst out of the cab and tumbled to the ground together. Arthur hopped up instantly and set the machine gun on the truck’s hood, pulling Jones up and putting the gunstock in his hands. “Gimme suppression at two o’clock—the whole string.”
“Sir, you can’t—”
“Just do it.”
Jones inserted the bandolier and pulled the trigger. The gun began hopping all over the hood of the truck, adding its crazy chatter to the enemy machine gun’s bark, and the foomp of additional mortar rounds.
Arthur crouched down behind the left front tire as he calculated the time it would take for the VC crew to stop firing and get their heads down. Then he took off, sprinting up the road sixty feet before swerving into the jungle. The enemy position was barely visible through the thick jungle vegetation. Arthur removed a fragmentation grenade from his combat vest. Can’t lob it, he thought, the canopy is too thick—it’ll deflect it. It’ll have to be a baseball throw. Easy does it, just like tossing batting practice back in high school. He pulled the pin, counted three seconds, threw the grenade, and then dug his face and arms into the moist regur on the jungle floor. “Christ,” he said to himself, “it’s only been five years since I was in high school?”
Just as Jones’s machine gun reached the end of the belt, the grenade went off with a head-splitting blast. Arthur was about to jump up when a second blast wave passed over him, with even greater intensity, blinding white and oven-hot. Before the air stilled, Arthur sprang to this feet and ran to the enemy emplacement, firing short bursts from his M16 as he advanced.
In seconds, he was at the edge of a clearing in the jungle. The grenade had landed near one of the mortar’s WP rounds and cooked it off. Phosphorous—that was the second explosion, thought Arthur. His ears were ringing. He was concussed and disoriented.
Arthur entered the space created by the destruction he had caused. It was wicked hot. Small tongues of flame ignited by the incendiary round licked their way up the tree trunks. The light shifted spasmodically, diffused by smoke and dappled by the remaining leaves, some of them also crackling in flames. Something dripped on his shoulder. Then again on his sleeve. Arthur looked up into the remaining low branches of the jungle canopy. Tattered fragments of the enemy soldiers’ uniforms. Body parts too, in shreds of dark green uniforms, now black with blood. Dripping, spattering the jungle floor. Directly above him, Arthur saw a handless arm hanging neatly in the crook of a branch, blood from the wrist and shoulder drizzling onto his uniform, and now, as he looked up, onto his face. He closed his eyes, overpowered by the heat and death, the flames, and the blood. He wondered, Where the hell am I? Then another drop of blood fell on his face, and he realized where he was, and where he was doomed to be.
Arthur looked down at what was left of the mortar and machine-gun crews. All dead. Wait—one of them a few feet away had begun to move, first raising his upper body and then kneeling back. Blood was coming from his ears—no doubt he was concussed too—but other than that, he seemed miraculously unhurt. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen; there wasn’t a trace of a beard on his almost-girlish face. Arthur approached the soldier, who suddenly became aware of his presence but did not grab a weapon. Still kneeling, the soldier raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Tôi đầu hàng! Tôi đầu hàng!”
Arthur saw just the hint of a smirk on the young soldier’s face. Maybe that was what did it.
“Oh, now you want to surrender? It’s way too late for that.”
Arthur changed the fire selector of his weapon from short burst to single shot. He walked the final few feet to where the VC was still kneeling, pointed his gun at the soldier’s head, and fired a single bullet into the middle of his forehead. The VC rocked back onto the jungle floor, his body contorted impossibly. But his open, unblinking eyes stared back at Arthur. In death, his face looked even younger. The smirk was gone. But in its place, Arthur could almost hear a question from the full, half-open lips: “I’m just a kid. Why did you kill me?”
Arthur looked at the body and spoke. “I told you. It was too late. Understand? It was too late.” He continued to stare at the soldier’s corpse. Then he turned and walked out of the jungle and back to the highway.
He emerged into Vietnam’s naked sunlight to find Jones loping toward him from the back from the convoy.
“What’s our situation?” Arthur asked.
“Three dead, six more wounded, a couple pretty bad. Karp left a leg in the truck.”
“Tell Battalion?”
“Yes sir. Choppers are on their way. Battalion advised us to get to Quang Tri as fast as we could.”
“No shit. Like we couldn’t have figured that out.” Arthur put his head down, as if to clear his mind. Then he lifted his gaze and spoke again. “As soon as the choppers are off, we’ll get back on the road.” He turned and walked to the back of the convoy, where two trucks were still burning. When he got there, he found Private Karpinski being tended by his truck mates. They had managed to stop the worst of the bleeding. Pieces of bone, muscle, and white fat were visible at the raw end of Karpinski’s missing right leg. He was ranting in pain and panic.
“Oh Christ! Look at me! Look at my leg! What’s that white shit? Oh Christ! This goddam place!”
Arthur knelt down and brought his face close to the wounded soldier. He moved his hand up to the man’s face, blocking his sight of the mangled and severed leg.
“Karp, listen,” Arthur said gently. “You’re going to be okay. You’re getting out of here, and you’ll never have to come back. They’ll fix you up. I’ve seen what they can do.”
“Oh Christ.” Karpinski was sobbing. “My mom told me not enlist, said I’d get killed. That woulda been better than this.”
“Karp, don’t talk like that. You’re going home. Home, Karp. And your mom is going to be so glad to see you, she won’t know what to do.”
Karpinski focused on Arthur’s face. “You think so, sir? You mean it?”
“Sure, Karp. It’ll be okay, you’ll see.” The roar of helicopter rotors now made it impossible to hear as the medevac unit landed on the road behind the convoy. Arthur stood up. A squad of corpsmen leaped out of the helicopters and immediately began to gather the wounded and the dead. The squad leader approached Arthur.
“Any more, Lieutenant?”
“Yeah. One dead in the lead truck.”
“We’ll get that taken care of right away.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Arthur took off his helmet and squinted again at the implacable sun. Jones had something to say to him after the corpsman moved off to the lead truck.
“Sir, I’m going to write this up and put in for you, sir. We all would have been killed except for what you did.”
Arthur looked at him blankly.
“Sir?” Jones responded.
“All would have been killed?” Arthur looked down at the blood on his uniform. Lincoln. The VC squad. The unarmed boy. Arthur rubbed his face. “Sometimes I think we’re all dead anyway. Thanks just the same, Jonesy. But there’s really no need.”
Arthur rubbed his face and turned back to the citation.
. . . under the command of Lieutenant Arthur G. Buscomb, began to receive hostile machine gun and mortar fire from a concealed enemy position. Lieutenant Buscomb immediately ordered suppressive fire in response. With no regard for his own safety, he maneuvered to the enemy’s flank and single-handedly brought the enemy emplacement under attack with grenade and automatic rifle fire, silencing it, and thus saving the lives of the soldiers entrusted to his command. In recognition of his selfless devotion to duty, the grateful people of the United States of America do hereby present Lieutenant Arthur G. Buscomb the Bronze Star for valor in combat.
He hadn’t noticed Madeleine quietly enter the study. She walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Leaning against him, she nestled her head between his shoulder blades.
“Take it down, Art. Take it down if it’s causing you trouble again.”
He turned around in her arms.
“Not that easy.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you so torn apart by what happened. Now, just in this last year, it seems like it’s all coming back again. You’re talking about Arkansas and brooding over that damned citation.”
He met her steady gaze and said quietly, “I don’t think you can possibly know what it’s like to wake up every morning with one question burning its way through your mind.”
“And that is?”
“Can I ever be redeemed?” He looked away but continued to speak. “What can I do to repay my debt? To make up for what I’ve done? One day I walked into the jungle and killed a boy in cold blood. What can I do to make up for that?”
“Art, listen,” she began with tenderness, “Who knows what you’ve taken out of this world? All we know is what you have put into it. And that’s your redemption, Art. As far as we know, whatever we do here is the most redemption any of us will ever get.”
He looked into her eyes again, and what he said chilled her. “I don’t know if I can accept that. But whether I accept it or not, death is back, Maddie. It’s in my nostrils. It’s in my brain. The whole thing, the blood and the body parts, the boy, I can see them, their eyes. I can hear them calling me back. And I can feel them; they never really let go.”
He held his eye contact with her until she looked down. Her eyes still downcast, she nodded, “I know Art. I know.”
May
As if emerging from a fog, Arthur looked up to see that he was standing at the entrance to a brightly lit dance hall. It must be Saturday night, he thought. The gentle warm breeze and the fragrance of magnolia told him he was somewhere in the South. He looked at his watch and saw that he was wearing his uniform. This didn’t surprise him. As if programmed, he went in. It was dark inside, the only light provided by a few garish bulbs. He stood at the edge of the room and glanced around self-consciously. The dance hall was crowded. He discovered without alarm that he seemed to have wandered in sometime during World War II. Most of the men were like him—soldiers, and young. A few older couples dotted the crowd. Almost all the women were taxi dancers, standing together in clumps waiting for a partner, ten cents a dance. The band was playing a hot, brassy, jazzy number.
Arthur noticed that one of the taxi dancers was an exquisitely beautiful girl. Tall, with shining brown hair, medium length, swept back from her face onto the top of her head, and ending in a flipped-up curl at her shoulders. The girl saw him too, and she left the crowd to walk toward him, smiling as if she knew him. As she approached, she began speaking in the melodious, soft consonants he remembered from the girls of his youth:
You and me--
Now, we go back.
Now don’t we?
She cocked her head just a bit, a faint smile on her voluptuous lips. She continued to walk toward him, her steps becoming lighter and more dance-like as she got closer. She seemed to float as she put her face up to his, smiling more broadly and, moving her hand toward her body, offering herself as a dance partner:
A bit blue?
Come over here!
We’re not through!
With her glistening eyes and forward expression suggesting that being alone was no way for a young man to spend a Saturday night, she spun with a surprising suddenness to cling to his left shoulder. Arthur stood rooted. A musical laugh escaped her as she coiled her body against his and spoke again:
A nice girl!
Just what you need!
I’m that pearl.
Then she gracefully swirled away from his shoulder with a dancer’s limber, light steps. In an instant she was leaning against his back, her beautiful face downcast in a frown:
Dance with me?
I wish you would.
Set you free!
Then she stood tall, drawing herself to her full height. Her right hand fluttered out from her body, and she tucked her left forearm against the small of his back, pirouetting on her left foot like a point guard driving for the basket. She interlocked her fingers on his right shoulder and, raising her supple body on tiptoes, she spoke into his ear. The breath from her generous lips, not an inch away, was arousing:
Feel how warm!
But Death it is,
In my form.
She separated her hands abruptly, drawing her fingers down the front and back of his body for just a second before spinning with balletic poise on her right foot to face him, shooting him a sidelong glance over her shoulder, her hair and dress continuing to move in slow motion entrancingly as she stepped up to him, her face almost touching his, and grabbed the lapels of his uniform, her beautiful mouth now twisted into a cruel smile:
Play for time?
Yer outta luck!
Honey:
It’s my dime.
Arthur was making pancakes the next day when Madeleine came in the kitchen door, shedding her soggy running shoes.
“Hi, hon. How was the run? Muddy out there today?” His greeting was formulaic and toneless.
“Hi, Art. A bit muddy, yes, but it was fine. Those pancakes smell great!” She sniffed. “But there’s something wrong with the refrigerator—it smells electric-y for some reason, and Art, for the love of God, please don’t say it’s because it’s old like everything else around here.”
He ignored the invitation to chuckle, keeping his gaze on the pancake griddle. “Okay, I won’t say it. I’ll call Tony tomorrow morning.”
“What’s the matter, Art? A bit blue?”
He jerked his head in her direction. She couldn’t have known, but still, it was eerie. “I had the dream again last night.”
“Same girl?”
“Same girl. She had her hair done up a little differently this time, more like the bouffant Jackie Kennedy wore in the sixties. But it was her.”
“Same topic?”
“Yeah, same as always. She did something a little different this time, though. She made fun of poetry, speaking in a kind of degenerate terza rima.”
“I noticed you had Dante by the nightstand.”
“Right, I’m sure that was it.” He turned back to the griddle, and flipped the pancakes robotically.
She came up behind him, placed her hands on his right shoulder, and whispered in his ear. “Maybe it’s time to see Dr. Keffler again, Art. He’s helped you before.”
He turned his head and saw the worry on her face. “Okay, I’ll call him. But you know I can’t stand making two phone calls in one day, so which is it, Keffler or Tony?”
Hearing him joke about it melted at least some of her concerns. She smiled. “I guess I’d rather have a husband than a refrigerator.”
“A choice not all wives would endorse. But I’m happy you feel that way. Now let’s have breakfast, shall we, before the pancakes get cold.”
October
Arthur pedaled hard through the wan sunlight, well aware that the biting breeze out of the north was just a harbinger of what Minnesota would offer her residents in the months ahead. A small flock of killdeer by the road started a ruckus when he invaded their space. He stopped, wondering if the killdeer that had overwintered on their property last year was among them.
“Listen up, you simple-minded bastard, if you’re still out there. This time, when you see all your friends fly away, you go with them, okay? This winter is going to be hard enough without having to worry about you too.”
For a minute, Arthur remained there, one leg down, his gloved hands on the bicycle’s brake hoods. His eyes drifted up, reflecting the pristine blue of the cloudless sky. Then he clipped his shoe back into the pedal and cycled off, the killdeer’s petulant, piercing cries slowly fading away as he rode on.
There was no traffic on the country road. He found himself at the cemetery entrance in just a few minutes. He turned in, and slowly cycled through its lanes until he came to the row of gravestones he was already too familiar with. There he stopped, dismounted, and walked the bike to the most recently added stone in the row. He touched it, and the glacier-blue eyes went skyward again for a moment before he steeled himself to look down at the name and dates on the stone:
Madeleine R. Boatwright
May 1, 1945—August 16, 2017
De Terra Stabiliter
Arthur removed his bicycle helmet and held it in front of him. His signature mane of lank, plentiful silver-grey hair had been replaced by a military haircut. “Well, Maddie, seems I was right. Death did come back. But you had an idea it would, didn’t you? You knew what was up, way sooner than I did.” What did she know? And when? That thought had often set his brain on fire these last few months, but then . . .
“But then, what’s the point of trying to figure that out now,” he finished out loud.
He reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a pebble that he had hacked out of their backyard that morning, using her favorite rock pick, a wicked twenty-two ounces of composite steel. She had promised him once that she would bury it in the chest of any intruder who dared to break into their isolated home. He smiled. He didn’t doubt that for a second. He looked at the pebble absently: it was a piece of the Precambrian metamorphic rock known as Canadian Shield. It was not a rare stone—far from it.
“Right under our feet, from Alberta all the way to Maine,” she had told him.
He fingered the jagged slate-grey stone. “Well, if we were actually Jewish this would mean a whole lot more. I’m not sure it’s even going to work coming from a lapsed Baptist to an Episcopalian, but anyway, here you go.” He put the rock atop the gravestone and stepped back.
There was a crackling in his helmet’s earpiece. It was his longtime friend Henry Gaffigan, an emeritus historian. “I’m down at the cemetery gate. No hurry, Art.”
Arthur looked at his watch; it was time for their weekly ride together. He patted the gravestone. Then he walked the bike back to the lane and rode to the gate, where he met his friend.
“Hi, Hank.”
“Hi, Art. Ready for some serious riding?”
“As serious as it pays two old men to be about anything, sure.”
They rode deliberately, exchanging only a few words. The singing spokes of their wheels, and the clicking and clacking of their derailleurs played a mournful obbligato to the birdcalls and lonely windsong of the Minnesota prairie. At an hour’s end, tired, but satisfied with their ride, they pulled up side by side at the lane of Arthur’s home.
Henry took off his helmet and looked at his friend searchingly. “Art, I must say, you’re doing well, considering how quickly Madeleine was taken. But I hope you continue to give yourself time. When I lost Nancy, I felt I had to throw myself into my work. And you, you’ve always been so driven. But don’t do it. Give yourself a break before you get back to the poetry.”
“But I’m not going to write poetry anymore, Hank.”
“What? Why not?”
“Don’t need to. I’ve said what I had to, or what I thought I had to. I’m done with poetry. But I’m not done writing. I’m going to do something different now. Not trying to imply anything about your profession, Hank, but I think I’d like to write history now.”
Henry smiled. “Well, if anybody could make that switch, you’d be the one. So tell me, what do you want to write about?”
“Vietnam.”
“For heaven’s sake, Art! Nothing like starting off with the hard problems! So many people have worked on trying to understand Vietnam—historians, political scientists, writers, even poets, right? And are we any closer?”
“Hank, I don’t think I can tell people how to understand Vietnam. But I think I can explain when the understanding will begin. And that is, when we learn that we don’t have to see it through our pain anymore. When we realize that Vietnam was one more time in an endless march of times in which we discovered, too late, that we couldn’t stop ourselves from doing terrible things to each other. Understanding will begin when we learn that we no longer have to sing our sad lament about all those terrible things. Because the dead, all of them, have found their peace by now.”
As the sun slipped earthward, a cold wind rose up behind them, flapping their helmet straps and blowing debris from the harvested field down the road. Henry shuffled his feet, but said nothing. Arthur continued, “She told me something, right before the end. ‘Don’t you understand, Art? This will release you,’ she said. ‘You won’t be tormented anymore.’ I didn’t get it then. Now I do. She was trying to tell me about the paradox of death. Death destroyed people in Vietnam, but it created the poet Arthur Buscomb. Her death meant the end of the poet, but it freed this new me to be whoever I am going to be for the rest of my life.”
The sun’s final rays illuminated the prairie and all that was on it: the killdeer, the debris in the fields, the bicycles, and the two old men, their clothing, their faces.
Henry looked up, one tear shining in the last golden light. “Take care, Art. See you next week.”
“Sure thing. Same time, Hank.” Gaffigan saddled up and pedaled away.
Arthur watched his friend go. Then he pedaled up the soft lane to the large house next to alder grove and stream, the house that had sheltered them for over forty years. He parked the bike and strode up the front steps. Flinging the door open, he plunged inside. Dark as a crypt in here, he thought. He felt his way down the hall and into his office, where he turned on the green-shaded banker’s lamp on his desk. His gaze followed the pattern of light and shadows cast over the familiar contents of his office: the leather-bound first editions, the bric-a-brac accumulated over a career, the well-worn copy of Strunk and White, and finally, the Bronze Star citation. He gently lifted the framed citation off the wall, and held it in both hands for a moment. Then, just as gently, he slowly opened a bottom drawer in his desk, slid the citation inside, and closed the drawer. He exhaled. It was good to be home.
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