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Part XI: 1969- Back to the Garden
Lettie dropped, white knuckling the inside of the side door.
"That asshole!" she spat.
"What did you want me to do, Lettie?" Bobby asked, "Let you play charades with the guy..."
"Not you! Him! What the hell are they following us for?"
"We did burn down his house and kill a bunch of his goons," Bobby acknowledged, "And I embarrassed him at knife throwing."
"You don't happen to have that knife on you?"
"No," he sighed, rooting around under the passenger seat, "But I've got this," and he pulled his service weapon, nodding at Hesh, "Since you asked."
"You've had your gun the whole time?" Lettie demanded, "Why didn't you bring it into their house of horrors?"
"I have a gun. Bruce Kent doesn't."
"Bruce Kent is a career criminal!"
"This piece is police issued! They would've made me in five seconds!"
"Oh, right, yes, how could I have forgotten we're dealing with a mastermind criminal syndicate..."
"I'm not so good with moving targets," Bobby spoke over her, turning back to Hesh, "With Lettie, she was standing still, so it was harder to miss her," he paused, "With the knives," on the off-chance Hesh started figuring things about their relationship.
-Lettie and Bobby
"Great! Great!" Hesh said with earnest relief at the sight of his gun, before instructing Lettie, "Take the wheel!" He placed her hands on the wheel and slid in front of her to the passenger's seat. While he was doing so, Hesh got a look at the sedan coming up on their left. Besides the mean-looking driver, there seemed to be two guys in the backseat, carrying something big. Like a machine gun.
A goddamn Browning. The same type used to mow down Nazis in Normandy. All they needed was one broadside to perforate the lot of them. Swell.
Hesh acted quickly, discarding any worries about keeping his cover, and popped open the glove compartment. "Don't worry," he assured Bobby, before withdrawing his own service weapon. "I'm not good with moving targets either."
"What?" Lettie and Bobby echoed, as Hesh relinquished the wheel and moved.
"You have a gun?" Bobby asked as Lettie threw herself against the steering wheel, wrenching it just in time to keep them from sailing off the next turn in the increasingly uneven road.
"Jesus, it's so sticky..." Lettie grimaced, readjusting her grip, "What, were you eating chips?"
"Why are you carrying a piece?"
-Lettie and Bobby
In high pressure situations, even for the most trained professionals in the Bureau, maintaining one's cover was extremely difficult. Whether it was the expected outside stresses or the inevitable variables that would muddy up the situation, a good agent had to be quick on his feet to keep up the ruse. Even in circumstances such as these, surrounded by bloodthirsty criminals in a high-speed chase.
Typically in these encounter, Hesh went Occam's route. "It's the South." He answered innocently before speaking more passionately to Lettie, "And it's not sticky! That's just the damn humidity down he..."
BUDDA BUDDA BUDDA
The sedan's gunners were getting over-eager, firing rounds at them before they were level with the Vette. Their aim was sloppy but vast, rattling off the trunk and left backseat.
Hesh reset his priorities. "Shoot their tires out!" He barked at Bobby. "I'll keep the bozos with the gun busy." At this distance, moving at this speed, any shot from Hesh wouldn't serve as much more than a decoy. Meanwhile, Bobby had a decent view of the front tires; it was just a matter of poking his head without being perforated.
No, Hesh would take that risk himself. He lowered his window and leaned out up to his waist. Without hesitation, Hesh fired a few rounds towards the sedan. None of them were kill shots but they certainly got the thugs' attention. Bobby just needed to take care of the rest, preferably before the shooters realized how much of an easy target Hesh had made himself.
"The tires?" Bobby asked, "Okay, yeah, I can see the tires!"
He steeled himself, calling to mind the firing range at the station, which of course didn't come with a test track. Nor had he been initiated enough to be included on the guys' midnight street races in the Old Quarter, but then he'd never had any knife throwing training either, so maybe a life of clean living was finally starting to pay dividends.
Narrowing his eyes, he squeezed the trigger, getting off one shot, which pinged wildly off the much-abused hood of the sedan.
"Fuck," he swore, "Sorry."
"Who are you apologizing to?" demanded Lettie.
"Eyes on the road, huh?"
"I can multitask! But the next time you apologize, I better be dead. Christ!"
"Christ!" Bobby agreed, getting off another shot. There was a small pop and a smell of burnt rubber, as the front right wheel of the sedan burst, the car dropping hard onto the cracked pavement, throwing up sparks.
"Ha! Okay, one..."
Another pop. Out went the back right tire. The car slammed hard onto its side, kicking up a wall of hot sparks, filling the air with a pungent black smoke.
"Are they dead?"
"No."
"Are they dying?"
"Cool your bloodlust, alright? I can't see a damn..."
Another pop from through the veil. Another tire had burst, presumably from the strain. Bobby gulped, swallowing a lungful of black tar in the process, as he attempted to line up a shot through the haze.
"Come on..."
He squeezed the trigger. There was a blast, another pop, and a heavy clang. Through the steadily thinning haze, Bobby saw the sedan hunkered lifelessly on the road.
"Huh," he panted, "Alright."
"You got them?" Lettie asked.
"I got them," he turned.
"Jesus, Deputy, you're a stone cold killer and a half."
"I didn't kill," Bobby swept his sweat-matted hair from his eyes, unable to disguise a smile, "I disabled."
"Whatever floats your..." Lettie's smile faded, "Shit!"
"Wha..." Bobby turned to see what had caused her alarm. The pick-up truck was gaining on them...from the front. There was a man perched on the flatbed, poised to jump.
-Lettie and Bobby
Hesh didn't have long to celebrate Bobby's marksmanship when Lettie cried out. He looked to the front just in time to see a burly guy leap from the pickup lunge towards him. Hesh tried to retreat back into the Corvette but it was too late; the thug already had one arm latched onto Hesh's neck and the other clutched onto the door. He was either trying to pull him out...
...or keep him still for a buddy of his in the truck, who was trying to draw a bead on Hesh with his Smith & Wesson.
Hesh couldn't move on his own, no matter how much he tried to budge the door...wait, that was it!
"Unlock the doors!" He cried out to Lettie, gasping for air as the thug's grip grew tighter, squeezing his neck into a vice. "Now!" Hesh made eye contact with the shooter, who looked ready to take his shot at any moment now.
Lettie's eyes widened at the instruction, but she didn't hesitate, reaching over and pulling the latch on the lock.
-Lettie
Right after he heard the lock click, Hesh used the one free hand he had to push on the passenger door's inside handle. From there, he let inertia do its thing.
The door swung open and Hesh felt the ground disappear beneath him. His legs dangled as hung on for dear life. The Tupelo thug on the other side of the door wasn't fairing much better; the sudden jerking of the door caught him off caught guard and he dropped a bit before grabbing onto the outside handle. His biker boots skidded against the road as he blubbered like a baby. He was resilient, though, and managed to pull himself back into view of the open window...
...only to be met with Hesh's fist. The meathead was sent flying from the door and tumbled to the road before vanishing out of sight.
Hesh's eyes went back to the shooter. While he had drifted out of the gunman's range, Lettie was exposed for a wide-open shot. The FBI agent in Hesh was awakened as he dangled from the car door with one hand and aimed his gun with the other...
BANG!
One shot was all Hesh needed as the gunman staggered backwards and stumbled out of the pickup's flatbed. For good measure, he fired off a few more rounds at the remaining thugs in the back.
"Shieet!" cried a fat one, who ran to the back of the pickup and, in a surprising feat of athleticism, jumped towards the Corvette.
THUD!
He landed on the roof of the car but due to the vehicle's momentum, he slid towards the trunk. In a last ditch attempt at survival, he managed to grab onto the Corvette's fins for purchase.
Crawling forward, the criminal locked eyes with Bobby in the backseat. Marring his visage was a face tattoo of the Confederate flag, a glass eye, and a couple of gold teeth.
"You!" Dixie growled at Bobby. "I'M GONNA KILL YOU!!!" He raised a fist, donning a set of knuckledusters, and sent it crashing through the glass. His arm constricted Bobby's neck like a particularly fat anaconda. Dixie flexed tighter and tighter, trying to see what would give first: the kid's skinny neck or his frenzied lungs.
-Hesh and Dixie
Bobby's cried was choked out with a spray of spit as the big boy's meaty paw closed around his windpipe.
"Bob!" cried Lettie unnecessarily.
Bobby shook his head, which was a fucking stupid thing to do, given he couldn't move his neck more than an ant's ass-hair of an inch in either direction without his vision fuzzing around the edges. He had been thinking, inasmuch as he could think at the minute, about cautioning Lettie to keep her eyes on the road, but telling her that would only upset her and then they'll all drive into a tree and be much worse off.
He opened his mouth to say this but, realizing that was a no go, settled for digging his teeth into the hairy folds of the big boy's forearm.
-Bobby and Lettie
"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!!!!" Dixie cried out, Bobby's incisors digging deep into his flesh. He pulled his arm free, which ultimately proved to be an escape as the Corvette bumped over a buried log. His lone handhole on the car's fin was jarred loose and he was sent flying.
"AIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!" He screeched, meeting an ignominious end as cracked his skull on the road.
Towards the front of the Corvette, Hesh was still hanging onto the car door. An increasingly unwise idea, as it became more and more apparent that its hinges were buckling to Hesh's weight. He'd have to jump off soon, otherwise he'd meet the same fate as Dixie.
Jumping backwards to the interior of the car was a risky maneuver while jumping forward to the pickup truck was only slightly less risky, only made more so by the three goons still remaining in the flatbed.
Being the pragmatic sort, Hesh pocketed his gun and lunged towards the flatbed, hanging on the side. Just in time, too, as the Corvette's passenger door snapped off the hinges a mere second after Hesh made the jump.
A thug looked over to see if their sworn enemy had fallen to the road, only to be tugged by the lapel of his leather jacket and flung over the side.
Hesh heaved himself into the flatbed but was immediately met with a left hook. The taste of blood flooded his mouth and his vision blurred for a moment. He recovered his senses quickly enough to see another swing coming. Hesh ducked it just in time, but was immediately met by the other Tupelo thug, who slashed at him with a switchblade. He narrowly dodged that attack as well, at the expense of only stumbling off the side of the flatbed.
Finally, Hesh got a clear idea of the odds: a tiny but scrappy-looking guy with a knife and a big guy in a wife-beater with nothing but his knuckles. Both too close to comfort and could easily kill him before he withdrew his gun and got a shot off.
Two to one. You've faced worse not even two days ago. You got this in the bag.
He cracked his neck and charged.
Hesh feinted an attack to Scrappy but quickly adjusted his punch to the Wife-Beater's solar plexus, momentarily knocking the wind out of him. Scrappy was relentless, however, and swung this way and that. Hesh ducked and sidestepped, waiting for a window to manifest itself. If he knew Scrappy's type well enough, he'd lose patience and go for the killing strike...
...now! Scrappy attacked Hesh with a downward swing of the knife. The agent caught it and was now grappling for control of the weapon. Just the kind of battle Hesh wanted, considering the goon couldn't have weighed more than 13o pounds, soaking wet.
Hesh was able to wrench the knife free from Scrappy's clutches, in the process throwing him into the Wife-Beater. Scrappy was able to maintain his balance on the flatbed but the Wife-Beater wasn't so lucky. He fell over the edge of the pickup but, in a miraculous stroke of luck, landed right in the open passenger seat of the Corvette.
Surprised as ever to be seated on fine leather, the Wife-Beater couldn't help but smile at his own fortune. He looked up at Lettie, as if to say, Can you believe my luck?
-Dixie, Hesh, Wife-Beater and Scrappy
Bobby watched the big guy go skudding down the road like a bit of litter, panting unevenly.
"Ugh..." he reached into his mouth and pulled a kinky arm hair from his tongue, "Better have had his shots..."
He turned just in time to see Lettie deliver a pile-driver to some goon who'd landed unceremoniously in the front passenger seat. The thug howled, rolling out out onto the road to join his fallen comrades.
"Nice one," he panted.
"That hurt!" Lettie scowled, wringing her hand out, "I could've broken my hand."
"So ladylike," he swung into the seat, reaching to swing the door shut, "Where's Hesh?"
Lettie looked at him like he'd just been hit in the head, gesturing to the truck. Bobby turned back, "Jesus Christ! We need to help him."
"Yeah, that's nice, Bob, but I don't think he needs much help."
-Lettie and Bobby
It was just Hesh and Scrappy on the pickup's flatbed now, breathing heavily and waiting for one or the other to make the first move. Hesh had snatched Scrappy's knife but, always the sporting type, he threw it over his shoulder. Instead, he took on a boxer's stance and challenged Scrappy to throw the first punch.
Hesh blocked it with his forearm and swung a right hook right into Scrappy's jaw. The kid was more resilient than Hesh expected, however, as he stood on his feet. His face was red hot with anger and it was clear his next attack would be waged in reckless abandon.
Scrappy lunged at Hesh, throwing his whole weight against him in a maneuver impossible to dodge. They tumbled over the truck's cab and slid onto the hood, much to the surprise of the two Tupelo thugs behind the windshield.
Hesh reached for anything to grab onto, his fingers eventually wrapping around the pickup's remaining headlight. Scrappy wasn't so lucky, as his gamble proved to be for naught. He slid past Hesh and fell to the road, trampled by the pickup. Hesh winced as he heard the horrific scream combined with the gut-wrenching sound of bones snapping.
Catching his breath, Hesh raised himself a bit higher to find the two Tupelo goons in the cab looking back at him in bewilderment. Their bemused faces quickly turned into wicked conniving smiles as they slowed down the truck and lined it right behind the Corvette. Then, the truck began to pick up speed, headed right for his car's bumper.
It didn't take long for Hesh to realize their master plan.
He looked to the Corvette's trunk, trying to approximate when his best chance would be to jump. If he waited a second too late, he'd be pinned between both vehicles.
Hesh took a deep breath and decided not to bide his time any longer. He pressed his legs across the truck's grill and launched himself towards the Corvette right before the collision occurred. The car fishtailed slightly but Hesh was able to grab onto the left side of the shattered windowpane. Broken glass dug into his palms but he bore the pain, knowing that if he let go, it'd be near certain death.
Frantically, he called out to Bobby in the backseat, "SHOOT 'EM! SHOOT 'EM!!"
-Hesh and Scrappy
Bobby craned his neck, "What?"
"Shoot them!" Lettie enunciated, "Shoot them, Bob!"
"I know what he said!" he snapped, readjusting his gun, "Okay, let me..."
Bobby fired a shot, aiming for the guy in the passenger seat. The shot made home. The one thug fell back, into the driver, who cursed, letting go of the wheel, his head jutting out over the side of the truck.
Perfect target.
Bobby fired. Target was more than a little disabled. The truck skidded and swerved.
"For your information," Bobby panted, "That was shot five in a six round chamber," he swung the side door open for Hesh's benefit, "Unless you've got an ammo store in the glove box too?"
-Bobby and Lettie
Hesh's legs found the car's doorjamb, which gave him enough support to slink into the backseat. His heart racing a mile a minute, he slammed the door behind him and sat down. It felt like eons since he had been on terra firma. Relief washed over him as he grinned at Bobby, who in contrast to moments ago, seemed totally in his element.
Too exhausted to answer him, Hesh simply patted him on the back and uttered, "Good shootin', Tex."
***
"DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING MYSELF?!" Dag roared as he saw the pickup fall out of sight in the van's sideview mirror.
"What are we gonna do, boss?" His driver asked haplessly. "Should I radio in the others?"
"Yeah," he grumbled, trying to formulate a plan on the fly. "Tell them to pack up camp and make the hike to catch up." With new resolve, Dag added, "By then, we'll be through with these assholes. And we'll need help cleaning up the mess." He slammed the backwall of the cab. "LIGHT SOME MATCHES AND EMPTY THE MERCHANDISE!"
A timid voice replied from the other side, "Are you sure? This is the good stuff..."
"DO IT!"
***
The trio's relief was short-lived as the van came back to view in front of the Corvette. Its backdoors swung open, revealing a couple of thugs and a whole bunch of crates.
Hesh squinted to get a better view of what was in them. "The hell...?" One guy withdrew a jug from one of the boxes and popped it open. The other lit a rag with a match and stuffed it inside the fat bottle. Immediately after, the goon threw the jug in the Corvette's direction. In this instant, Hesh noted the three X's adorning the jug's label.
Moonshine and fire. The Redneck's Molotov. Great.
"MOVE, MOVE!" Hesh urged Lettie as the ball of fire came hurtling towards their direction.
-Hesh and Dag
"These goddamn psychopaths!" Lettie screeched, swerving to the right.
"There's another!"
"You goddamn psychopaths!" Lettie screamed louder, swerving left. Behind her, the two Molotovs burst against the path, throwing up an oily, liquor-scented smoke. Bobby retched, "There goes every small animal in a five mile radius."
"Where's the bears when you need 'em?" Lettie grumbled.
To which remark, the goons hurled another Moonotov, the fiery missile slicing through the air toward them.
"Lettie..." Bobby warned.
"I've got it!" she wrenched the wheel all the way to the right. The Corvette tipped dangerously, screeching off the road and into the thicket, tires shredding through briar and brambles.
"There," she declared, "See them try and follow us now."
-Lettie and Bobby
Hesh smirked, sharing Lettie's revelry. "Jesus. I thought that'd never enOHHHHHHHHHH SHIT!!!!!!!!" His eyes widened at the landscape ahead of them.
Or better yet, lack thereof. The Corvette had just cleared the thicket and was heading straight for a cliff.
There was no time to make a last-minute turn. The car had already left solid ground. They were airborne.
His heart felt into his stomach. His knuckles whitened, clawing into leather seats. All of the Vette's contents seemed to float for a moment and time appeared to slow down.
Then came the CRASH! All Hesh heard was the cacophony of broken glass and battered metal before everything went black.
Fabia's cabin was a poky two-room shanty house with a much-patched roof and a floor so scuffed it verged on modern art.
Still, it wasn't a tent, so she was a cut above her tenants. Well, you had to pay rent to be a tenant. Serfs?
"What the ancestors would say to see me," Fabia muttered from the counter, "Making tea out of a Lipton bag."
She set her blue enamel kettle down and brought the two piping hot mugs over to the table, where Shaggy was sitting, feeling very much like he'd been called to the principal's office.
"You take it straight?"
Shaggy let out a short, dry cough, "I can try."
She snorted, "I don't keep sugar in the house. All the stuff they have at the Piggly Wiggly's got bleach in it. And I'm clean out of honey until I can walk away from here and not worry about the fugitives from justice shitting in my outhouse."
"I'm okay," he assured her, gingerly picking up the mug and sipping it briefly. It was a bitter drink, but hot, and a comfort to his churning stomach.
"Uh. Thank you."
"Manners," Fabia commented.
He eyed her through the smoke, "You don't have to sound so surprised. Just because I have long hair..."
She chuckled, "It's not the hair. The company you keep."
Shaggy considered, "...Chester's pretty polite."
"And shares your taste for shit friends, huh? But where do I get off talking smack?"
He tried another sip, "Fedder thinks a lot of you, I guess."
"I guess," she repeated, "We've bailed each other out of a few scrapes, but I'm not about to dedicate a tune to him on the Top 40."
"He'd never hear it," his lips curled.
"Nah, probably not, the pretty little schizophrenic," she took a sip of her own tea, muttered a curse, presumably directed to herself, and squared her shoulders, "So."
Shaggy sighed, "It, um...well, I don't know if I can explain it."
"What, struck dumb by the awesome majesty of it, were you?"
"Nothing like that. Just...I dunno, there's context."
"I'm a quick picker-upper," she said dryly, "I can fill in the blanks. Just...mosey on with it. Time, you might have gathered, is of the essence."
Realizing he'd get nothing out of hedging much longer, Shaggy sighed ponderously, "It was about my brother," he paused, "Well, it was about the war, but..."
"But one counts the same as the other?"
"More or less."
She nodded slowly, "Your brother's James Teague?"
"Yeah. Miles...Alice's brother, he was charged on evidence my brother turned up. I figure that's why I saw them all, but..."
"He over there now?" Fabia asked, "In 'Nam?"
"On leave. We saw each other a few days back. That day. The festival."
Fabia didn't say anything at first, her eyes seeming to track dust motes moving through the wan golden light filtering through her grimy windowpanes.
"Your father," she said finally, "That's Robert Teague."
"That's him."
"I remember him," she nodded slowly, "We were in school together."
He must've done a poor job hiding his face because she cocked an eyebrow, "How old did you think I was?"
"No, it's not that, but..."
"I may not be white, but I was snowy enough not to get kicked over the color line. I had about a year or two of public school."
"At George Washington High?"
"It was Jeff Davis High, then," Fabia pointed out then.
"...right."
"Your father played football," she remembered, "Track too, I think, and basketball. Pretty busy fella."
"You were friends?"
Her eyes twinkled, "I wasn't the friendly type. But neither was he, if memory serves."
"Dad's never been much a people person."
"Funny thing. A fella like that's usually a pig for attention, being busy as he was. But he was always businesslike. If a girl acted like that, she'd be a stone cold bitch, but on him it was pretty dignified."
Shaggy thought of his father, straight-backed and short-haired and strong-jawed. The son of a war hero, and a grandson and a great-grandson to boot.
"We don't talk much," he said finally.
"But you talk to your brother?"
Shaggy shrugged, "Not like we used to."
"Because he went to war?"
"It wasn't just..." he sighed, "I get the idea everyone's waiting for me to grow up. And maybe I'm not all grown yet, that could be it..." he met her eyes, "But even if I am stunted, I'm not growing into what they want me to be, and that's..." he sighed, "That ain't sunk in for them yet."
"What do you think they want you to be?"
Shaggy watched her through the fringe of his curls, "A man."
"You're not?"
"...depends who you ask," he laughed shortly, "Agnes. She ripped into me a few days back, how much of a hero James was for enlisting. To serve his country. And it's the same hollow shit you hear everywhere you go. But not at home. At home, we didn't talk about it, it was just...something you did. Like our Dad did. Fuck, at this point, killing gooks is a Teague family trade."
"Well, your Pop killed Japs. And whatever the fuck you call Koreans."
"It's like he was expected to do it, so nobody should make a big deal. He's got a kid at home, and a wife, and it's still taken for granted he's got to go out and fight some war for God knows what. And then you have me," he let out a shaky breath, "It doesn't matter what I say. I can talk the shit about nonviolence, right? And non-intervention and proxy wars and whatever the fuck they say on the pamphlets, but nobody's ever gonna look at me and see shit else but a coward."
He ground his knuckles into the tabletop, chewing his lower lip, "I am a coward."
"Why?" Fabia prompted, "Because you don't want to get your head blown off if you can help it? That's not being a coward, that's having some damn sense."
"I don't think James much wants to get his head blown off either," Shaggy pointed out, "But he goes off and chances it anyway. And that's just not me. I'm..." he leaned back, "I'm not a hero."
"Heroism is a racket created by the white man to keep him away from his wife."
"There's been Indian heroes, right?" Shaggy prompted, "Like Sitting Bull, and Geronimo and Chief Joseph and them."
"And look where those poor bastards ended up, and with what to show for it?" she sighed, "You can be a hero, kid, and God knows, there's more around than you think, and most of them are miserable as all hell for it."
Shaggy shifted in his seat, "What about you?"
"I'm not planning to kill any yellow men, if that's what you're asking."
"I meant do you have a family?"
Fabia's eyes glazed beyond the scrim of smoke, "Everyone's got a family, Curly."
"Shaggy," he pointed out.
"They cleared out," she explained, "And left this little Indian all alone, with nobody to blame but her sorry self."
"What for?"
"Eh. We had certain...I guess you'd call them cultural differences."
"Oh," he frowned, "Because you're a witch?"
"You can save that white man shit, thank you. I'm no more a witch than you're Rock Hudson."
"I've been shooting for Jim Morrison, so..."
"Whoever the blessed Christ that is," she smirked, "Keep in mind, I don't keep up-to-the-up on the current heathenry."
"Fedder never put you on the Doors? I'm surprised."
"Fedder's put me on more than I know what to do with," she leaned back in her seat, "To your point, kid, I'm not a witch."
"But you know all this stuff about...the Dream Curse and..."
She held up her hand, "First off, like I said before, this shit's not strictly 'Indian magic'."
"So how do you know it?"
"Let's say I experimented in my youth."
Shaggy winced, which she seemed to appreciate, taking a healthy swig of her tea, "The thing you and me are calling the 'Dream Curse' I learned from some strung out gypsy girl in a pool room 25 odd years ago."
"Gypsies? Like in The Wolf Man?"
"No, Einstein, like in the real fucking world. The town was crawling with 'em after the war, but one way or another, they didn't stay long. I learned a lot of things, from a lot of girls," she hesitated briefly, "And taught a few things they didn't know before," as if to assure him she was no lightweight herself.
"I thought I was pretty fucking impressive, myself. A real prodigy: young, clever, and ready to try some new tricks in service of my humble community."
"But your family..." Shaggy paused, "They didn't like that you did magic?"
Fabia gave him a sad smile, "They didn't like that my magic worked."
***
So they may all be marked for death but, as it transpired, the laundry didn't care.
There was a whole basket of odds and ends sitting by the outhouse. Turned out one of the unspoken rules here was you just took your dirty drawers and chucked them into the basket until some sucker got repulsed enough to take action.
Alice didn't like to think of herself as a sucker, but whatever kept her busy.
She worked quickly, scrubbing and rinsing at the water's edge, her jeans rolled up to her knees and the dagged sleeves of her kaftan cinched into knots at her elbows, to keep them from rolling down.
Once or twice, she tried to hum a tune, to make the time pass, but her heart wasn't in it.
There was a crude washing line, set up between two posts a few feet up from the water. It had been hit hurt by yesterday's downpour, but she'd righted it quick enough.
The sun was bright today, and at its highest in the sky. Good news: the laundry would dry quickly.
Bad news: the day was passing.
Alice clipped the sheets to the line, struggling vainly to steady her shaking hands.
-Shaggy, Fabia, and Alice
It was slow going for Conrad's expedition yet again. As James had precited, the terrain was muddy and uneven, typical of the Louisiana swampland. Patches of earth would slough from under the men's feet more often than not, forcing them to move slowly and with care. Dry land was a rarity here, and they were forced to wade into swampy water that at time, rose up to waist-level.
Conrad trucked on ahead, deafening himself to the whiny complaints of his underlings. There moods had only worsened from earlier and given their current circumstances, they wouldn't be cheering up anytime soon. Schiano, especially, was struggling, as he bemoaned to nobody in particularly about his fine shoes becoming even more ruined.
James and Buckley were right behind Conrad, with the former occasionally giving his tracking expertise. Although Conrad and his buffoons could hardly make out a track in this dense underbrush, James was able to take note of the slightest details. Well-tread paths, recently cracked underbrush, the occasional berry-bush that was picked half-clean.
However, no clue was gave more certainty than what James found protruding out of the mud. "Wait." He signaled for the others to stop.
Conrad squinted at the object. "What? It's just a stick."
But James recognized its smooth, carved out texture. "No," he bent down and pulled it from the muck. "It's an arrow. The backend of one, at least." Throwing it aside, James got up and assured Conrad, "We're on the right track."
"We better be," Conrad muttered. "Swear I got a leech in my shoe..." The march proceeded and the crowd's murmur resumed. Loudest among them was Schiano crying out, "Leeches?! Oh Lord, nobody told me there'd be leeches! Lemme tell ya, this reminds me of when me and the fellas at the reform school used to swim in the river! Filthy place. I swear to this day that's how Hogarth got his polio..."
Wanting to drown that story out as much as possible, James started conversation with Buckley as they waded onwards. "You ever go out hunting?"
"Used to," Buckley replied. "When my pa was alive. We'd shoot rabbit and deer, mostly. I always wanted to bag a bear but we never had the luck." He allowed himself a grin. "Or maybe we had too much luck. What about you?"
James smirked, reminiscing. "Just about the same. My dad took me and my brother out hunting all the time. I enjoyed it but Neville...he never got the taste for it." He sighed. "I guess I should have noticed something was up then."
Buckley nodded. "Right. He's a queer, right?"
James turned sharply at the word. "Watch it."
The deputy immediately shrunk back. "Hey, I-I don't mean anything by it! That's just what I heard, that's all."'
"Yeah, I'm sure you heard a lot," James scoffed, shaking his head. "Whole department's full of washerwomen. That much hasn't changed."
Buckley hesitated with his next question. "I'm guessing you don't like that he's queer?"
Again, James glared at the deputy. "I don't like that he's getting into trouble. He can live his life however he likes but he ought to do it behind closed the doors and in better company. God knows he's driving his family sick."
Buckley's expression darkened. "I'm sorry I brought it up. I didn't mean to..."
But James kept talking, surprising even himself with how open he was being with his emotions. "Where the hell does he get off, acting out like that? He could have just talked to me. Told me about his feelings, his fears, his...preferences. I don't think I'd have understood everything but I sure as hell wouldn't be chasing after him in the middle of nowhere if he'd just..."
SPLASH!
Buckley fell underneath the water besides James, sending brown muck in every direction. He tried to surface again but the forces of gravity pulled him back down. James cursed at the sight. The ground underneath the muddy water must have given way and sent the deputy tumbling down.
"Stop! Stop!" James commanded the others as he made his way back to where Buckley was floundering. Each time he had resurfaced, less of his body was above the water.
"The hell's going on?!" Conrad shouted, stepping alongside the muddy bank.
"Buckley accidentally found deep water!" He yelled back, trying to get a hold of the deputy. "I think his foot's snagged onto something! I can't get him out! And his equipment's weighing him down!" James stripped Buckley of his rifle but only began to sank further; the young man gasped for air until yet again, he fell underneath the depths. "What are you doing?!" He called out to the other men. "Help me!"
A few men approached James but they stopped at Conrad's signal. "We have to keep moving, while there's still daylight. God knows, our marks already have a step and then some on us."
James looked aghast at Conrad. "Are you serious?!"
"Of course!" Conrad barked. "Buckley can help himself. If he can't...that's a damn shame." He called out to the other men. "Let's move! C'mon!"
There was a brief quiet and for a moment, James hoped they'd disobey their master's orders.
But...one by one...the cops and volunteers trudged forward. Schiano passed them by, stopping to give an apologetic Sign of the Cross that, for all James knew, served as Buckley's last rites.
James had no time be furious. Not now. He focused on trying to lift Buckley above water. But it was no use. Something was pulling him down and the farthest the deputy could surface was his up to his head. His face was slathered with mud, as he struggled to catch his breath.
"It's OK, Buck," James tried to console him, using all of his strength to tug at the deputy.
"I..." He spat some mud out, struggling to breathe. "I can't..." Buckley fell into the muck again...
...and James lifted his head once more, if only barely. "You can! Just stay with me..." He glanced at the rest of the party, which was steadily moving on without them.
James could have sworn he heard Conrad shout back to him, "Get on over here, already! Forget it!" But goddamn him, James kept trying to pull Buckley up, to no avail.
The deputy locked eyes with James, half-conscious as he uttered, "H-help me..."
***
"...help..."
James is back in Quang Nam, wading through a flooded jungle. A hail of bullets and rain surrounds him. Their squad was ambushed and worst of all, he couldn't tell from where.
Colt shouts back to his troops over and over to press forward, press forward. The only way out is through. The worst thing you can be right now is still.
This is a losing fight. There's no use shooting at ghosts. They try to run away, heads low, ducking enemy fire.
But the earth is tugging at them, as if insisting that their time was now. Their graves were meant to be here, thousands of miles away from home. Murray's been nicked in the arm, wishing he'd been shot somewhere more serious, albeit non-lethal, knowing that would get him sent home. Stellio's had to drop half of his equipment to keep from drowning. Sebastian is panicking, screaming for help, firing blindly every now and then. He's being pursued by ghosts present and past, the voices from the village still haunting him. Even the stoic Marcus is deterred, stumbling forward and grasping desperately for any sold handholds.
James and Troy are pulling up the rear, seemingly treading water. Troy's carefree attitude has completely eroded, panicking like a surfer caught in a rip tide. James tries to keep him calm, occasionally looking over his shoulder to see if he's strayed too far.
That's when he sees it. A grenade hurtling in Troy's direction.
James cries out but it's no use. A geyser of water shoots up where Troy was. For a moment, James debates going back there and hopes that Troy's death was quick and merciful.
Until Troy raises his head above the muck, his face wrought with agony. He had dived out of the way but only somewhat, hindered by the viscous mud as he was. His right leg got the worst of the shrapnel, the impact bending it in an unnatural way and staining the water around it.
Troy can barely keep himself above water between his screams of pain. He calls for James help, begging him not to be left to die here. James wades back against his better judgement and tries to lift Troy above water. He can't do it. Troy continues to sink into the ground, despite James' best efforts.
Colt shouts back to Teague. He tells him they have to move, lest they share Troy's fate. There's no use saving a dead man.
Troy begs otherwise, sorrowful eyes pleading with James. He's weeping, claiming he doesn't want to die here, forgotten and alone. For a moment, he resembles James' kid brother, long hair matted against his face. James tries to shake the image from his head, not wanting to imagine any of his family having to endure this nightmare.
The sound of gunfire draws closer. James doesn't know what to do. His conscience is screaming at him, insisting to leave no mad behind. But his brain is reminding him of the mission, that there's something at stake more important than any single of one them.
Finding himself crying as well, James utters an apology. He rips Troy's dog tags from his neck and turns around. Troy calls after him, begging him to come back as he sinks further and further down. James doesn't dare turn around, knowing he might be tempted to change his mind.
He just presses onward, remembering the mission, remembering this was all worth something. James gives a silent promise to Troy that he won't be forgotten, that he'll have died for something.
What's frightening especially to James is it sounds as if he's trying to convince himself more than anything else.
***
James found himself snapped back to the present. He clutched his chest, feeling that familiar sensation wreak havoc on his body once more. Buckley's muffled cries for help reminded James of his current predicament. The soldier glanced at the search party in the far distance and back at Buckley.
Fuck the mission.
James took a deep breath and dove underneath the water. The brown liquid was almost wholly opaque and he struggled to make anything out in the much. However, he was able to follow the outline of Buckley's body, following his writhing form to his legs. There, James finally saw what had plagued the deputy. His foot was caught up in a loose tree root, twisting and likely spraining his ankle.
Buckley's movements were becoming slower and slower. He was running out of time.
James swam to the tree root and pounded at it in an attempt to jar Buckley's ankle loose from its grip. He did it once, twice, thrice...but it wasn't giving. James felt his own lungs burning for air, his energy starting to wane.
But he kept trying, insisting he'd rather die knowing he had attempted to do what was right than live on questioning if he had done wrong. If the earth was going to claim James today, so be it. It was meant to be.
Finally, the tree root gave and Buckley's ankle was free. James didn't hesitate in wrapping his arms around the deputy and kicking his legs in a swim to fresh air.
He broke the water's surface and took in a huge gulp of air. Gingerly, James hobbled onto the muddy bank and dragged Buckley's sputtering form after him. He was just barely conscious, vomiting what looked like gallons of muddy water. Once they were both on relatively dry ground, James collapsed to his knees, spitting out the mud in his lungs. He crawled back to Buckley to see if he was alright. Despite being a ghostly shade of pale and rattled to his core, the kid had endured. That alone managed a rare smile from James.
But this peace was short-lived.
"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!" Conrad stormed over to James, a red-hot furor burning within him. "I told you not to go after him! You could have died!"
James spat a chunk of mud at the sheriff's feet. "Gee, I didn't know you cared..."
Conrad didn't appreciate this attempt at humor; he yanked the soldier up by his collar. "You're our tracker, goddammit! You die, you're damning the rest of us!"
James was slow to talk, his throat still aching. "I'm not...leaving anybody behind..." He glared at Conrad, his body trembling from the ordeal but also with indignation. "Never."
"This ain't Hollywood," Conrad snarled, pulling James closer. "You gotta make hard calls..."
On this, James snatched Conrad's collar with a newfound strength. "Don't tell me about hard calls," he spoke through gritted teeth. "I saw too many good men die..."
"Don't you play that card with me, boy!" Conrad growled back. "You think you're the only guy with a sad war story? I fought at Salerno. My son's in Vietnam..."
"God help him then!" James snapped. "But we're in fuckin' Lakewood, Louisiana, Conrad. We're not dying for God and country out here. We're waging a war on some runaway hippies, commies, and druggies. And yes, Conrad, I want to find them as badly as you do but for Christ's sake, it's not worth dying over!"
"Boys, boys!" Schiano waddled over to the two men. "Peace! Please! This arguin' is gettin' us nowhere!"
James managed a dry laugh. "The Father is right, Sheriff. We're losing daylight after all." He shoved himself off Conrad and returned to Buckley. The sheriff was tempted to pursue him but thought better of it.
He turned to the men spectating from afar. "Quit gawking and carry on! Let's go, let's go, let's go!" Conrad returned to his place as leader of the pack, eager to put this catastrophe behind them.
Schiano approached James, who was assessing the severity of Buckley's ankle injury. "Will he be OK?"
"Not for a while yet," James replied solemnly. "He's not going to be able to put any weight on it." He glared at the priest. "You could have helped, y'know."
"I didn't think such a miracle were possible," Schiano answered bluntly. "Yet you surprise me, Mr. Teague. Should we all be carried in your arms and elude death for another day, eh?" He placed a hand on James' shoulder. "Move with the grace of God, my son."
James managed a humorless smirk, recalling the hollowness of that statement from their conversation a few nights ago. "And also with you, Father."
Schiano felt bitten by the soldier's sarcasm and withdrew his hand. Perhaps worn down by some sense of shame, Schiano walked away and joined the rest of the group.
James returned his attention to Buckley. "I'm going pull you up and you're going to lean on my shoulder, got it?"
Feebly, the deputy nodded, his body still shaking from the ordeal it had endured.
"OK. One...two...three!" James hefted Buckley up onto his one good leg, causing him to wince in pain. "There you go! Geez, you're heavier than you look..." He threw the kid's arm around his shoulder. "Follow my lead. Take it slow."
Buckley stepped forward with his good foot, keeping his sprained ankle above the ground. He nodded again, signaling to James he was good to go.
"Alright," James exhaled, looking to the path ahead. "Let's go."
The deputy rasped something unintelligible, his lungs still on fire from his time underwater.
"What was that, Buck?" James asked, concerned the kid was more injured than he realized.
Buckley took his time to utter his words, his grip tightening on James' shoulder. "Thank...you..."
James didn't know why but those two words took him off guard. He'd heard thank you a million times over since he got home on leave. Just a million variations of "Thank you for your service." A hollow statement if James had ever heard one. It was worth nothing in comparison to the thanks he heard in the battlefield. That reassurance of confidence in one another, knowing they had each other's backs.
But James didn't really think about those either. Not as much as the disappointments. The failures to come through when it mattered most. He remembered men like Troy more often than the guys whose hides he supposedly saved.
So hearing Buckley's gratitude...it was surreal but welcome, all the same.
"Of course," was James mustered. "That makes us even. C'mon, now..."
And so James marched onward, Buckley at his side, eager to escape the big muddy once and for all, both past and present.
-James, Buckley, Conrad, and Schiano
The sheet moved aside with alarming velocity. "Heyyougoodtotalkrightnow?"
"Son of a bitch!" Alice cried, pressing a hand to her hammering heart as the vision of grim death before her proved to be the very much corporeal Fucker.
"What you tryna do, Moses? Speed me into cardiac arrest? Save the dreamy hoodoo some trouble?"
-Alice
"Jesus fuckin' Christ!" Federico "Fucker" Federale threw his hand up in the air defensively. "I'm just checkin' in on ya! Like what gentlemen are supposed to do!" He put his hands in his pockets and mosied around the washing line. "Fuck me for tryin' to be nice. Shit..."
"Right," Alice nodded, taking a short breath to affirm she was not, in fact, going into cardiac arrest, "Well. Thanks for the hospitality."
She grabbed another sheet from the basket, "Since you're here, you can lend me a hand. 'Less you're getting getting your jollies seeing me toil in my drudgery," she handed him the sheet, indicating the tin dish of clothespins beside the basket, "And here I thought you were my ticket out of rough work."
-Alice
Federico eyed the sheet suspiciously. "If you say so." He grabbed it and snatched up a couple of clothespins. "I warn ya, though. Never did an ounce of laundry in my life. Not one fuckin' ounce."
Alice eyed him skeptically, "Here I thought that distinctive smell of yours was just life on the road and firecrackers. What, do you burn your togs when they get too rank?"
-Alice
"Nah." Federico snapped the sheet on the line. "Nowadays, I just give 'em to Shags. Not like he can tell the fuckin' difference." He paused, wondering if now was as good a time as any to bring it up. "Crazy shit back there, huh? Ya buy any of it?"
Alice tensed briefly, her hand catching on the next bit in the basket...a floral-print shirt in salmon and aqua tones.
"I'm a church girl, but I'm not superstitious," she said at last, "And, mind you, pretty sure talking about curses and dreams like your Injun Auntie would get the taste slapped out your mouth in my church."
She fixed the shirt to the line, nearly catching her finger with the pin, "But two of your boys had that dream, and that poor Joanie girl too," she paused, "And then there's Agnes."
-Alice
"Oh, fuckin' Agnes..." Federico rolled his eyes. "C'mon! She probably drove herself to an early grave! Gave herself a heart attack! Fuck, that's what you get when you live off a diet of red meat and spite! And Joanie..." He did a double-take before whispering, "Don't tell Benjy this but that girl of his has always been a bit..." Unsure of the gentlemanly way to put it, Federico opted instead to make some spastic gestures around his head. "And that is what too much free love gets ya! That's why you gotta have a healthy balance of love and hate...like me."
Alice gave Federico an inscrutable smile, "You think Joan's loopy? Alright, heard," she pinned a pair of twill pants, "Now, I see a girl find out her man gave her a bauble his last old lady palmed off on him, after he screwed her around so bad she put a genuine witch's curse on it to take out him and every blessed soul around him..." she shrugged, "I don't think Joan was loopy enough."
She shrugged, "Look, I'm not gonna pretend I understand shit that's happening around here, but I know there's no use not looking a hard fact in the eye. There's too much saying something spooky's going on, that I'd be a five star idiot thinking otherwise."
-Alice
Federico bit his lip as he grabbed another sheet from the basket. Typically, he'd have another rambunctious remark ready to go but he was evidently bothered from last night's tragedy and now, the news they got this morning. He didn't realize for a while that his hands were shaking.
Frustrated, Federico threw the sheet in the air and punched at it. "Fuck me, man! Fuck!!!" He ended up catching the sheet midair and throwing it back into the basket. Federico was breathing heavily, visibly shaken by whatever was on his mind.
"Oh, don't do that," said Alice, maybe more casually than this deranged outburst demanded. Great, she was going native. What a grooving summer this was turning out to be.
"C'mon, I just scrubbed I don't want to know what offa that. And I'm not doing it again. Shit. You know how messy you and your music men are?" she sighed, putting her hands on her hips, looking from the basket back to Federico.
"Of course you do," she sighed, "But that's not fit to bother you, so speak up. While I'm awake."
-Alice