Sasha, Jake’s German shepherd, was already with the old man. She looked to be contently occupied with something firmly held in her mouth. Frank was the only other man Sasha would tolerate. Jake had tried to break her from leaving, but if Frank was tending to the cattle, she would split time between the two. Jake eventually relented, partly because he knew Frank appreciated her keeping watch for him while he worked.
Jake spread the barbed wire wide enough to duck through and approached the two. The heap on the ground was now obvious to him. Frank took one last drag of the tobacco before stamping it out with the heel of his boot.
“Jake, what’re we going to do? This is the second time this month.”
Jake examined what was left of the calf. By the looks of it, he reasoned, it had been field dressed sometime the night before. The object he had seen in Sasha’s mouth was a bone that she had retrieved from the remains.
“Frank, I’m sorry; we never heard a thing. How many calves does that leave you with?”
“Ten, but I expect them to be gone before much longer if I don’t bring them closer to the house. I don’t have the manpower to watch the livestock and defend the house.”
“I heard from Mr. Gaston that a farm not far from here was attacked two nights ago. There were six of them. The gunfire woke the neighbors. After they realized what was going on they rushed over and fought them off. They hit one of them. He ran off a ways, but bled out after his friends left him. The family didn’t even realize he was there until the next morning; everyone was too afraid to go outside.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. The sheriff showed up and took the body, but they didn’t even investigate. Son, they’re trying hard to stem the tide and losing ground every day. We’re on our own out here.”
The two men continued on with what might be considered the small talk of some strange new world. Sasha playfully gnawed at her bone, occasionally looking up at the two and tilting her head to the side, as if to admit confusion at some bit of news or gossip. The men mused about the farm, and how fortunate they were to actually have neighbors close enough to come to their aid. Jake and Frank realized, without mention, the similarities between the farm and their own.
Jake had bought twenty acres from Frank nearly a decade earlier. The two had met through a realtor friend of Frank’s. Frank needed the liquidity to continue running the farm, but didn’t want to openly list the property and deal with the numerous, random, potential buyers stalking through the tall ryegrass and under the aging pecan trees that dotted his winter pasture. She told him that it was just part of the process, but he refused. “You’ll know the right buyer when you meet him – and when you do, send him my way.” And so she did.
Franklin Thames and Jake Sellers had a longneck and a long talk befitting old friends in Frank’s hayloft overlooking the property that first evening. The next day they began the process of transferring the property. It took another week to formalize the purchase, but to both men the handshake after that first evening was the true point of sale.
Relative to the other homesteads and farmhouses, Jake’s house was unusually close to Frank’s, but the two families from different eras enjoyed the friendship that blossomed from that closeness.
The men exchanged a few final words and nodded as they parted. Sasha stood to stretch, let out a high pitched whine and trotted off with Jake. Jake and Sasha crossed the fence and continued to the back of the property to finish the morning outing.
The cool morning air was the first sign of autumn’s arrival. The gentle breeze would soon rustle the pecans from their perches amongst the long rows of trees. He looked forward to trading them for some of Mrs. Thames’ locally renowned pecan pies.
Jake’s pleasant thoughts wavered as he returned to the realities of his situation. It had been peaceful enough for longer than any of them expected, but the problems of the cities and suburbs had finally reached their sleepy community.
Besides the price of everything rising by a factor of five and the mass unemployment, the first sign of the approaching storm had been the blackouts. Originally, it seemed innocent enough; a sub-station failure during a thunderstorm that probably just needed a quick repair. When the utility crew had arrived onsite, however, they were beaten and robbed. By the second or third ambush, a worker was kidnapped and ransomed.
The crews eventually refused to perform any repairs without a police escort. In the beginning this prolonged the blackouts by several hours. As cities spiraled further into chaos, however, the delays became much longer. This only seemed to escalate the cycle of violence and unrest, fueled by the deterioration of an expected quality of life.
Jake’s mind continued to wander as he approached the back of his house. After several more steps, his wife’s silhouette appeared at the threshold of the back door.
“Come on in hun, breakfast is almost ready.”
Jake stopped for a moment and grinned at her, his right hand instinctively coming to rest on the wooden grip of the .357. Sasha poked her head between his legs, plopped down on her haunches and looked at Kate.
“What’re you two trouble makers staring at?” Kate struggled to hold back the smile that was creeping across her face. She playfully put her hands on her hips and feigned disdain.
“We just wanted to take you in for a moment. You look beautiful.”
“Oh hush!” she quipped, still smiling, “I look like a wreck. Save your smooth talk for when you need it!” She spun abruptly, hiding her blushing cheeks from him, and marched back inside in an exaggerated manner.
Jake grinned and scratched Sasha behind her ears before continuing towards the house. Her tail wagged in delight as she bounded along beside him.
Katelyn planted a loud kiss on Jake’s lips and smiled as she handed him two plates. He winked before turning and carrying them to the rectangular table in the dining nook. He admired her figure as she grabbed her plate and a fresh pot of coffee and turned towards him. She shot him a wink before pouring the coffee into several cups already waiting on the table.
Geram, Jake’s younger brother, was slowly dragging himself to the table with one eye still closed. He stretched his arms to the ceiling, before slumping into the chair opposite of Jake. “Bacon, eggs and home-grown blueberries, Kate you’re too good to this man. Say, you got a sister?”
She laughed, “Yes I am and you know she’s married, Geram.”
“That’s alright, as long as you make an extra plate when you cook for this guy, I can cope.” Geram grinned as he popped a blueberry in his mouth and took sip of his coffee.
“You’ll have a plate here as long as you want,” Jake added. He finished his first egg, before continuing, “Mr. Thames lost a calf last night to some poachers. They field dressed it in the pasture and left what they couldn’t carry. Did you see anything last night?”
“I had a dark SUV creep by us at about zero one hundred, but I never saw them come back. I tried to get a number on the occupants with my binoculars, but it was too dark to see inside the vehicle, even with the full moon.”
Jake nodded, “The only vehicle I saw on my watch had the same description. They passed by around 4, but they weren’t creeping.”
“That would’ve given them enough time to get the calf.”
Jake nodded in agreement as he stabbed several blueberries with his fork. The light banter at the beginning of breakfast had faded and the three were more solemn now. Kate topped off the boys’ cups and left them alone as she went to feed Sasha some scraps.
Jake pushed his plate aside and leaned forward. He eyed Geram and said, “It’s been two days since you showed up. They don’t let you just drop in on family while you’re in active duty. You ready to talk yet, SEAL?”
Chapter 2
Clayton
Washington County, Alabama
The muddy waters of the Tombigbee and Alabama Rivers converged just north of Mt. Vernon. The heavy rains ups
tate had caused the rivers to swell well past flood stage much earlier than normal. They were set to crest in two days’ time. Most of the logging roads that dutifully followed the ridges of the river swamp had several feet of water over them already. The deer and hogs had long since retreated to higher and drier grounds. Of all nights, this night deep in the backwaters should have been the domain of croaking bullfrogs and grunting alligators, but not tonight.
A hush rolled across the cutoff that meandered between the two rivers. In the distance, the ascending groan of an outboard motor could be heard. The low moan had little to do with the unnatural hush across the swamp. It was the blood-curdling howl that emanated from somewhere seemingly within it.
Immediately after, a second, more primal howl answered. Finally, they cried out in unison. This strange chorus of animal and mechanical baffled the lords and princes of this natural kingdom. They felt compelled to their silence as they waited in anticipation for the appearance of the strange, midnight wayfarer.
Clayton threw his head back once again and let out a howl befitting some mythical beast, to the untrained ear at least. He knew it drove Moses crazy. The dog was already bounding to and fro in the custom-built, shallow-draft, aluminum boat. Finally, Moses could abstain no longer. He put his front paws on the bow and offered up his interpretation for any lycanthropes that may have been confused by Clayton’s less than perfect rendition.
Clayton let out a bellowing laugh at Moses, before leaning forward and banging the dry well in several quick successions. Moses instinctively crawled into the bottom of the boat just as it performed a perfectly timed S-motion. The two stumps were not visible even in the daylight hours, but Clayton knew exactly where they were.
The swamp was his.
An onlooker would have been convinced of his lunacy, if not because of the spectacle of his howls, then absolutely because of his choice to brave the unpredictable floodwaters at night. He roared forward at full-throttle by the light of a full moon, which was all but hidden by the thick canopy of willows and Spanish moss just above. Clayton was no fool, though. His homemade apparatus of a motorcycle helmet and night vision goggles transformed him from a mere mortal into a backwater demigod, and he reveled in it.
The night was his.
After emerging from the darkened cutoff, they ducked low and cut a diagonal path across the moonlit river to a small tributary, commonly called a slough, on the other side. In less than half a minute, they were back in the welcoming confines of the heavy canopy.
After they braved one final bend, Clay yanked kill switch from the mud motor. He leveraged the boat’s momentum to push it through the thick wall of vegetation and trees that grew along the submerged banks. The pair drifted into a clearing a couple hundred feet beyond. A shy alligator snapping turtle on a nearby log dove into the murky depths as they passed.
Clayton crawled to the front of the boat, grasped the bow rope and tied a quick clove hitch to a nearby cypress tree. As they waited and listened, he quietly opened the cooler and retrieved two biscuits and some sausage. He tossed one of the biscuits to the cur and he caught it mid-air. Clay flicked his folding knife open and split the sausage into two even portions. Moses appreciated the gesture of equality; he licked Clayton’s hand before taking the salty meat. While they enjoyed their snacks and listened for the sounds of any would-be followers, Clayton grabbed a wooden paddle and shoved it down into the black water.
The depth check was more of an old habit than a necessity. His boat could take off from nine inches of muck without any problems. Once on a plane, he needed less than a half inch of water over soft mud to navigate the swamp. Clayton finished his biscuit and leaned back in his seat. He quietly admired the wonder of his artificially green-hued surroundings.
Clumps of Spanish moss and thick, gnarled vines hung from the cypress and white oaks that surrounded their hidden enclave. Clayton counted six fox-squirrel nests that dotted the nearby oaks. He noted several pairs of widely space eyes on the water, staring back at him.
The alligators’ curiosity was emboldened when Clayton made his night runs without lighting. Often they would drift within several feet of the boat. Their presence did not bother Clayton or Moses, as long as they were safe in the boat and the alligators remained in the water.
The cool night air was a welcome relief from the southern sun’s relentless barrage. Clayton hoped the flood was a herald of an early winter. They desperately needed a sharp frost to stunt the plague of insects. Their boat was swarmed by mosquitos and gnats as soon as it drifted to a stop.
They waited a half hour and failed to detect any indication of human life in the swamp. Satisfied that they were indeed alone, Clayton tugged the knot loose from the cypress and eased the boat to an idle. Slowly, they continued on their way.
They idled along the slough for another half hour and then killed the motor again. Clayton grabbed a long wooden pole and plunged it into the water. He quietly pushed the boat through the thick vegetation at the slough’s edge until he could see through the cover on the other side. He peered across the empty lake to the shore beyond.
Sodium-vapor and halogen lamps pierced the darkness on the opposite shore. They reflected off the lake’s surface, and were a poor celestial substitute for the starless sky. Dozens of small camps supported by weathered, timber piling towered over the surrounding cypress knots. Their roofs extended increasingly higher into the night air as they continued up the gentle slopes. Many of the closest camps already had several feet of water beneath them. Clayton was surprised to see the small community so well-illuminated; they had not had power for at least two weeks. The small fishing communities were filled with survivors, however. Perhaps they had a supply of natural gas to supplement their solar panels.
Clayton scanned the shore near the landing for any signs of movement, but found none. He scratched Moses’ head and whispered “What about you, see anyone?”
Moses stood up on the bow and sniffed the sweet night air, before turning back and climbing over the dry well.
Clayton sighed and replied, “Me neither; maybe next week. Let’s head home.”
* * *
Clayton’s demeanor was much more reserved on their way home. He reflected on a past life in another world. He had once been a successful contractor and entrepreneur. His first million was hard-fought through long days, sleepless nights and relentless ambition. He tried anything that he thought would turn a profit: residential developments, industrial shutdowns, offshore – anything. He particularly loved demolition work because he could get paid to remove the structure, crush the brick and concrete, and resell it as base material for roadways and parking lots. Besides, slamming a four-ton wrecking ball into a building was about as much fun as a man could have without going to jail.
He soon realized the real money was in being a developer. He would research an area, purchase the raw land, develop a shopping center, sell a few outlying parcels to help recoup his investment and lease the shops. He had successfully repeated his formula multiple times.
The next several million were earned much easier than the first. A new way of doing business came with the territory, however, and he despised it. The permits, regulations and laws were countless and restrictive. The government inspectors had an endless repertoire of building and environmental codes that they could deem a developer in violation of, regardless if he actually was or not, seemingly at their whim. A single owl that was considered endangered could reduce a profitable endeavor to a crawl through red tape with the only light at the end of the tunnel a dim flicker of breaking even.
Of course, there was another way, a way to make all of the troubles disappear. It started innocent enough and could almost be justified, if you remembered to check your morals at the door. Before long, it was easier for him to count the people he was not paying off. It seemed everyone wanted to stick their hands into his pockets. Clayton Sellers g
rew to despise the realities of the ‘easy’ life he had sought for so long.
It’s been said that every man should know his number. He should have an amount, however large it may be, so that if he ever reaches it then he can consider himself a success and politely back away from the table with his soul intact. If he does not know when cash out of the game, greed will slowly begin to creep in. He will forsake everything, and everyone, in his pursuits. The man with a number knows wealth to be a means; the man without knows it only as an end.
Three years ago, Clayton reached his number. He dumped it all: the businesses, the swank properties in town, stocks, bonds and all the racketeers that had made a living off of his hard work. They could keep their broken system. He would fade away into his gulch, and he was not the only one that was leaving. A groundswell of principled men were breaking away from the clutches of the leviathan that was crushing them.
He bought two thousand acres in the middle of the river swamp for a song. Even he was surprised that the timber company had accepted his lowball offer. Apparently, they had been more desperate for cash than he thought. It wasn’t prime land by any definition. Most of the property flooded when the surrounding rivers swelled beyond their banks. Clayton did not mind the inconvenience, however.
In a typical year the property would flood just enough to foil the poachers. The water was still shallow enough to limit access to all but the most specialized of vessels; a vessel much like his, of course. He leased the surrounding twenty thousand acres from the same timber company as a buffer. Beyond that was mostly state wildlife reserve.
Clayton’s theory of life was one of irony: sometimes the only way to spit oneself out of the beast was to feign defeat and allow it to swallow you whole, so that one day you might have the leverage to go forth and never look back.