Renewal 4 - Down on the River (7 page)

“Here we go, gentlemen. John, mount it up, if you please,” the pilot casually ordered, his hands gripping the controls. “Everyone hold on tight.” Shaun held the boat slow and steady for the minute it took to get the machine gun mounted and loaded. John cranked the lever, braced his feet, and signaled that he was ready.

The motley pirate navy was boiling out of the cove that was now about 700 feet behind them. Terry held on to the pole that held the canopy over the pilot’s station and counted nine boats of random variety. They were accelerating directly towards Terry and his friends. Shaun made a quick check of his people, and shoved the throttle to the stops. The aluminum boat was deceptively fast. The diesel was swinging a huge prop. The engine was did not sound all that powerful, but it translated into massive thrust. In the space of a few seconds, the boat was up on a plane and speeding away from the pirates. One of the enemy boats was fast enough to pursue them. It popped up and started gaining on Shaun’s boat in a hurry. The rest of the flotilla followed at the best pace, which was to say, not fast at all.

The speed boat closed quickly from directly behind. It was out of the line of fire from the big machine gun, and probably knew it. Two men leaned over the side of the boat, and started firing at Shaun’s state boat. The pilot yelled something at John, but it was lost in the rush of wind. He tried again with hand signals held in front of his chest. John seemed to get the message. He nodded, and crouched down. Terry held on even tighter as Shaun executed a sharp right hand turn at high speed. Rob slid off his seat and bounced against Terry’s ankles as John waited for a clear firing arc, and then had it. The machine gun fired a burst of heavy slugs across the speed boat. It was perfect shooting. The boat’s driver disappeared under a cloud of red mist. One of the gunmen was literally blown out of the boat by the force of the shot. Terry had a brief impression of the man coming apart as he tumbled over the far side for his boat. Best of all, the speed boat’s engine clanked loudly, followed by a grinding sound, a billow of smoke and steam, and then quit entirely. Their former pursuit plowed to a dead drift in the water, and Shaun turned back to the left to their original course.

In the brief exchange, a new squadron of boats had lined up across the end of the narrows, blocking the way into the open lake. Shaun muttered some angry words and turned again. There were pirate boats in both primary directions now. The first group was closing in, and the new group, all of which looked faster than the state’s boat, were waiting for the slower boats to close the trap. Bill bellowed orders. He seemed to have enough information to take charge of the tactical situation.

“Let’s take the pursuit out first! Circle them at 300 yards!” Bill shouted at Shaun, and spun his finger in the air to indicate a direction.

Shaun spun the wheel and headed towards the boat ramp to set up his orbit around the pursuers. The crowd on the ramp was busy cheering, yelling and throwing rude gestures at the state boat. John took it personally and sent a burst of .50 caliber fire through the mob. A third of them dropped dead; the rest ran for their lives. John smiled.

“Stop wasting ammo!” Shaun yelled, with a smile of his own, and he arced the course to open a firing lane on the group. The pirates had a small army of men scattered across their boats, and a good firing position for the pile of pirates on top of a huge houseboat. John recognized the threat and started there. He was good with that gun. He shut down their fire with two bursts across the roofline, and sent a bunch of rounds into his best guess at the engine compartment. When the engine kept running, he shredded the front of the fiberglass hull. The lake did the rest. Water pouring into the hull with the force of the houseboat’s forward motion tore away the loose material, and quickly opened the entire boat to a sudden rush of water. The houseboat plowed itself into the lake in seconds, and left the remaining men trying to swim with heavy rifles. They weren’t good swimmers. In the process,  John had damaged and killed other boats and men. He systematically used his shooting skill, threat analysis, and a reasonable understanding of boats to reduce the pursuit force to two boats. Those two boats turned to the east, retreating as fast as possible. Seth finished one with a rifle shot that hit the driver, who slumped to the side, spinning the steering wheel as he fell. The boat turned hard to port and a rush of water dumped into the boat as it leaned far into the outside of its turn. The boat didn’t sink, but only an inch or two was visible above the light waves on the lake. Bill’s crew took shaky shots at the last retreating boat, but it had retreated far outside of effective range for any rifle in a bouncing boat. They watched it go with a conflicting sense of triumph mixed with frustrated vindication.

Shaun wheeled his boat back around to the west, and noticed that the second group of boats was advancing in their direction, still in a rough line across the channel. Someone was working hard to keep them in order, with the possible idea that a line would prevent anyone from getting past them. Shaun had other ideas. He pushed the throttle to the stops again and headed directly towards the middle of the enemy line. As soon as the range became reasonable, John opened up again, sending single bursts into the boats arrayed ahead, ignoring the pirates too far from center. He was effective again as several boats were chewed up by his heavy rounds. The boats in his line of fire quickly fell into two categories: boats unable to move, and boats getting out of the way as quickly as possible. As soon as the pirates started to move, Shaun picked the gap and shot through the dissolving line at well over forty miles per hour. The untouched pirate vessels out on the ends of the line were sending small arms fire towards them, but other than a metallic impact or two, they failed to do any damage. The state boat and Bill’s crew rounded the next point and emerged into the main body of the lake. They went from broad river to open water, and the empty no-man’s land gave way to a peaceful scene of  sailboats and tiny fishing vessels. In the space of a mile, they left the pirates’ territory and entered the freshwater version of civilization.

Shaun ran at top speed for another mile or so, just in case there were angry lake pirates looking for revenge, and then throttled back to a sedate cruising speed. He explained that the rest of the lake was safe enough, patrolled by permanent state authorities, and used by the general public. Bill wanted to know why they didn’t run the upper lake at high speed, and Shaun told him that they had learned the hard way that the pirates were known to leave underwater traps in the narrow channels, which could tear a boat to shreds. Also he noted, they could generally hear the bad guys before they could see them, and that fact made it worth running slow and quiet.

The men were too wired to get any more rest, and now that they were traveling at speed, they arrived at the old Hermitage landing in less than an hour. Terry was fascinated by the massive dam that held the lake, and was slightly disappointed when they turned away from it on their final approach to the landing. Shaun drove his boat past the dilapidated docks, half under water, and up onto the muddy beach just on the right of the loading ramp. Bill’s crew began unloading their gear onto the grass. The sky was still obscured with a benign white overcast, and Bill dug in his pocket for an antique railroad watch. He flipped the lid and found that it was after two in the afternoon. He was surprised by how long the lake crossing had taken and wondered what else was waiting on this day. Terry helped Shaun inspect the boat for damage, and finding three bullet holes, learned Shaun’s method of patching the hull with squares of aluminum sheet metal and an old bucket of driveway tar. When the repairs were complete, Shaun checked his own watch.

“You ride should be here by now. I wonder what’s keeping them,” he said.

“I hope they’re having an easier time than we are,” Bill responded.

“Hope so, speaking of which... Hey John!” Shaun called, and John looked up from his third gear check of the day.

“Yeah, captain?”

“If you ever need a job, you can be my gunner, ok?”

“Thanks, Shaun. I’m happy with my current employer,” he said with an exaggerated sideways look in Bill’s direction. “But you never know,” he added, with a finger to his lips. Jeffry laughed at Bill’s reaction to the open secret.

“Ok, John,” Shaun said with a grin. “Great shooting. I can see why they picked you folks for this job.”

John shrugged and said, “No one’s more surprised than we are.”

“That’s the state for you...” Shaun said with eternal acceptance.  “Well, nothing to do but wait for your ride, and more importantly, my replacement gunner. May as well take a load off for a while. I’ll take the watch.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

Chapter 4 - 9

Arturo made it, but his leg hurt for the rest of his life. We kept a close watch on him for the first night of his return. The Carrolls hovered around, trying to think of anything they could do to improve his chances. Dad finally thanked them for all of their gifts, and told them to head back before dark. He had shared the story of the school with George during the afternoon, and George found himself in agreement with the idea that  anyone who is willing to eat human flesh needs to be destroyed with any means available. His intent was to give Dad some emotional relief from the horrors of that day, but it was clear that he meant exactly what he said.

Martha accepted hugs from all of us, except Kirk. He was never much of a hugger. I was amazed again at how fast the trials of the time turned into serious bonds. I never loved my grandfather as much as I loved Mr. Carroll, even after only two encounters. Maybe it was my stomach producing the love, but in any case, I would have happily hugged the man, too, if it weren’t for the new unspoken rules of being a man, rules that applied even to eleven year old boys in the days of the Breakdown.

George mounted the high seat on his tractor, and Martha seated herself on his lap, with all the grace of a Homecoming Queen in a parade. She even had the royal wave mastered, and sent it our way, as George started his tractor and drove towards home in the long gathering shadows of the 4th of July.

Arturo slept fitfully on the picnic table that night, at first seeming to get worse, rather than better. Juannie told us that Arturo had told her that his wound was fine all the way back, and she was stupid enough, in her own words, to listen to the dumb Mexican, also her own words. She was Puerto Rican and Cuban herself, and that seemingly came with a cultural superiority that applied to everyone else, especially Mexicans. She was unaware that he was in real danger, until she saw Dad’s reaction to his wound. Now, she held Jimmy on her lap facing her as she watched over Arturo. Jimmy was over the reunion love and squirmed to get down and play with Tommy before they were sent to bed. She held her baby boy for ten minutes longer, and finally let him escape.

We were watching from a distance, not sure what to do to help. We were aware of our parents’ sense of hopelessness, and that translated to a certain sense of restlessness for us kids. Kirk and I walked out beyond our tree house and stood on the steep slope while Lucy tried to get Juannie to eat and helped put the leftover food back in the Carroll’s cooler. I sat on Dad’s tree stump sawhorse while Kirk practiced drawing his automatic pistol and aiming it at any tree he decided was the enemy. He went at it with a deadly obsession that seemed creepy at the time, but paid off hundreds of times in the future.

His other favorite pastime was sharpening a short machete he had commandeered from our tool stash. Dad called it a cane knife, but Kirk called it his new best friend. Over time, it not only became razor sharp, it slowly changed shape from a utilitarian tool into a sinister looking weapon. Kirk slowly carved and smoothed the handle until it fit him perfectly and ground the blade into a gentle curve that he claimed was to improve the balance. The rounded hook on the back of the blade, used for grabbing cane and shearing it, morphed into a deadly metal talon, and ultimately the spine of the blade was sharpened as well, until the entire blade was one continuous razor edge. He spent many hours working with it, testing it on wood and weeds, and once even used it to shave his wispy facial hair. At some magical point in time, he decided it was perfect for his dark needs.

The next morning, Arturo was still sweating and talking in his feverish sleep. Mom and Dad exchanged worried glances, as Dad made another liquid antibiotic solution and poured it slowly into Arturo’s mouth. Dad had made a rough rope system for lifting supplies into the treehouse, and  we quickly cobbled together a human shaped basket to get Arturo under shelter. It took three of us to hoist Arturo up to the second level of the treehouse, and carry his unconscious form into the tent. Juannie spent most of her time sitting with him, and Lucy and Tommy went back to their role as primary entertainment for Jimmy. Dad gave Arturo his medicine every four hours, like a clockwork machine.

After two more days, it was clear that Arturo was improving. The red streaks were gone, and while he still felt hot to the touch, he was no longer shiny with sweat. His skin had lost its grayish undertone, and he no longer thrashed and mumbled in his sleep. For the first time, Dad expressed some confidence in the man’s recovery. On the 7th of July, Juannie had taken a break from her vigil, and the rest of us were milling about on various idle projects, basically surviving the heat of a Tennessee summer.

We heard a panicked yell from the treehouse.

“Hey! Where the hell am I?” It was Arturo. “Hello!”

I was the first one up the ladder, and burst in on Arturo, who was trying to unzip the sleeping back, and failing. The zipper was caught in the material.

“Hey, Arturo. Let me get that for you,” I said, holding out my hands in an instinctive I-mean-no-harm gesture.

“Bill? Bill! It’s you. We made it back?” Arturo was confused.

“Yeah, Arturo. It’s me. You’re back. You’re safe.”

“Is everyone else ok?” Arturo asked, with his wild eyes starting to calm a bit.