The Ravaged, page 5
“Might be nice to you, but he ain’t wanting to get with you. How old is he? Twenty?”
“Ain’t my type. He’s twenty-one.”
“That explains it all: twenty-one and hanging out with two seventeen-year-olds. He should be into the bar scene, not the teenage scene.”
Stepping out of the brush, Trot pointed to the other side of the darkness, where the railroad tracks gleamed in the moonlight. “There’s the tracks.”
“Great. Now what?”
“We wait. You can take the first hour nap. I’ll take the second.”
Sitting on the hard ground, crunch of dry leaves, legs stretched out, head resting on her pack, Anne looks around at the shadows of trees and what she hopes are dead limbs and not snakes forming dark curves on the ground. Thinking of Mitch. The sound of that pan cracking against his skull. She could still hear it, feel it in her bones. The loud thud that rattled his eyes. Eyes rolled up to stare at the back of his brain. Dropping to the floor, blood spilled. What if she really has killed him?
Trying to think whether he had ever been nice to her, she digs deeper, trying to remember a time when anyone in her family had ever been nice to one another. When her mother didn’t drink and her father hadn’t threatened her. When her siblings had ever known affection for one another or their parents. There were no more celebrations for birthdays or holidays. Those had faded long ago. Everything is wrapped around booze, soaked in it. Threats. Screaming and hurting. She often wonders what her mother and father were like before they had her and her sibs. Had they been abusive to each other? What was their affection like back when it was just the two of them? Was her mother always an alcoholic? And before Anne knows it, her body is free-falling, traveling downward on a plunge, riding a roller coaster. She is dropping hard until Trot wakes her. It seemed like only a split second, and night began to dissipate and fade. The evaporation of darkness, replaced by daybreak. Everything is lifeless and gray. No sunshine, just overcast and gloom. Her face heavy with dew.
“Wake up,” Trot tells her, “We gotta get moving.”
Eyes heavy, crust in the corners like tiny crumbs of bread, her body fights the exhaustion and stiffness that saturates her young being. Her movements feel rigid and artificial. In the distance, the train’s horn raises their senses, summoning its approach. Their stomachs knot with anticipation, the morning hunger replaced by nerves. Metal clack against metal, picking up speed. “We gotta be quick,” Trot told her as they rush from the brushy area where they had lain.
Out of breath already, Trot tells Anne, “Least we won’t see no bulls out here.”
“Bulls?” Anne questioned.
“Railroad cops. They always do their rounds on the yard.”
Running and half limping through the weeds, dew soaking the legs of their jeans, feet smashing down on the trash strewn about the area: soda bottles, beer cans, cigarette packs, and candy wrappers. Seeing all this garbage reminds her of home, of what she is running from, leaving behind. And fear of the unknown sinks away, in its place a smirk. Because refuse is familiar. In fact, it is all she has ever known.
Anne’s heart is skipping beats, pounding like that of a marathon runner in the last miles of the race. Feeling pressure ball up in her throat. Running down through a ditch with her gimp leg, the earth dropping, pack on her back weighing her down, then hitting the graveled edge of the right-of-way, feet digging hard, the pop of the grooved steel wheels meeting the rounded I-beam, crossing the break of the high-quality alloy tracks, hands reaching for the metal ladder. Closing in. Running harder. Burning thighs and hips. Fingers reaching. That tentative smirk slowly softening into a hesitant smile. Though she worries about losing her grip. Her footing. She would slip. The wheels would be unforgiving, parting skin and bone like butter and ending her uncertain future before it even began. At the same time, the fear feeds another side of her brain, which yearns for the adventurous unknown.
Bubble-lettered graffiti, bold and shadowed by color, decorates the dull railcars. Feet digging, hands reaching in, pushing from the balls of her feet, she feels the extension of tendon and muscle. Hands grabbing, Anne pulls herself to the ladder, forearms and biceps flexed, every fiber in her body engaged. Taking each step up onto the rough platform, her thighs, calves, and hips burn, her whole body shakes. The ankle throbs. The smile is no longer hesitant as she feels a glimmer of hope for what is down the tracks. To come next. Whatever it is has to be better than what she has left behind.
Trot comes up right behind her, his glasses steamy and halfway down the bridge of his nose. They are both gasping for breath, lungs greedy for fresh air. The sound in their ears is volcanic. Loud. An eruption of decibels. Trot smiles at her, the same hope-filled smile that she feels on her own lips, as he points, yelling, “In there. Get in there.”
Pulling her pack free, her frame still shaken and numb with the rush of nerves. Sweat dampens her shirt. Face covered with droplets. Feeling like a melting candle. Stuffing her pack into the circular opening. Squeezing in behind the pack. Inside, it’s dusty, with particles in the air. Smells of metal, urine, and rot. Several plastic bottles lie inside—remnants from earlier passengers. Potato chip bags. Standing up, Trot yells, “This is a grainer car. Used to haul grain, corn, wheat, sand, or clay. Got lucky. Even has a porch. Ones without are called suicide rides. Them that don’t have solid metal on the porch. Fuckin’ dangerous.”
Moving back into a corner, Anne wishes she had a pair of earplugs. The loud rattle of travel. They sit on their packs. Anne yells, “How many trains you hop back in Texas?”
“Plenty. Told you I ran with a group of riders known as the Recon Rejects. Learned about hopping the rails from them. Had planned to finally catch out and not come back. See the USA. But my folks moved me before I got enough money saved and my shit packed to run.”
Until now, since he and Anne had become friends. Two misfits with family issues, only they wouldn’t call it a family. Now he can run away with Anne, see America, see whatever he wanted, be among like-minded people, find a family of their choosing.
In her head, Anne keeps a grocery list of unknowns. Top of the list: where the train is headed. Hoping it was going south. Alabama. Louisiana. Mississippi. But the other worry is, what if they get caught? What her mother and father will do. Her stealing the money they had stashed for booze, food, bills, or whatever else they might blow it on. The pistol, their security against break-ins and bad actors. So many unknowns. The kind of people they might encounter. When and where to hop freights. How long it will take to get from one destination to another. Where they might find food once they run out of money. Where they will sleep.
Glancing into another opening, to her left. Another section to sit in, identical to the one where they are holed up. Anne sees feet. What the shit? Her teeth chatter with the vibration. Attached to the feet are bone-thin legs attired in camo tights. On the feet are scuffed Doc Martens boots. An unconscious fear shoots through Anne and numbs her with alarm. Here is another human being, but she has no clue who that human being is. She and Trot are not alone.
HUNTER
Hunter’s mind drifts comfortably, lulled by the loud, throaty rumble of engines and the press of warm air against his face and his leathers. The long stretches of smooth blacktop shift and curve, only to grow straight again. The solitude frees his memories: a cold morning out in the woods, leaves crackling under his boot’s instep as his father, home from the road on an early Saturday morning, beckoned him forward. Peering up into the collage of limbs and leaves in the early-morning light, his father breached the silence with words. “See ’em? They’re just like the people I see every day on the road. Look far enough ahead to the other trees, you’ll see where they’re headed—maybe back to their nests. Those are the huge mounds they’ve built from twigs and leaves. Or they’re headed for their provisions—acorns or walnuts scattered on the ground. You just gotta look for the trees that grow those nuts. Like people, they’re easy to read.”
Leaning into a curve, Hunter thinks about his father’s words, thinks about Itch, meeting up with him and Nugget after Hunter stopped at the ATM back in their hometown. Withdrawing an extra grand to go along with the three he’d already packed. Itch mentioned he needed to stop in Middlesboro, Kentucky. Had some business to reconcile. Hunter thinking of those squirrels, of what his father told him. Itch is dealing marijuana again. Hunter knows this. Hell, Nugget knows this. So why didn’t Itch come out and tell Hunter or Nugget? He is either picking up more to sell or paying the guy he sold for. It isn’t a thing to keep secret among friends. If you couldn’t trust your friends, who could you trust?
Somewhere around the area, Itch is headed to his tree to “gather his nuts”—Hunter’s father’s term for stocking provisions. Hunter chuckles to himself. The old man is speaking to him from the grave. Over the years, Hunter had never given much thought to anything his father tried to tell him when he was growing up. But now it’s as if his father’s lessons are everywhere, waiting to be reflected on and realized.
Something that worries Hunter, something he doesn’t like, is the idea of traveling across the country with Itch if he is transporting weed. If that were the case—three bikers, out of state—it conjures an image of outlaws, which none of them are. Just three gearhead buddies who like bikes, ink, and powerlifting, and enjoy tossing a few beers back and grilling some steaks; they are the type of guys who don’t wear watches. Which fueled their decision to meet at the Sagebrush Steakhouse for a tender cut of beef and maybe a few hoppy brews. Itch had told Hunter and Nugget to go ahead; he would meet them at the steakhouse once he got his business done.
Hunter’s mind rolls with tidbits of facts—something the road produced within him—as they cross over from North Carolina, the Tar Heel State, and into Tennessee, the Volunteer State. Eventually, they hit Kentucky, the Bluegrass State.
Taking in the surrounding wilderness the hue of an unripe avocado. Loblolly pines, beech, birch, magnolia, and black oak. Hunter thinks about his father, who had been pretty much absent from his childhood Monday through Friday, but then present on Saturday and Sunday. He thinks of the long walks they would take, learning about the different trees that made up the woods around them. He thinks of his father’s love for the road. Maybe, being a salesman was something in the blood—something his dad had passed on to him. But for Hunter, the road is most satisfying when he travels by motorcycle. He had gone by car and even on foot, but biking is best. He prefers the long road trips, the scenery, passing through the small towns. When he can, he takes the country roads, seeing the rural areas. The mom-and-pop eateries and gas stations. Older homes and farms. There is something about seeing the lives of others out there, how they live. Their day-to-day culture. There is a freedom in just being able to get up and ride, never answering to anyone. But you need your bike. He thought of Chinese monks, given a single rice bowl and told to not lose it, because it was a symbol of life itself. Well, Hunter’s motorcycle is his bowl, his symbol of freedom, of life.
Itch is to meet someone in a rural area outside the town, then motor over to the steakhouse. They had discussed camping for the night at the Cumberland Gap Park. Or they might get in some more miles before dark—cruise over to Daniel Boone National Forest, maybe make it to Louisville or even cross the bridge into Indiana to camp. If they make it to Indiana, Hunter can look up his old friend Dog, a spelunker he hasn’t seen or spoken with in years. Then they can make their way to Illinois the next day.
Throttling their bikes down, they rumble into the steakhouse parking lot. They park in what they hope is a line of sight from the bar so they can keep an eye on their bikes. Boots stepping off highway pegs and onto gravel. Unbuckling their half helmets. Hunter looks over at Nugget. “What the hell’s up with Itch?”
“He’s been strange of late.”
“I mean, it’s not like we don’t know he peddles weed. Got nothing against it. But try and hide it, calling it his ‘problems to reconcile,’ his ‘affairs’? Come on, man, kinda jive-ass turkeys he think we are?” Hunter chuckles.
“Right. We’re all friends here, like family. Think maybe it’s his lady?”
“Like? I believe we are family. And yeah, she’s a feisty gal.”
Carrying their helmets into the bar. The atmosphere meets them as the door opens: loud conversations; sets of eyes checking them out; men, women, and kids; smells of grilled meats and vegetables. They walk over the smoke-colored floor, past booths, to the bar, a long rectangle of clear-coated white oak. Pulling out three chairs, laying their helmets and then their leather coats in the third one, piling them up. Nugget’s and Hunter’s arms are a road map of ink. Hunter could feel the eyes from neighboring tables staring holes through them. Buzz-cut Nugget, with biceps like grapefruits, is the larger of the two large men, whereas Hunter is leaner and has hair. He rubs his chin stubble and looks around the room. On a stool to his left sits a stocky lump of a man, thick in the middle, with thick black-framed glasses like the old-school Clark Kent and a thick box-cut head of hair. He sips a sweating glass of bourbon with a single monstrous ice cube. Making eye contact with Hunter, he nods, gives a down-on-his-luck grin. Hunter feels the questions that will lead into an autobiography of woe, when the man asks, “Out for a ride, or just traveling through?”
“Traveling through. Making a stop for some food and maybe a beer or two.” Hunter offers his hand. “Hunter.”
The guy’s impressive gut hangs out over his blue jeans, balanced on a metal belt buckle that looks built for the job. He sticks out his hand. “Johnny.”
“You from around here?”
“Yeah. Used to work down at the Coca-Cola plant. Got shit-canned.” Lifting his drink, he says, “Why I’m here. Nursing my wounds.” Takes a sip.
Strong scent of bourbon. Gotta be on his third drink, Hunter thinks as he slides onto his stool. “Lost your job. That’s gotta hurt. Come to think of it, guess we’re in the same boat—I lost mine this morning.”
“Union?”
“Naw. Handed my boss his ass for taking his personal failings out on his dog.”
“Sounds like the fuckhead deserved a good ass-handing. Kinda dog?”
“Yes, he did. And it’s a Walker hound. I took her home with me. Left her with my girlfriend. You?”
“Damn, them’s some good dogs.” Taking a sip, Johnny says, “Wish I coulda punched my boss. Working sixteen-hour days, no double time on the weekends. Took a sick day, and they gave me my walking papers. Can you believe that?”
“No shit?” For all Hunter knew, the guy was a horrible worker. Called in all the time. There was always more to the story.
“No shit. Management’s about as useful as tits on a boar hog. Don’t give two fucks about a man and his family; only work, work, work. Twenty years,” Johnny says, fingertip stabbing the bar top. “Twenty damn years I been loyally busting my ass for them.”
“They got a bottom line.” The guy is really down on the management. Hunter is glad he never really dealt with big organizations—only the higher-ups in the army and only for a short stint.
“Better bet your ass they got a bottom line. And I get that,” Johnny tells him, spreading his arms out, palms facing up. “But you best be on board with it, or else—”
“Or else it’s the unemployment line.” This Johnny guy had been sitting on this bar stool and simmering, and now he looked just about ready to boil over. Dying to chew the fat with another soul. Starving for a release of his troubles.
“Nail on the head,” Johnny says to Hunter. He takes another sip of his bourbon.
A young woman with peroxide locks and a flaming-red T-shirt approaches Hunter and Nugget, laying down two menus. Hunter sees her as the kind who is attractive to guys who drink every day. She has that party-girl vibe going on as she asks sweetly, “What I can get you gentlemen to drink today?”
Wanting something with a bit of hop. “I’ll take a Sierra Nevada.” Hunter says.
“Same for me,” Nugget says. “And we got another guy coming.”
“No problem, hon. Will he be drinking?”
“Yeah, just not sure what.”
“No worries. I’ll get your beers; you-all look over the menu. My name’s Lisa if y’all got any questions or need anything. This on one or two checks?”
Hunter says, “I got it.”
Nugget says, “Nah, man, come on, I can get it.”
“So can I.” Hunter opens his menu. “You getting a ribeye?”
Johnny, eavesdropping, tells Hunter, “They got a damn good ribeye.”
Nugget says, “That’s me, the hand-cut ribeye.”
Johnny says, “That’s a damn good choice. Probably their best steak.”
Hunter tries not to get irritated by Johnny’s whiskey-scented interruption. The poor fuck just got sacked from his job. Hunter closes his menu and lays it on the bar. Lisa returns with two frosty glasses. “Two ice-cold pale ales for you guys. Wanna order now, or wait on your friend? Or maybe an appetizer?”
“No appetizer. Give us ten minutes; then we’ll order.”
Nodding, Lisa tells Hunter, “Will do, hon.”
Hunter took a swallow of beer and said, “Appreciate it.”
“Ya know, you’d think after twenty years, I’d be able to miss a day,” Johnny mumbles as if he and Hunter were still deep in conversation. “I mean, I earned them days. They’re mine to miss.”
Nugget seems to be holding back a shit-eating grin. He rolls his eyes as Hunter says, “Twenty years—that’s quite a bit of time under your belt.”
“No shit. None of them fuckers give a cow’s cock. Family owned, even. Company’s been here in this area for about a hundred and ten years, like five generations of family has owned the damn place. Passing it down the line. ’Course, the only family they care for is their own.”
