Over Yonder, page 26
They came to a fork in the road.
“Where to now?” she said into the radio. But the radio was silent.
“I asked, where to now? Over?”
Static.
No answer.
She fooled with the radio dial to no avail, searching for service, before finally plopping the radio onto the seat beside her with a sigh.
The others behind her veered right.
Then she veered left.
Soon they were headed through wilderness even more remote than before. The road became less evenly surfaced. Until now, the path had been gravel, but now it was just dirt ruts, washed out from years of rain and neglect from the Alabama DOT.
“Why aren’t they answering?” said Tater.
The woman was noticeably on high alert. “Must not be many radio towers nearby.”
When the SUV tires ran over the huge, canyon-like patches of road where earth had been eroded by floods and time, she and Tater bounced entire feet into the air.
“I think you should go a little slower,” said Tater.
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t want to wreck your suspension on these roads. Chevy struts are crap. Doesn’t take much to ruin them.”
Maria glared at him. Tater shut his mouth.
“I’m gonna need you to stay in your own lane tonight,” she said. “Can you do that for me?”
He nodded with a little too much enthusiasm. “I’ll do whatever you tell me to do, Maria.”
Chapter 62
The ambulance arrived with a wailing siren. Rumack was amazed at how long it had taken the ambulance to get there. Nearly thirty minutes.
Two EMTs jumped from the cab. One was tall and lean; the other was older and heavyset. In seconds, the paramedics had unfolded an aluminum stretcher. They covered Caroline’s lower body with a blanket and lifted her onto the stretcher, then examined her.
Rumack had no idea what they were doing or saying, but by their tones, something was very wrong.
“What’s going on?” said Rumack.
“We need to hurry,” the older medic said to his partner.
“Where will you take her?”
“The hospital. It’s a breech.”
“What’s a breech?”
“It means your child needs to be born in a hospital.”
Caroline was on the stretcher, grunting and moaning. The veins in her forehead and neck showed with each contraction.
“Ma’am,” the younger EMT said, “do you want your husband to come with us in the ambulance?”
“We’re not married.”
“Ma’am, what I need to know is, do you want your boyfriend to drive and meet us at the hospital, or come with us?”
Caroline was still squeezing Rumack’s hand.
“He’s not my boyfriend either. He’s just an Uber driver.”
“I’m between jobs,” said Rumack.
The younger medic said, “Ma’am, I just need to know if you want him here with you or not.”
They were already rolling Caroline toward the ambulance.
Rumack was following the stretcher, jogging alongside it. More specifically, being dragged by Caroline. She would not release his hand.
“He can come with us.”
Before Rumack could say anything else, everyone was loading up into the back of the ambulance.
“Sir, get in.”
“I don’t think I should,” Rumack said. “You heard her, I’m just a driver.”
“Hey,” the young medic said, clapping his shoulder. “You’re here for her. That’s what matters.”
The medics slid the stretcher into the back. Rumack found a seat in the corner of the ambulance. The paramedics slammed the doors behind them, and the engine roared.
* * *
Woody opened his eyes. He was on the ground. Lying in the dirt. There was dirt in his mouth. Clinging to his teeth. The fall had gone harder than he’d anticipated. He hadn’t been fully braced for it.
“I think you had a heart attack,” said Peter, standing over him.
The nighttime insects were screaming. So it was difficult to distinguish sounds from one another with the constant white noise of the crickets. Woody was in the pit. His body was growing cold in the night air. And his joints hurt. But he was okay.
“Must’ve been a small attack or else you wouldn’t be looking at me right now.” Peter squatted next to Woody and took his pulse.
“Here.” He gave Woody a bottle of water. “You’re making this too easy for me, Father. Maybe I should just leave you here for a little bit and come back to throw dirt on top of your body.”
“You’re a real gentleman.”
Peter wrapped his arms around Woody’s chest. He heaved him out of the pit, dragged him through the tall grass, and propped him against a headstone, feet splayed before him.
Woody was breathing heavily and holding his chest. He retched as though he were going to vomit. Peter removed his shirt and picked up the shovel. Then the man started digging.
His captor was in excellent shape. His arms were like pillars, coiled with serpents beneath the skin. Each shovel stroke was easy for him; Peter moved as easily as though he were simply putting in time at the gym.
“You don’t have to dig,” said Woody. “I’ll be okay. Just give me a few seconds to recover.”
“I don’t have a few seconds.”
Woody could see the Colt tucked in the back of the man’s jeans. Woody sat deathly still. He was still in a state of shock. Namely, because he had not expected this guy to fall for a fake heart attack.
* * *
Special Agent Maria Lopez turned off her headlights. The Tahoes behind her did the same. She had a feeling they were getting close. They were on their own now, caught within the far-flung backwoods of the Cotton State.
“We can’t see without lights,” said Tater.
She held up a finger. “I’m hearing your voice again.”
“Why aren’t they radioing you back when you call them? They’re literally right behind you.”
Her face was severe now. “There you go again, talking.”
She drove on rural dirt roads in the ink darkness. The black of night ate and digested everything it touched, leaving only void in its wake. Ahead of the Tahoe they saw the Volvo, parked alongside the culvert. The agent eased onto the brakes.
“That’s the car,” Tater whispered.
“Thanks for the update,” she said, squinting into the darkness. The car was parked a long way from a distant church that sat perched on a hillside, forming a silhouette against a purple sky.
“What are you going to do?” said Tater.
“Why are you whispering?”
Tater had watched a lot of crime dramas on Amazon Prime. And in such dramas, they always whispered. The characters whispered even in daily life, like when they went to the coffee shops, the police station, or the dentist.
Maria spoke into the radio again. When no responses came, she fumbled with the dial again. The agent was visibly aggravated. After giving up on the radio, the woman took a few moments to stare out the windshield, like she was thinking long and hard about what to do.
Without saying a word, she unfastened her seat belt and stepped out of the car. She marched around to the back of the Tahoe, outfitting herself with various ballistic vests and artillery.
Tater got out of the car and followed her. “What are you doing?”
She was curt and biting. “I feel like this doesn’t need to be stated, but you need to get back in the car right now.”
Tater had never been very good at following directions. He didn’t move.
She strapped her vest around her tiny waist and buckled it. “If you don’t get back in the vehicle, I will disable you.”
“But I can help you.”
“You are already endangering an agent’s life. Do you know what they do to cop killers in prison?”
Tater made no moves.
Maria checked her weapon, then holstered it. “I’m counting down from five, and then you will be classified as a threat to my safety.”
Tater let go a big sigh.
“Five, four . . .”
He sulked back to the SUV and climbed inside. He did not shut the door. He gazed out at the night. The old church in the distance was the only structure around for miles, leaning slightly off plumb. Tater faced a brief crisis of conscience. From the cab, he watched as she crept toward the Volvo, handgun leading the way. She peered in the windows of the Volvo and inspected the interior.
Maria dropped to the ground and used the Volvo as a kind of shield. She peered from around the rear fender.
She began crouch-walking up the hill toward the church. There were people up there. Their silhouettes were visible against the night sky. And there was the glowing dot of a lantern; a flashlight, maybe. And Tater realized he did not even know this woman’s last name.
Within the solace of the cab, Tater pouted. His heart was beating harder than it ever had before. He inspected the shotgun scabbard mounted on the center console. He slowly placed his hand on the gun. Examined the chamber. They were short-barrel shotguns. Like the kind Tater and his cousins used for shooting Ken dolls off fence posts at his grandmother’s house back when he was a toddler.
Tater watched as Maria climbed up the hill under the cover of night, keeping low to the ground, and he knew he would likely go to prison for the rest of his life for what he was thinking. But, again, Tater had never been very good at following instructions.
So he got out of the car and followed her.
Chapter 63
The inside of the ambulance was lit far too brightly, with LED lights that were probably capable of causing epileptic episodes. The LEDs were flickering slightly so that they were giving Caroline a headache.
Both medics were men. And the younger one was cute. Caroline was caught in the throes of child labor. This was not her best look, lying in an ambulance with her pants off and a belly that was roughly the size of Texarkana. She was mortally embarrassed. This wasn’t the side of herself she would have chosen to present to a couple of males in uniform. To make matters worse, her legs were spread and one of the EMTs was looking right at her business.
“How are you doing?” the older EMT said.
“Living the dream,” she said.
Rumack was beside her, holding her hand. And the poor man looked like he was about to pass out. His face was bedsheet-white. He kept telling the EMTs that he had never seen so much blood before. This had become his mantra. He could not quit saying it.
“Wow,” said Rumack. “That’s a lot of blood.”
“It’s totally normal for her to discharge that much blood,” the EMT said. “If you’re feeling sick, turn your head away, sir.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Please, sir. Look the other way.”
Rumack shook his head. “I’ll be okay.”
The older medic was moving to Caroline’s other side. The other was shoving Rumack out of the way.
“She’s almost fully dilated.”
Rumack seemed as though he was about to lose consciousness. But he held a valiant face. She could see the muscles in his forehead tensing, trying so hard to look normal.
“Sir, do you need to put your feet up?”
Rumack was holding Caroline’s hand. “No, don’t worry about me. Just take care of her.”
“Are you going to be okay?” asked Caroline.
Rumack’s face was as white as a ghost.
“I’m here for you,” he said. “You’re doing great, Caroline.”
Chapter 64
Tonic immobility occurs a lot in the animal kingdom. It’s called thanatosis. In layman’s terms: playing possum. But possums aren’t the only ones who do it. The hog-nosed snake plays dead when threatened, rolling on its back and releasing a foul odor from its body, mimicking the smell of rot. Predators lose interest in the snake quickly.
A lot of spiders resort to thanatosis after being shaken from their webs. Think about it. You see a spider curled up on the floor and your instinct to squash it disappears. Black house ants play dead—they even do this with each other during conflicts. Frogs play dead. Wild ducks play dead. Domestic chickens play dead. Quail. Badgers. Grasshoppers. Even a shark will go belly-up when it senses a challenge it cannot win.
Feigning death isn’t always about defense. Some species, such as the female nursery spider, will play dead to find a mate. Think: damsel in distress. (“Can you help me change this tire, sir?”) On the other hand, the female tree frog’s instinct is to play dead to avoid mating. (“I have a headache, honey.”)
Woody’s captor was still digging his grave, still standing inside the hole, and the man was already up to his shoulders in earth. The guy was a much faster gravedigger than Woody. Of course, the man was considerably more motivated than Woody had ever been too.
The man was steadily talking, having a philosophical conversation with himself. Woody had no idea what he was going on about. He was too busy lying inert, holding his bottle of water.
Finally, the man crawled out of the grave. Woody tossed him the bottle of water, and the man guzzled down the rest of the water, then threw his shovel on the ground.
He walked over to Woody and stood over him. Woody propped up against a grave marker, still holding his chest.
“You’re taking all the fun out of this, Padre.”
“Sorry to be a spoilsport. I’ll try harder next time.”
The man stooped and took Woody’s hand. He took his pulse again, looking at his wristwatch.
“Almost two hundred.”
“What do I win, Johnny?”
“Kind of funny, isn’t it?”
“What’s so funny?”
“How you’re going to end up killing yourself without any of my help. Surely this must be destiny, don’t you think? Surely this means you were meant to die.”
“Don’t call me Shirley.”
The man didn’t register a reaction. Instead, he grasped Woody’s ankles and dragged him by his legs to his grave.
“You’re not missing anything, you know,” the man said. “This country’s been going to hell for decades. There’s no telling where it will be in five years when the hard times come.”
“What hard times?”
“They’re on their way. This country is worse off than it’s ever been before. You can’t trust the media. You can’t trust local judges. Police officers. The military. You can’t trust anyone. In a way, I’m doing you a favor. This is not the America you or I grew up in.”
“Remind me to thank you when this is all over.”
When Woody neared the deep hole, he was eye level with the shovel lying on the ground, the handle only a few inches from his grasp.
Woody reached outward. Slowly. With both hands. If he was going to do this, he only had a few seconds to get it right. Woody wrapped his hands around the shovel handle and squeezed it tightly.
And prepared to make his move.
* * *
The ambulance was stuck in traffic. Chains of taillights stretched backward toward the Mobile skyline. They were not getting through. There had been an accident, the medics said. So the ambulance sat parked on the shoulder. The emergency vehicle’s red lights were glaring. The yelping sirens were sounding.
The medics were in the back of the ambulance prepping Caroline for what was coming next. The epidural was taking effect, but the pressure was still intense. It felt like her insides were rupturing. And the bright lights were giving her a headache. They told her the baby was breech. That the baby’s bottom was coming out first, which made a vaginal birth risky. Normally a breech baby would be delivered via C-section, the older medic explained.
“So that’s what you are going to do?” she asked the older guy.
“Ma’am,” he said, “we can’t do an emergency cesarian section in an ambulance. That’s a surgery you don’t want done in the back of a van on the highway.”
“What’s going to happen to my baby?”
The cute one told her to calm down. It was their go-to phrase. Calm down. Try to relax. Breathe deeply. And of course, You’re doing great.
The older EMT examined her, then moved to speak to his partner in a quiet voice. But she could hear them. There wasn’t much privacy in an ambulance.
He was telling the other that he had learned to do a breech delivery in school. The younger medic was insisting this was no place to experiment. The older was insisting they didn’t have a choice.
“I think her body can handle it,” he said.
“No way. We need to call aeromedical.”
“We don’t have time. It’s happening now.”
On cue, Caroline was seized with a contraction. She had the urge to push for all she was worth. The pressure in her head was so intense she thought her skull was going to burst open.
“This baby can’t wait.” The older medic was already changing his gloves. “We’re going to have to do this here.”
“What’s going on?” Rumack said.
“We are going to deliver this baby, sir. And that means I’m going to need your help.”
Rumack swallowed. “My help.”
“Sir, if you just do what I say, everything will be fine.”
“But . . . I’ve never done anything this . . . this important.”
The medic placed a hand on his shoulder. “Tonight is your chance to change that.”
Chapter 65
Swinging a heavy instrument, such as a shovel, is an inefficient way of using it as a weapon. Woody learned this in prison fights. Swinging a long-handled heavy object takes too long. The swing requires a windup. Then you have to factor in the time it takes for the actual swing itself. A baseball bat, for example, weighs about three pounds and takes hundreds of milliseconds to finish making contact with the ball. But a shovel weighs a lot more. To swing a shovel would be to give your opponent ample time to counterattack you, kill you, and go grab a Starbucks latte before your swing ever makes contact.
