Bootleg Freight

The light manufacturing plants in town employed a few hundred people. The small county hospital had a staff of sixty-four for all three shifts. The government jobs comprised a police department of seven officers, the post office and a water treatment plant. All in all they considered themselves fortunate compared to other towns that ceased to exist when the coal went away.

Warehouse space made available by abandoned businesses was cheap and plentiful, by the month, or in this case, by the day. Isaac needed only short term storage for it had already been arranged for his product to be moving on to varying destinations in several smaller trucks long before sunrise.

Buddy turned left onto Industrial Avenue just a hundred yards beyond the eastern city limits sign. A truck and trailer repair service occupied one corner and a lumber supply business sat on the other for the folks unwilling to drive forty miles to the nearest Home Depot.

He pulled down into a lower gear as he lumbered along searching for an old wooden sign that read Millis Textile. He almost passed it up as it was leaning badly with the painted lettering nearly faded completely away.

As promised, a metal gate was swung open on his left, a chain with a heavy padlock on its end hung loose from the gate. A flashlight blinked once. The figure holding the light was barely visible in the shadows of the barnlike structure a hundred feet inside the gate.

Buddy searched for a loading dock as he was being motioned inside the vacant lot. He did as instructed, which was to drive directly toward the building. The voice from the shadows ordered him to kill his headlights, making him feel foolish for not doing it earlier. He was still wondering where he was going to back up to when the huge door before him rolled to one side revealing a dimly lit cavernous space with enough room to park several tractor-trailers.

Another man stood inside the opening and without speaking motioned Buddy to follow him forward. After only thirty feet or so the man held up his fist in the universal stop gesture. Before the parking brakes were even set the trailer doors were being swung open and a portable steel ramp was being wheeled up behind the trailer.

As he walked to the rear of the trailer Buddy saw the size of the steel ramp, wondering how one man could have maneuvered it at all, much less so quickly. There must be at least another man here that he hasn’t seen yet.

Then he saw Samson emerge from the depths of the trailer where he had been inspecting the cases of whiskey for damage. Jesus, would you look at that, Buddy all but blurted out. That fellow must be seven feet tall and check out those hands.

He was so much in awe by Samson that he almost allowed himself to be run over by the silent, electric fork lift the other man had driven from another part of the building.

“Watch out fella!” the lift driver warned good naturedly. “He’s a bigun ain’t he? Why, ole Sam there could pick up one of them pallets of whiskey and wouldn’t even need no fork lift. Ain’t that right Sam?”

Samson just stood still and stared in their direction with neither humor nor animosity. There was something in his eyes though, maybe a secret knowledge? Buddy didn’t dwell on it and he sure didn’t want to be accused of rudeness and focused his eyes elsewhere.

“Ole Sam, he don’t talk so much, but he can be a good fella to have around. Long as you stay on his good side, that is. Now you just step aside and let me get this trailer unloaded so we can get you the hell outa here. The less time we hang around here the better.”

The eighteen pallets of liquor was off the trailer in twelve minutes and the barn style door was being rolled open by Samson for Buddy to back out.

“What about my money?” Buddy asked the lift driver, not willing to leave empty handed.

“What about it?” the fellow answered.

“Come on now, don’t be messing around here,” Buddy pleaded.

“Ain’t nobody messin’ around, mister. I ain’t got no money for you.”

So this is how my miserable life ends, in some abandoned warehouse in some ######## town that probably isn’t even on the map. That big Lurch looking dude from the Addam’s family will smash my head on the concrete while this creepy little guy with a jaw full of chaw does God knows what to my son.

He almost wished the little Angel would show up on his shoulder one last time if only to say I told you so. Then he could apologize for not listening. No wonder Isaac was so loose with the five hundred bucks. Small price to pay for about fifty grand worth of whiskey and whatever he can get for a two year old tractor-trailer rig after it’s been repainted and the serial numbers altered.

Just like my Daddy told me and my Marine Drill Instructor screamed at me and my ex-wife wouldn’t let me forget; I ain’t nothing but a God ###### fool and now I’m paying for it in the worst way. If he had a pistol in his hand he would have used it on himself.

“But I was promised and I delivered,” Buddy said, trying unsuccessfully not to whine.

“I’m just ######’ with ya,” the man said and broke out a big smile before spitting a stream of tobacco juice onto the dusty floor. Even Samson laughed silently causing Buddy to think maybe the giant was a mute.

“You city fellers sure can’t take a joke, that’s fer dang sure. Now you just back on outa here and quit wastin’ time. If the cops show up me and ole Sam will be haulin’ ### out the back door leaving you with every bit of this ####, which I reckon is worth at least twenty years federal time. Now git on outa here. Isaac will tell you what to do cause he don’t tell us more than we need to know,” the lift driver said, no longer smiling.

 

Buddy couldn’t refrain from trembling as he started the rig and started backing from the warehouse. There was no room to turn around, forcing him to back across the street into an empty lot on the other side with no traffic at this hour to hinder him. He doubted if there was traffic at any hour. He left his lights off until he reached the end of the block at the main road. It was only then that he realized his Quallcom unit on the dash was dark, which, after a moment’s consideration, he decided was a stroke of luck that would play in his favor.

His plan was to act as if his trailer had been robbed while he slept. Not the best story but how could they prove otherwise? He would spend the night at that shopping center and say it happened there and there would be no electronic trail of him having ever left. If he got fired, so what? Screw ‘em, he would have his little fortune to start his new life. The boy will never learn thought the Angel but kept it to herself.

The phone rang as he rolled up to the stop sign. “I trust you can find your way back to the interstate. Return to where you were parked before and I will be seeing you soon,” and after a moment’s hesitation, “and Buddy, thanks for doing a good job. Now the reward is yours.”


This was a short post since it was the conclusion of Chapter 4. Over 10,000 words in now. Thank-you to those who are following along. I really appreciate it.

 

FIVE

The ride back out to the shopping center on the mountain roads was an easier one without the forty plus thousand pounds of liquor on board and a lighter load on his mind.


“That sure was a short load, wasn’t it?” Matt asked, coming out of the sleeper.


“Yeah, that happens every now and then.”


“Where are we going now?”


“Back to where we took that break. I imagine we will be spending the night there. It’s too late to get another load tonight.”


“Are we going to see Isaac?”


“Maybe, why did you ask me that?”


“I don’t know. Maybe I just dreamed it or something.”
​

The shopping center was all closed down for the night, even the Dairy Freeze was dark. There were no vehicles in the parking lot which worked out perfectly for Buddy’s plan, for it was imperative that there would be no witnesses to discredit his story.

His ploy was to get up around four A.M. and open the trailer doors. He would then call 911 and tell the operator some movement woke him up and when he crawled out of bed he saw another semi taking off across the lot. The bandits had obviously backed up to his trailer and transferred the merchandise.

Buddy was delusional to think his absurd story would be even remotely believable but it was all he had. His other option, as he saw it, would be to simply abandon the truck. He figured he could rent a car and disappear for a while and wait for things to cool down. The more he considered that, the more he liked it.

The silver Ford Crown Victoria was late nineties vintage but was impeccable, most likely from spending most of its life in a garage.

The man behind the wheel was dressed nothing like the trucker they met in Dexter, Tennessee just days before. Isaac was dressed in a perfectly fitting dark suit accompanied by gray tie with dark pinstripes against a starched white shirt. His black Oxford shoes gleamed in the night.

Buddy and Matt climbed from the truck to meet Isaac as he got out of the automobile. Buddy was somewhat unnerved by Isaac’s change in appearance but chose not to make an issue of it. His son showed no such discretion however.

“Wow, Isaac, you sure are looking sharp! You been to church or something?” Matt asked.

“Why thank-you, Matt. And no, I haven’t been to church. I’ve just had some business to attend to. Speaking of which, I have some business with your father. I need to ask you to remain here with the truck until we return. I promise it won’t take long at all.”

Buddy was expecting Isaac to just deliver the cash and be on his way and was now suspicious of this new development. But before he could voice an objection Matt responded to Isaac.

“Sure thing Isaac, I don’t mind. I know you will take good care of my Dad.”

“I sure will, Matt. I sure will.”

 

Author's note:

The old adage about truth being stranger than fiction is often true. While writing the previous scene I was reminded of a Swift driver who was arrested for cargo theft. This was in the late 90s and occurred at the Atlanta Petro off I-285.

The driver had apparently sold a Circuit City load comprised of televisions, VCRs, video games, laptops, etc. His plan wasn't much better, or worse, depending on your perspective, than our character Buddy's was.

He found somebody (I was always unclear if this was a partner in crime or just a random truck driver) to lock him inside the empty trailer while parked at the Petro. The next step was for this person to call 911 and report hearing somebody in distress locked inside the trailer he was walking by. Unclear at this point if there was supposed to be a padlock on the trailer or not.

When the cops arrived the Swift driver claimed he had been robbed at gunpoint; then the robbers locked him in the trailer and he had been in there for THREE DAYS. The weakest part of the story was that there was no evidence he spent that length of time in the trailer for he showed no signs of dehydration and it appeared he had not used the bathroom on the floor of the trailer.

I think when the 911 caller came clean it was determined the driver had spent less than thirty minutes in the trailer.

 

Matt was sitting on the edge of the bunk, involved with a game of colorful ducks on his iPad when he sensed the figure sitting beside him although he felt no movement from the mattress whatsoever.

It was a little girl wearing the prettiest white dress he had ever seen, although as a seven year old boy he honestly didn’t pay much attention to those things.

Her shoes were also white with tiny silver buckles. Her blonde hair had the suggestion of gold and fell perfectly even with her chin, eyes the faintest blue. She looked to be about ten years old.

“Hello, Matt,” she said in a voice as light as air.

“Hi, what’s your name?” he responded, barely registering any surprise at having a visitor emerge virtually from nowhere.

“You can just call me Angel. We don’t really have names.”

“Wow, so you’re like a real Angel? Do you have wings back there?” Matt asked, playing along, because by now he was convinced this was but a dream, like when Isaac talked to him.

“If I show you my wings will you take me seriously? I’m not a dream, you know, and neither are your conversations with Isaac.”

Matt didn’t make an effort to conceal his surprise. Kids that age are generally too honest to hide their feelings anyway. “Oh, wow, you can read my mind? I’m sorry I didn’t take you seriously. You seem real nice.”

Her laugh reminded Matt of delicate bells tinkling. He had never heard a more delightful sound emitted from another human being. “You say that a lot don’t you? And please don’t be sorry for anything. I know you have never met anyone like me before.”

“No, I sure haven’t. And what do I say a lot?”

“You say wow a lot but that’s okay. It doesn’t bother a thing. It’s just you being you.”

“I’m sure glad it doesn’t bother you. I like the way you laugh. It sounds way cool.”

“Thank-you Matt, but time is short and I have things to tell you, okay? But since I promised I will show you the wings; not such a big deal really, more for show than anything,” she said as she turned ninety degrees, putting her back toward Matt.

“Oh wow! That is so totally awesome!” he exclaimed, more exuberant about this revelation than anything he’d ever seen before.

A half-moon shaped section was fashioned from the back of her dress, dropping down six inches and the width reaching to the center of each shoulder blade. This allowed the stalks to protrude freely from the dress. They were folded up neatly against her back when she turned. A sweater or jacket would neatly cover them if desired. The tips reached almost to her waist.

When she knew Matt was really focused on her wings she showed off a little, flexing her shoulders, allowing them to spread, although not entirely, due to the confines of the cab. They moved outward and upward in a fluid motion, as effortlessly as one would turn their head or wiggle their fingers.

“WOW! WAY COOL!” Matt nearly shouted. “Can you fly with those things?”

“Of, course, that’s what wings are for, silly,” she said, laughing precociously. “But seriously, Matt, no more questions for now. Maybe one day we will have time to talk, but now isn’t the time. I’m afraid you may never see your father again, and your life is most likely in danger as well.”

“What are you saying? That can’t be true. Isaac wouldn’t hurt him,” Matt said, alarmed at this revelation.

“He is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, Matt. I have been trying to warn your Dad, but he is very stubborn. He just kept ignoring me.”

“Yeah, he’s like that. He’s not a totally bad guy, but he sure does some dumb stuff. You’re not the only one he wouldn’t listen to. Maybe if he had listened to Mom we would all still be together. Wait a minute, you mean you’ve been talking to him already? I would think he would pay attention to a real life Angel.”

“Well not exactly like this,” she explained. “You are actually the first person I’ve talked to face to face. I’m kinda new at this, you see, and I just figured this part out. This is my first assignment.”

“Wow, you mean you were just a kid when you died and went up to heaven?”

Her lack of experience with earthly treks allowed the black Ford Expedition to ride up beside the big truck unnoticed, easing into the unlit area between the rig and the dumpster.

“I, or we, rather, don’t have time for this now. You need to go, go anywhere. Just don’t let them find you.”

“What did you mean about a wolf in sheep’s clothing?”

Before she could answer the passenger door opened. Angel vanished like a vapor as the big head peered in. She could only present herself to the one she was assigned to assist. That was a rule she operated under and was helpless to do otherwise. Now she could only observe and it pained her to be unable to intervene.

*

 

Isaac drove west, back over the interstate for seven miles before turning south onto a county road whose sign had not been visible for several years due to the proliferation of kudzu vines which nobody cared enough about to remove.

A mile down the road another sign, this one visible, proclaimed they were entering the village of Wales. Wales was merely a loose collection of homes, some with farms and others without, that comprised a particular zip code. There was a combination store/post office/barber shop/flag pole at some point in history but only the remaining residents that were around during the second world war remember exactly when that was. The location of that establishment is now occupied by a grain silo emblazoned with the village name and an American flag, both faded nearly beyond recognition.

Issac turned the silver Crown Vic into a gravel driveway a hundred yards beyond the silo and drove another two hundred to the farmhouse sitting among ancient oak, maple, and elm trees. A covered stone well sat to one side of the frame house, a frayed rope holding on to a steel bucket, rusty from disuse, long since replaced by an electric pump.
The house itself was in good repair, the gloss black shutters stood out in contrast to the white structure which was obviously freshly painted or recently pressure washed.
A stand-alone two car garage sat to one side, its color scheme complementing the house perfectly. A covered concrete walkway led from the garage to the side entrance of the house. One of the garage doors rose as Isaac pressed a button on a control panel mounted on the sun visor.

Buddy wondered why this trip was necessary. Why couldn’t Isaac have simply given him an envelope at the shopping center? Maybe he wanted to do this as a formal business affair, toast some champagne or something. Or maybe he wanted to discuss a future endeavor. Buddy had the memory of a mosquito. An hour ago he was fearing for his life and now eager to get involved in the same sordid business all over again. At least that pesky Angel wasn’t nagging him anymore. He took that as a sign that the danger had passed.

“Sure is a nice place you have here Isaac. Looks nice and private too,” Buddy said.

“Oh, it is very private. My nearest neighbor is a quarter mile away,” Isaac told him.

“Been living here long?”

“Oh, no. This is a recent acquisition,” Isaac answered absent mindedly as he made a show of patting down his jacket pockets.

“I seem to have misplaced something. Could you be so kind as to go back to the car and see if there is an envelope on the seat while I unlock the house? Just use the walk-in door. It isn’t locked.” Isaac asked Buddy. As soon as Buddy turned to walk back to the garage he slipped on a pair of ultra thin latex gloves, nearly invisible over his pallid complexion.

“I see you found it,” he said as Buddy came into the kitchen bearing a thick business size envelope.
“Yeah, it was stuck down in between the seat and the console.”

“How clumsy of me to almost lose something so valuable. Just hang on to it and make yourself comfortable in the living room. May I offer you a beverage? I know it has been a tiring day for you.”

Buddy realized at that moment just how parched he was. “Just cold water would be great,” he answered as he entered the living room, not pausing to wonder who the people were in the various framed photographs on the walls and end tables, nor why Isaac was in none of them. Nor did he wonder how this “recent acquisition” was furnished so well and appeared to have been that way for many years, so focused was he on the bulky envelope in his hands.

Isaac was not surprised to find no bottled water in the refrigerator. The home’s former inhabitants were of an age who surely found it foolish to pay for something in a bottle that they could obtain from their well.

There was an icemaker in the door of the fridge however. He placed a few cubes in an apparently clean glass before filling the glass from the kitchen sink.

Buddy downed half the glass in one long gulp before setting it down on one of the four coasters arranged neatly on the polished hardwood coffee table. Only then did he realize he was still holding the envelope from the car; actually he was holding it in a death grip.

“Oh, sorry,” he said as he passed the envelope to Isaac.

“It’s yours, Buddy,” Isaac said in the tone of a kindly grandfather. “Go ahead, open it.”

Buddy’s hands shook as he tore open one end of the bulky envelope, eyes widening as he withdrew the stack of hundred dollar bills, more than he had ever seen in one place except in the movies.

“Count it,” Isaac said in the same soft voice he used before. “I decided to put something extra in there for you. Well, for Matt really. He’s a special boy and I wish for you to take special care of him.”

As Buddy hit what he was sure was the ten thousand dollar mark he still has a considerable sheaf of bills remaining. His expression transformed from bewilderment to joy as he counted an additional four thousand dollars.

“I don’t know what to say, Isaac,” Buddy said, clearly overwhelmed.

“You earned it. Now let’s get you back to your truck. And your son.”

 

The two men barely spoke during the ride back to the shopping center, Buddy already spending the altering his spending plans to accommodate the additional windfall. He even toyed with the idea of using it as a down payment on a rig of his own so he could haul exclusively for Isaac and no longer be bothered with that crappy company he worked for.

“Good luck, Buddy, and thanks again for everything. I’ll be in touch, perhaps sooner than you think,” Isaac said as he pulled next to the semi, not offering to shake hands, still wearing the latex gloves. Buddy offered a salute as the silver Ford sped out to the highway.

As he climbed into the rig he paused, wondering if he had remembered to lock the doors. Maybe Matt had went out to pee and had forgotten to lock the door behind himself. The matter was quickly dismissed as he withdrew the money from the envelope while sitting behind the wheel, anxious to count it again, to fondle it lovingly, fanning it out before him like a massive hand of playing cards, each bill an ace of diamonds.

A blur of movement from the periphery of his vision was all the warning he had before a firm pressure enveloped his entire head. There was no pain, but rather a warmth as if his cranium had been snared by an organic pouch.

The pain came a second later when he made an effort to twist away. He brought up his hands, grasping a wrist of unfathomable diameter. He might as well have been trying to twist a length of an iron railroad track for all the good it did.

The blinding pressure seemed to originate from several points at once, spanning from behind his ears to his temples. It dawned on him that his head was being squeezed by a giant human hand, which was an absurd notion until he recalled the huge man in the warehouse not two hours ago. He’s a bigun ain’t he? Even bigger up close and not a mute either.

“I wouldn’t try that again, mister. I’m barely squeezing right now. You have no idea how bad it can get and I’m sure you don’t want to find out. Now, it’s best if you just relax and keep them arms in your lap.” The voice was not as Buddy expected. Not high pitched, but no Shaquille O’Neal either.

“Where’s Matt? What have you done with my son?”

“The boy is fine, I promise.”

That seemed to relax Buddy somewhat. Whether or not it was true was another matter but he wanted to believe it. Had to believe it.

The bright green pit viper Samson withdrew from the burlap sack was a native of Sri Lanka but could survive in North America if placed in the right conditions. Although quite different in appearance, the viper was a direct relative of the North American rattlesnake. Aside from its brilliant color, its chief difference was its size, which varied from twelve to eighteen inches in length; tiny compared to the big timber rattlers in the southeastern United States.

This particular specimen was barely a foot long, perfectly suited for occasions such as this. Perhaps due to their size, which so often determined the pecking order of nature’s creatures, this species of pit viper was not particularly aggressive and would generally only strike out when threatened or cornered in a confined space. But when it decided to strike, it released a venom few ever survived, for if an antidote were even available, any treatment would be ineffective after only fifteen minutes.

Buddy felt the coolness of the reptile against his flesh as Samson fed the viper head first inside the driver’s shirt collar. Buddy flinched, which earned him another squeeze of the cranium; this one sending bright white flashes of pain across his field of vision, causing him to forget, for the moment, the creature that had invaded the underneath of his clothing.

“Be still,” Samson whispered in his ear. “If your soul is pure, your body will be calm. God sees through the eyes of the serpent, just as in Eden. If your heart is dark, He will know, and you will be punished.”

This guy is a total nutcase thought Buddy. But he’s right about one thing. If I stay perfectly still the snake will leave me alone and crawl right on out of my sleeve.
Buddy’s lower back was against the seat back, causing the restless serpent to find its way into an arm pit opening, pausing momentarily. It resumed motion when Buddy shivered, genuinely frightened now, frightened as he had never been in his life.

The snake turned at the right elbow, following the arm from inside the long sleeved shirt. That’s when Buddy lost his resolve to remain absolutely still, demonstrating one reason why he never qualified for Marine sniper training. The other reason was that he just wouldn’t listen to a #### thing anybody tried to tell him.

He struck out with his left hand, slapping at the viper through the cloth. He never even felt the pair of fangs as they sunk into his flesh on his inner forearm, six inches above his wrist.

There was no need for Samson to increase pressure on his skull for the venom acted rapidly, working its magic on the central nervous system in short order. Within seconds Buddy experienced blurriness of vision and disorientation. He retained enough self-awareness to know he was in trouble, serious trouble.

Drool ran from his mouth and dripped from his chin as his fingers clenched and unclenched of their own volition.

Samson recognized the signs and released his grip of the dying man’s head. He knew he could leave now as his job was essentially done here, but never one to disobey Isaac, he waited until the man took his final breath, leaving no doubt whatsoever.