The Drought (12 page)

With little conviction and less authority, he mumbled, “Watch your mouth.” Seeing an unopened can of Lone Star beer on the counter he walked past her, popped the can open and drained the warm fluid.

Suzy, long past the years of disgust but still struggling with disbelief, shook her head. “Rodney’s outside.”

“The fuck you say.” Murph raised his dark eyebrows feighning disbelief. “Is that who’s been blaring on his horn all morning?”

With a roll of her eyes, Suzy stiffened her shoulders and Murphy knew he was dismissed.
Teenagers, they were so sensitive.
He opened a cabinet and pulled out a jar of Tylenol. He popped three in his mouth, grabbed a half empty bottle of beer and washed them down. Wincing at the taste, he looked at the bottle wondering breifly who in the hell had brought Corona to his party. Murphy preferred his beer canned and he definitly didn’t buy yuppy, shit beer. Just the same, he finished the bottle and tossed the empty into the trash.

Unable to keep her silence, Suzy taunted. “I think there’s a few more unfinished cans over here.”

Ignoring her jab he asked. “Have you seen my hunting cap?”

Undeterred, she gestured to the cans littering the counter space and the table. “I could gather them all together, I bet we could get at least one full glass.”

He grabbed a black hat with the San Antonio Spurs logo stitched across the front and headed for the front of the house. “I’m going hunting.”

Suzy yelled at his back. “Come on DAD, how about one more for the road!”

The front door closed.

The thick heat surprised him. It was like an oven. He took a couple of shallow breaths and felt the onset of a hell of a bender coming his way. Walking to the other side of his truck he retrieved a pistol out of the glove box, rummaged around and found a dozen loose shells. He put the shells in the pocket of his vest and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels from under the seat.

Rodney was leaning back in his seat with the bill of his fluorescent orange cap resting over his eyes. Murphy thumped the hood of the truck and startled him. He wished he had a fucking air-horn to really deliver a dose of justice. Climbing into the cab he caught sight of Rodney’s crossbow lying in the bed of the truck. He raised a doubtful eyebrow. Javelina were fast and mean and didn’t tend to hang out long enough to be picked off by a bow.

Hunting season didn’t officially open in Kimble County until the first week of November, but Rodney had gotten it up his ass he needed to shoot something. The two men had a friend who owned a beautiful stretch of land up by the North Llano River. It was good hunting, and for a twelve-pack of beer, Doug Pellier would let them stomp around out there all day. Murphy preferred hunting turkey or white tail, but javelina could be had year ’round and in a pinch they offered a challenging hunt. The small, pig-like animal could leave a trail for miles only to disappear around the next ridge. That disappearing act had earned them the name, desert ghosts.

By 9:30 a.m. the sun was a burning white orb in a cloudless sky and Murphy Jobes and Rod Sawyer had hiked a good way out on Pellier’s land. They walked for the most part on the upper bank of the North Llano River until they caught sight of a set of tracks headed down the bank. From there, the tracks cut across the muddy river bottom and continued upriver. The muddy crossing point scared the shit out of Murphy. He had lived his whole life in Kimble County and he’d never seen the Llano go dry. “Bad shit coming,” he mumbled, leaving his boot prints along the muddy bottom.

The mud along the banks of the Llano made tracking the javelina easier. They followed a set of tracks through the mud for a half a mile, until they disappeared into the high grasses above the bank.

Exhausted from the heat, Murphy stopped. “We’ve lost the trail. Let’s take a break.” Rod nodded his assent and pointed at two live oaks whose limbs had become intertwined over the years. The two men climbed the bank and settled themselves in the shade of the twisted trees.

Murphy pulled out the bottle of Jack Daniels and took a long swig. Clenching his teeth against the bitter fluid he barked. “Damn, that’s good shit.” He wiped his sleeve across his mouth and offered the canteen to Rodney.

Rodney took a long drink, winced and drank again.

The combination of heat and alcohol took its toll. They sat in the shade, half dozing, until Rod, slightly buzzed, pulled a javelina call out of his hunting vest and started blowing. A high pitched cry that sounded like a newborn baby emitted from the device.

Murph snorted in disgust. “That shit don’t work. Hell, you’re more likely to scare them off with all the noise.” He grabbed the bottle of Jack from Rodney and took another long swig.

“Ah, what the hell do you know? I’ve got a friend out in Arizona who swears by this little baby.” He held up the J-13 javelina call and waggled it in front of Murph’s face. “You’ll see a whole herd’ll be showing up any minute.”

Murph gestured toward the horizon, still holding the canteen in his hand. “Yeah, and I bet they’re just going to line themselves up right along that ridge so you can pick ’em off one by one.” He was referring to the crossbow his friend was carrying.

Ignoring Murph’s sarcasm Rod stood up. He left the shelter of the trees stumbling a little as he crossed the dry grass looking for a place to take a piss. He blew on the J-13, broke into drunken giggles and called out, “Here piggy, piggy.”

Murph heard him snorting laughter and thought,
some guys just can’t handle Jack.
Rod snorted a few more times and made a noise that sounded like, “woof.”

The last noise caught Murph’s attention. He peered in Rod’s direction trying to catch a glimpse of him. Rod was standing with his back to Murph, swaying precariously. D
amn. I better not have to carry his ass back to the truck.
His eyes drifted past Rod and Murphy noticed there wasn’t even the slightest breeze. Not a single blade of grass was blowing. This heat was the damnedest thing. His lids started to close and the urge to curl up in the shade for a late morning siesta was too strong to ignore. He was just starting to doze when he heard the scream.

Murph’s heart froze in his chest. A second scream cut through the hot air. Murphy was getting up but it felt like he was moving in slow motion, like he was in a dream. Everything felt like it was going in slow motion. But he
was
moving because the next thing he knew he was coming in on Rod and he could see why the man was screaming. He had one javelina gouging through the flesh on the back of his right leg and another had a hold of his right hand.

Murph didn’t hesitate. He pulled the pistol from his waistband and fired. Drunk as he was, he was a good shot. He plugged the one hanging on Rod’s leg and it fell to the ground, dead. He wanted to yell at Rod
. You see, this is why you don’t bring a crossbow. You never had a chance.
He fired again. The second javelina dropped to the ground and tried to run away. Rod screamed. “He’s got my finger!”

Murphy squinted. He could see the little shit had something in his mouth. He fired again. Squealing, the javelina dropped the finger and stopped moving. Another javelina ran over and picked up the severed finger. Murphy was about to plug him too when he realized something was wrong. The javelina weren’t running away. The little shits always disappeared at the sound of a gun. Someone forgot to send this bunch the memo: “When you hear gun shots, run.”

Instead of scattering, the little bastards were starting to circle around like they were going to attack again. Murphy tried to get a good look at Rod. The J-13 was still dangling from his lips, his fly was open and the back of his pant leg was growing darker from the gouge in his leg. Rod remained completely motionless while blood continued to spout from his missing digit and the dry dirt around his feet slowly turned red. Two of the javelina were already rooting around the blood soaked area.

Murph licked his lips and tasted salt. He could feel the sweat beading up around his hairline and dripping down his face. He only had three shots left and by his count there were at least seven javelina circling Rod.
Circling?
Murph shook his head, trying to clear the Jack induced haze. He couldn’t make sense of it. He’d never seen a pack of javelina acting this way. He’d been on hunts where they tracked javelina for an entire weekend and never saw a single one.
For Christ sake
, they were called desert ghosts, when they were scared they were supposed to disappear.

Murph licked his lips again, and called out in a low steady voice. “Rod. I’ve got a plan, but I need you to throw the J-13 to me.” One of the javelina looked up at the sound of Murph’s voice. It watched Murph intently, like it was following every word he said. “I saw something up river, when we crossed over, a car,” he licked his lips again, “or maybe a truck.” His voice cracked. “It was stuck in the mud. I’m going to distract our little friends here, and when I do, you gotta run like your life depends on it.” Murphy thought,
because buddy from the shape you’re in, I’d bet it does.

“Now reach up, real slow, and grab the call from your mouth.” At first Murphy didn’t think it was going to work. Rod looked like he was in shock and couldn’t hear anything let alone act on a plan, but then he saw Rod’s left hand moving slowly up toward his mouth.

“That’s it, nice and slow.”

Rod grabbed the J-13 and clenched it in his hand.

“That’s it buddy. Now give it a good throw.” Murph could see Rod’s hand shaking and wondered how far Rod could throw with his left hand.

Rod’s arm extended in an arc over his head and the J-13 sailed through the air and landed three feet from where Murphy was standing. Murph sighed and took a step toward the J-13, when the little shit javelina that had been listening to his plan trotted over to the plastic device and picked it up with its mouth.

Murph raised the pistol and fired. “Meet God, you little shit.” The report whistled through the dry air and the other javelina turned toward Murphy.
Well, that wasn’t part of the plan.
Holding the gun out, he squatted down and reached for the javelina call. Down here he felt more vulnerable. He knew the six remaining javelina could be on him within seconds. He pried the dead Javelina’s snout open, reached past the long teeth and grabbed the smooth plastic call that had been the cause of all their problems that day.

The other javelina watched him with beady eyes, uncertain whether they should stay with their wounded prey or come after this new threat. Murph stood up slowly and spoke in a low voice to Rod. “I’m going to back up, give myself a head start and start blowing on the J-13. When the bastards start running for me, you run for the river.”

And that was the extent of Murph’s plan. He didn’t know if he could outrun the javelina or not, but he figured he had a better chance of doing it than Rod. Rod was losing blood by the second and even if they made it to the abandoned truck, they still had to make it back out to the road. Murph figured he’d head for the truck too, he’d just take a longer route and hope Rod got there first.

Murphy took twenty steps backward spun around and began to run. He took a deep breath and blew the J-13. He ran past the two tangled oaks, his orange vest which held the rest of his ammunition and the bottle of Jack Daniels. Still running, he blew the call again wondering if they would follow. Then he heard them. He heard their hoofs hitting the ground and their angry grunts, more of a woof than a snort.
Damn it, Rod, you better make it to that truck.

*

When the last of the javelina disappeared, Rod stripped off his shirt and wrapped it around his bleeding hand. The white T-shirt turned crimson. Favoring his injured leg, he moved through the long grass until he was standing near the bank and had a view of the muddy riverbed. He squinted. Something large was lodged in the mud. Cradling his injured hand to his chest, he stumbled down the bank and headed upriver. As he got closer, he could see it was a truck. Relief flooded through him. All he had to do was climb into the bed of the truck and wait for Murphy. He was only six feet from the truck when his left leg gave out. Stumbling he fell into the mud.

*

Murphy was still running. His heart felt pinched in his chest. Each breath came in as a wheeze and left in a ragged exhale. He didn’t know which was going to take him out first, a stroke from running in the heat or the heart attack his doctor had been warning him about for years. Either way, he didn’t see how he was going to make it to the truck. His face was burning, his pulse erratic, and damn it all he could think about was if he was going to die, he wished he could have grabbed the canteen of Jack Daniels. He still had two shots left. If he was going down, he was going to take two more of those little shits with him.

He could hear their small hooves hitting the ground right behind him and he knew there was no way in hell he was going to make it. Desperate, he veered to the right and headed back toward the trees. One javelina made a lunge; hit his boot and fell back to the ground. He didn’t make it back to the twisted oaks. He heard a series of snorts and woofs coming from the tall grass to his right and realized he was being routed. The damn things were communicating. They were hunting him. A few yards ahead, Murph saw a Y-shaped tree. Praying to an often ignored God, he asked for enough strength to make the tree and when he got there, the ability to climb.