The Drought (13 page)

Like ghosts, four javelina appeared, two on either side of him, and paced him as if the whole afternoon had been a game. He lunged for the safety of the tree. He was reaching for a branch sturdy enough to hold his weight when the high pitched squeals of the javelina surrounded him.

*

Rod couldn’t move. He was lying face down in the mud, his leg was aflame with pain, and his missing finger was itching as if it were still there. He didn’t have the courage to look at his makeshift bandage or to know how much blood he had lost. He knew one thing. He didn’t have the strength to stand up and climb into the truck.

He was drifting, almost unconscious when he heard a voice. At first he thought it was Murphy and somehow he had managed to ditch the damn javelina and circle back. But the voice was softer and a bit more refined. “Come on Rod. A few more feet. That’s all. You’ve got to move, they’re coming back.”

He whispered through chapped lips. “Can’t. Can’t make it.”

The voice came again. “Sure you can. They’ll tear you apart, Rod. You don’t want that. You’ll still be alive when they start to eat you. Come on, take my hand. I can help you, but you’ve got to get up.”

Rod looked up. He could see a shadowy figure leaning over him but the sun was high and the figure remained dark.

Rod pushed at the ground and came up on his knees.

The voice coming from the shadowy figure urged him on. “That’s it Rod. A little more, stand up, lean on me.”

Rod stood up and swayed in the hot afternoon sun. He reached for the shadowy figure and took a lurching step toward the truck.

“Just like that Rod. One step at a time.”

Rod squinted at the figure and took another agonizing step. He recognized the voice but he couldn’t remember where he had heard it.

In the tall grasses above the bank he could hear the strange woofing noise. He had time to think,
they’re after Murphy
. Then Rod stumbled to the ground again.

*

Murph got his grip on two sturdy branches, wedged one boot in the Y of the tree and hoisted with all his might. He felt one of the javelina brush against his leg as he was pulling himself up. He jerked his leg up and away so quickly the motion almost sent him straight through the Y of the tree and back down to the ground. Shaking, he started to laugh.
He made it. He fucking made it.

“That’s right you little bastards. I may be old, out of shape, and drunk but I beat your asses!” The javelina waited below the tree, occasionally circling. Once in awhile one would look up and the sun would reflect off the surface of its small pig eyes. They couldn’t speak but Murphy saw the intelligence in those black eyes, and knew they were laughing at him. After all, who had been treed?

They remained in stalemate for over an hour. Murphy kept shifting his weight, trying to find a comfortable way to lean against the tree. The center wedge was smaller than his booted feet and he was having a hard time finding a comfortable position. He found himself balancing, with one foot in the wedge, his arms extended holding on to either side of the Y. He wanted to sit down but if he was seated, his legs would dangle within reach of the javelina.

Added to his discomfort was a desperate thirst. He kept trying to lick his lips but there was no saliva in his mouth. The skin around his mouth felt like it was on fire. Through it all, the javelina remained at the base of the tree watching him with small, beady, black eyes.

Murphy shifted. He had his back against one limb, one boot in the wedge and the other braced against the far limb. This position took a little pressure of his back but he was starting to realize he was in serious pickle. If the damn things didn’t get tired of waiting around and catch a different scent he didn’t know what he was going to do. He had already dozed off once and had snapped awake when he felt like he was about to fall. He looked down and squinted his eyes. Murphy counted. There were only five. One was missing.

A low unmistakable woof came from the distance. The remaining javelina pricked up their ears and turned toward the sound.

They had sent out a scout
.

And the scout had found Rodney
.

The javelina grunted and circled the tree.

Murph laughed. “Quite a dilemma huh guys? You got one in a tree and another one out there somewhere wounded. Whata’ya going to do, boys?”

The woof came again. This time the javelina trotted off toward the tall dry grass as if summoned. The last one looked over its shoulder at Murphy as if it wanted to let him know they were coming back for him, too. Then they disappeared into the grass.

Murphy waited ten minutes. Part of him thought it was a trap; they were laying in ambush just waiting for him to get down from the tree. Because, let’s face it, he didn’t have a chance of making it back up there if they came back for him. But the other part of him was worried about the time it would take them to get to Rodney. If they got there and Rodney had made it to safety, how long before they would come back to see if they still had something treed?
Damn it, Rodney, you should have made that truck by now. No way you should still be out there wandering around.

Murphy climbed down from the tree. He stood there for a minute, afraid to step away from the safety of his perch. He kept expecting the javelina to come charging out of the grass. But the grass didn’t stir.

He took a deep breath and started walking back toward the bank. Every time he heard a twig snap he stopped, feeling like his heart was way up in his throat and waited, listening for the distinctive woofing sound. But the source of the sound was usually just his own boots snapping a dead branch on the ground.

When he reached the embankment, he could see the truck resting in the mud like he remembered, but he couldn’t see Rod. Starting down the slope, his heart sank at the possibility Rod hadn’t made it.

The first one hit him so fast, he never even heard it. Its long teeth sank through his calf muscle like a hot knife going through butter. Murphy didn’t stop. Wheezing, he half ran, half stumbled down the embankment, dragging the javelina with him. He knew if he stopped to knock one off, the others would be on him in a second. When he hit the bottom of the embankment, Murphy reached down and smashed the javelina’s head with the butt of his pistol. It released his leg and let out a high-pitched cry that did indeed sound like the J-13 javelina call. The second one hit him as he made a lunge for the bed of the pick-up truck. It ran up the back of his leg and sank its teeth into his lower buttock. Murph fell into the truck and rolled onto the squealing pig but it wouldn’t let go.

A weak voice said, “Stand up.”

Without questioning, Murphy did as he was told. He felt a thump as something hit the back of his leg and he heard the javelina squeal again. Murphy turned and saw Rod, holding a piece of driftwood awkwardly between his good hand and his bandaged hand. He swung the driftwood down again and smashed the javelina’s head. Exhausted, he let the wood slip out of his hands, leaned against the cab of the truck and collapsed down into the bed.

The dying javelina kicked its leg and Murphy kicked its small body against the inside of the truck. When it lay still, he picked it up by its back legs and chucked it out toward the bank of the dried up river. The other five javelina, scurried over to the dead body to investigate.

Murphy sat down next to his friend and looked around. The entire truck was rusted out and the bed was filled with driftwood. He wondered how long the truck had been sitting at the bottom of the Llano River and sent out a silent thank you to the Gods of chance or fate or whatever had put the truck where it was today. Murph noticed the fresh quarter size blood splatters that had fallen across the driftwood and thought
, we need to get back… I got to get Rod to a hospital.
Then his head rolled back and he fell asleep.

The sun acknowledged the silent thank you by rolling across the late afternoon sky and settling over the men at the hottest hour of the day.

Murphy’s sleep was fitful, filled with images of Junction covered in the white dust that filled the bed of the truck. When he awoke, every portion of his face was burnt, including his eyelids. Pain, fresh and different from the ache coming from his legs flowed across his face as he opened his eyes. The pain invoked a moan and the slight movement of his cracked lips caused them to bleed. He reached out to find Rod and was relieved to find him still breathing.

Rod was rambling in his sleep. Or a fever induced hallucination. “Hey Murph, you remember Robert Riley? Disappeared about ten years ago?

Murph rubbed his hands. “Yeah, Beth’s old man, the one who skipped town.”

Rod shook his head. “… Didn’t skip town.” The effort to speak was difficult and Rod stopped talking.

Distracted, Murph looked around, trying to figure out if the javelina were still nearby.

Rod said, “They’re gone.”

Murph looked at his friend with doubt and asked, “How do you know?”

“Robert told me.”

“Robert?”

“Robert Riley.”

“Man, you’ve been in the sun too long.”

“No, he’s here. He’s sitting right there.” Rod pointed to the corner of the pickup truck. Murph turned, half expecting to see someone, but the truck was empty.

He pointed at the same spot, “Right there?”

Rod nodded.

“Rod, buddy there’s no one there.”

Rod’s voice grew impatient. “Listen Murph.” He licked his lips. “I’m not going to make it out of here.”

Murphy interrupted, “The hell you say, we’re both going to make it.”

Rod waved his hand, silencing him. “I’m not going to make it, but you can. Riley says there’s a pocketknife in his right pocket. He wants you to give it to his son… says it’s got his initials on it.”

Murph looked around blankly trying to find Robert Riley.

“He’s in the cab.”

Trying to make light of the situation Murphy asked, “Does he have any beer in there? I could sure use a cold one.”

Rod whispered, “Just look.”

Murphy stood, swayed, steadied himself.

The truck looked ghost-like. It was coated with a thick layer of cracked mud that had grayed beneath the searing sun. The bed of the pickup truck was littered with debris and driftwood. Rod lay among the deadwood and discarded aluminum cans like he too was placed there by a whimsical current. Instead of a gray dust, Rod was coated in an ever-widening stain of blood.

He pressed his palms against the glass and tried to slide the window open. It didn’t move. “I think it’s locked.”

“Try it again.” Rod’s voice was hoarse, like his throat was coated with the gray dust. He stuck out his tongue to wet his lips but the colorless husk that emerged was dry. Exhausted he croaked, “Push harder.”

He tried again. A sliver of space appeared between the window and the casing.

“It’s moving.” Panting, he pushed harder and the window slid open. A dank, wet odor escaped through the small opening. Before he could pull back, he inhaled the hot moisture that had been air-locked in the cab for a decade. The smell of the river triggered memories of his childhood. He saw himself swimming to the bottom of the Llano to grab a handful of sand. Lungs burning, he would thrust himself toward the surface, the sand held up over his head. He peered inside the cab. What he saw inside caused him to pull back so quick he slammed the back of his head against the top of the cab window.

If Rod’s delirious ramblings were correct, Robert Riley, (or at least what was left of him), was sitting behind the wheel of the truck.

Junction, Texas

The funeral for Rod Sawyer and the long dead Robert Riley took place on a Tuesday, during the last week of June. The town took up a collection and Robert Riley was laid to rest in the Junction cemetery with a simple stone marker inscribed with the words: Robert Riley
He has been missed.
Beth Riley had a point to make to a town that had long believed Robert Riley split town with another woman ten years prior. She insisted on the inscription and wouldn’t put a date of death. She reasoned they couldn’t know the exact day and even if they could she didn’t want to commemorate his murder.

Murphy Jobes had spent four days in the hospital, recovering from dehydration, a hell of sunburn, and the two Javelina bites that together took twenty stitches. Fortunately, neither bite had gotten infected. He and Suzy attended the double funeral together and for once Murphy was not drunk.