Unsung Heroes

 They don't expect a reward or recognition

Unsung Heroes y Erika M Szabo

If people knew what the biker gang did and were not expecting any reward or recognition, these unsung heroes would be celebrated by many.

The deafening rumble of powerful engines echoed through the stillness of the night as the Panthers rode their Harleys through town toward their favorite bar. The moon, full and luminous, hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow on the rugged faces of the riders. Their leather-clad bodies were silhouetted against the darkness, their tattoos and scars illuminated by the moon’s pale light.

With practiced ease, they killed the engines and dismounted their bikes. Raven, the gang’s robust leader, took off his helmet and shook his head. His long, jet-black hair swung to his back, covering the black panther painting on his leather jacket. “I’ll go through the back door,” he said, turning to his second in command, Jackal, his voice sounding deeper than a panther’s purr. “I need to talk to Pedro.”

Jackal let out a deep, guttural grunt. He was a tall, lanky man with dark hair and a scruffy beard. His voice was rough and strained, the result of a brutal bar fight that left his vocal cords permanently damaged. He hated speaking, the sound of his own voice reminding him of the painful incident. And he cringed at the thought of his friends jokingly telling others, “You should’ve seen the other guy!” The guilt of knowing that he had caused someone to lose his life in the fight weighed heavily on Jackal’s conscience. Although not his fault, the drunk man attacked him cutting his throat and he acted in defense, the man died hitting his head on the pool table when Jackal pushed him away. The memory still haunted him like a shadow that he could never escape.

Stubby, the compact and sturdy member of the gang, let out a deep exhalation. “I hope he has some good news for us,” he said, his voice laced with tension. “It’s been two days since we heard the Hyenas had crossed the border with a new shipment, and we still don’t know where their hiding place is.”

Raven let out a heavy sigh as he approached the corner of the building. Each step caused small pebbles to crunch under his sturdy boots.

As he peeked through the open back door, Raven spotted his informant hunched over the sink. He motioned to him discreetly, and Pedro nodded in response, quickly glancing around to ensure they were not being watched. With cautious movements, Pedro made his way toward the door, holding onto a large garbage bag.

Raven waited for him behind the garbage container. “Did you find out?” he asked the fidgety man.

Growing up in the vibrant streets of Mexico, Pedro was all too familiar with the dangerous activities of human trafficker gangs, called hyenas. His cousin had been pressuring him to join their gang since he was just a teenager, promising him a life of wealth and power. But when he met Maria, she showed him that there was another way out - a chance to escape poverty and break free from a life of crime. Together, they bravely crossed the treacherous border and made their way to a small town in America where they found jobs and rented an apartment in the bustling Latino community. Pedro kept his ears open and listened closely as drunkards at the local bar spoke about the dark dealings of the notorious gangs. He knew he had made the right choice by following Maria, and now he was determined to make a better life for both of them while helping others who didn’t see a way out.

“I heard that there is an abandoned house about five miles from here deep in the woods,” Pedro whispered, his eyes darting nervously toward the door. “I’m not sure if the gang is hiding there or not, but I know that the guy who talked about the house is their connection on the US side. He takes care of the sales. He was well liquored up on tequila and kept blubbering about the house and that the family who lived there a hundred years ago were killed.”

“It’s possible,” Raven mused, his voice low and gravelly. “Thanks for the information, Pedro. You’re one step closer to joining us.” He raised his fist for a bump, sealing their partnership with a resounding thud.

The stocky man’s face beaming with joy hurried back to the kitchen.

Raven entered the bar through the front door and found his gang at their usual table in the far corner. “We have a possible location. Finish your drinks and let’s get going.” Raven informed his comrades.

The five members of the Panthers understood the gravity and urgency of their mission - to rescue innocent teenagers and young children from the clutches of ruthless human traffickers, who sought to sell them as commodities for sexual exploitation.

With fierce determination in their eyes, they raced toward the abandoned house on the outskirts of town, their roaring engines leaving a trail of dust and adrenaline in their wake. Although people in town were used to their presence, and they never heard anything bad about them, the fear that something might happen always left them with unease when they heard the roaring engines.

The scent of gasoline and leather lingered in the air, adding to the intensity of their presence and the darkness seemed to part before them as if even nature itself knew not to stand in their way. As they reached the dirt road in the woods, Raven raised his hand in a commanding gesture, signaling for his comrades to halt.

With practiced ease, they killed the engines, dismounted their bikes, and hid them in the thick bushes.

“We go the last mile on foot,” Raven instructed his men. “No guns, until we’re forced to use them,” he said.

“Fists and knives,” Stubby added, and the group murmured in agreement.

They moved forward with silent, calculated steps. The air was heavy with anticipation and danger, each member acutely aware of the risk they were taking. As they crept closer, shadows seemed to dance around them, adding to the sense of danger.

With firm determination in their eyes and weapons at the ready, their hearts burned with righteous anger, knowing that they were the only hope for these helpless souls. Since they were honorably discharged from the armed forces six years ago, at first, they had a hard time adjusting to civilian life. Later, Raven and Jackle opened a car repair shop, Doc became a veterinarian. Pokerface, the always stoical looking yet highly emotional friend opened a Dojo and taught self-defense.

The air was thick with tension and adrenaline as they prepared to put an end to this heinous operation. They spotted a large van parked in the clearing as they cautiously approached the rundown house. Its black exterior blended with the night sky, but its chrome bumpers glistened in the moonlight. Crouching low, they peered from behind the vehicle to see a guard stationed by the door. His posture was tense as he held a sleek machine gun at the ready. In the flickering light streaming from a nearby window, they could hear faint sounds of children crying and men shouting from inside the house. The hair on their necks prickled with a sense of danger and urgency as they plotted their next move.

Jackal glanced at Raven, who gave a subtle nod of approval. The lanky man dropped to his hands and knees, moving with the grace and precision of a stalking animal. He slinked through the shadows, keeping his body low and silent as he crept towards the unsuspecting guard.

When he was within a few feet of the man, Stubby made a slight noise by tossing a small rock toward the corner of the house. The guard, startled by the sound, turned his head in that direction. Taking advantage of the distraction, Jackal sprang forward with lightning speed and wrapped his arms around the guard’s neck in a chokehold. With his other large hand covering the guard’s mouth and nose, he effectively silenced any potential screams for help.

Without hesitation, the rest of the bikers sprang into action. In a flurry of movement and precision, they made their way silently to the door. Doc, whose occupation as a veterinarian had provided him with some interesting skills, quickly punctured the guard’s neck with the needle attached to a syringe filled with a powerful animal tranquilizer. As his body went limp, Jackal eased him down against the wall while Stubby secured his wrists and ankles with strong duct tape. The operation had gone flawlessly so far, but they knew they still had to move quickly and quietly to ensure their actions inside just as smoothly.

Read the full story in the book: 

https://books2read.com/u/m27NQd

What if you think the known world isn’t strange enough? Embark on a journey that pushes the boundaries, challenges your perception, and questions reason, logic, and established beliefs. 

Book Sunday

 Today's recommendation is a cozy mystery

The Mystery at Love’s Manor

D.W. Thompson

Chapter One

A feeling of dread squeezed my soul in its dark grip. I bolted upright in bed and searched the darkness for the source of my discomfort. Was it a sound, real or imagined? A consequence of my first week’s stay in a new home? I was chilled to the bone, and goosebumps rose on my flesh. Too many of my premonitions proved well founded to ignore…something was wrong. My thoughts went to my estranged family. Nana, in the sunset of life, was in a battle with the demon possessing her—Dementia. Her curse weighed heavily on my brother, Daniel, his wife, and their relationship. If something was as wrong as my churning gut indicated, was it Nana?

No, if it was Nana, Gwen would have called to let me know. Wiping the crud from the corners of my eyes, I crawled out of bed. Last night’s mystery novel fell from its hiding place between my flannel sheets. The day’s traumas and the two-hour drive to gather the last of my possessions from my old digs had overwhelmed my curiosity about the fictional “who-done-it.” My brother used to mock my choice of literature. I considered it professional reading.

I glanced out of my bedroom window. Raindrops slithered down the glass, and the filtered dawn cast its shadowed light. I wished the window faced east for the sunrise, like my childhood bedroom in the old house. Nana is staying there now. It was the closest one to Daniel and Gwen’s bedroom. I hoped Nana would find more peace there than I had.

Sliding my feet into cheap imitation fur-lined slippers, I set the book on my nightstand and made my way to the kitchen, and the coffee pot. The old- fashioned percolator began its flirtatious dance, and the scent of the fresh ground coffee teased my nostrils. I glanced around the room, noticing all the work needing to be done. The condition of the place made it affordable for me. The paint was chipping from the walls, and the kitchen cabinets were stained with decades of accumulated grease. The sink’s constant drip kept time with the ticking of the kitchen clock, a throwback black cat with rolling eyes and a swishing tail. But it was home, and it was mine. Well, mine and Old Joseph’s—the name I gave to the source of falling objects and bumps in the night. What I only somewhat jokingly referred to as my resident ghost. I wasn’t sure I believed in ghosts, but I was a firm believer in my vivid imagination.

As I poured my first cup of the day, the phone rang, and my teeth clenched. I hated the sound, the nerve-rattling jangle, and the irrational call to immediate action it demanded. I wished the telemarketers would at least allow me to enjoy my morning coffee. Who else would call so early?

At the second ring, I felt an ice-cold trickle creep up my spine, like the time Sammy Mattingley threw ice cubes down the back of my blouse. My hand trembled, hesitating to answer when I recognized the number. It was my brother, Daniel.

At the third ring, I wished he hadn’t discovered I was home. Last month, Gwen spotted me leaving the crappy hotel I used as my temporary local residence while I house-shopped. This phone call meant the cat was out of the bag. I felt disloyal anyway, not letting Gwen in on my secret return, but Daniel? My ten years away hadn’t healed all the old wounds. Creating a new life and forging my independence provided a much-needed salve to my soul. Still, I wished he didn’t know.

By the fourth ring, I’d convinced myself his call was to bitch at me—feigning hurt for not telling him I was back. My finger brushed against the phone’s “ignore” button…but what if it was about Nana? And he was my brother…the DNA test said so.

I answered before the fifth jingle when the voicemail would kick in. Might as well get it over with—in case it was about Nana…

“Hello?”

“Emma, I need you at the house as soon as you can get here.”

“Daniel? How about ‘Good morning, Emma. Did you pass the test and get your license, Emma? I’m so glad you’re home safe and—’ ”

“Not now, Sis. Please get here as soon as you can. It’s important. I need you.”

“Is something wrong with Nana? Is she—” But the line was already dead. Typical of my brother. His needs came before anyone else’s.

Pouring coffee in a go-cup, I threw on a pair of well-broken-in jeans and a sweatshirt, hopping toward the door as I pulled on my soft rubber clogs—as fancy as I get to go to the family farm. They needed me, and from Daniel’s perspective at least, they needed me now. He must figure even the black sheep of the family is handy in bad times. I brushed my hair with one hand and backed my old soft-top Bronco down the driveway with the other.

My recently purchased cottage on the outskirts of Newtowne was seven miles from the farm. The home place was a sprawling acreage with a creek bed running along one border and a pond at the bottom of the hill from the main house—what some called Love’s Manor. Many of those same folks claimed the place was haunted. At times when I lived there, hearing the scratching in the walls and the bumps in the night, I almost believed the stories to be true. Locals claimed the hauntings were from the deaths occurring in the house over the past century—not least of which were my parents, my older sister, Maya, and her best friend, Jessie. Others widened its haunted origins to include the entire town. These candidates included Benjamin Hance, the young black man who was lynched on June 17, 1887, for allegedly attempting to assault a white woman. An even older tragedy was that of the legendary witch, Moll Dyer, whose cabin was set ablaze on the coldest night of the winter of 1697 by village vigilantes. Moll froze to death. It is rumored she still roams the area and wishes to reclaim the lands she once walked. I put little stock in such things. It wasn’t the supernatural that had pushed me away from my ancestral home, nor was it the reason for my return.

The half-mile driveway followed the contour of old tobacco fields—now covered with stubble from this year’s crop of soybeans. Not much appeared to have changed in the years I was away. Driving past the pond, I smelled the honeysuckle vines, and an unexpected tear slid down my cheek.

“Miss you always, Maya,” I said to the ghost of my sister claimed at Love’s Manor.

Flashing red and blue lights flickered through the trees as the Bronco sputtered up the hill toward the house. Cops were everywhere. Three squad cars and a lone ambulance were parked in front of the house.

The car groaned as I slapped it into Park and raced to the house to beat the rain. Daniel met me, holding the front door open.

“What the hell’s going on?” I asked.

“Emma, it’s Gwen. I don’t know what’s happened. The house was broken into, and she’s nowhere to be found.”

“What’s Sheriff Wathen saying?”

“Just what I told you. The glass in the side door was broken, and that’s how they got in. There’s no note from Gwen saying she was going anywhere, and if she was taken against her will, there’s nothing from the kidnappers.”

“The sheriff thinks she was kidnapped?”

“I don’t know what he thinks, but he suspects me of something, the way he’s putting me through the third degree. That’s why I called you. You’re a private investigator now, right? You passed your test?”

“Where were you and Maria when the house was broken into? You didn’t hear anything?”

“No, but we weren’t in the house, Emma. Maria can vouch for that. She heard me driving the tractor to check on the cover crop in the backfield. I offered to take her along as Gwen suggested. She said a break from Nana might be good for her, but Maria wanted to weed Nana’s flower bed. She said she’d promised her.”

“When was this?”

“Last evening. I got back around dusk and parked the tractor in the barn. Maria was still in the backyard in the flower beds. We came in together through the back and went up to check on Nana. She was agitated about something, but I couldn’t make much sense of it and didn’t pay her much mind. You know how she gets. After I calmed her down, I went to bed. Gwen wasn’t there, but she often stays up late. She curls up by the fireplace with a glass of wine and a book. I tried to wait up for her, but I must’ve passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow. I woke up this morning, and she wasn’t in bed. I went through the house calling for her. That’s when I saw the broken glass.”

“So, after you came home, you never saw her before you went to bed?”

“No, I told you—”

“Have they found anything yet?”

“They found blood on a broken necklace outside in the grass, Emma. The clasp snapped like it was ripped from her neck. It was the one I gave Gwen on her birthday last year.” Daniel’s face was pale, bloodless, and his eyes swollen.

“Deep breaths, brother,” I said.

“Right. So, did you pass your test? Did you get everything unpacked in the new place?”

“I did, and I have. Thanks.”

“What do you think happened to her, Emma?”

“I don’t know, but here comes the sheriff. Maybe he found something new.”

“He’s been grilling Maria for the last hour as if she would know anything…”

Sheriff Wathen stepped toward us. His footfalls were as silent as our father taught us to be when stalking game, like a true predator. John Wathen was Daniel’s age, but young to be sheriff—even in a community as small as ours. It helped that he ran unopposed in the last election and that his family went back as far as ours. His ancestors were also passengers on the Ark at Maryland’s beginning. They’d lost some local standing in recent times over a scandal involving his younger brother Robert and drugs. The family’s wealth and social standing meant Robert got off with less than a slap on the wrist, but it did rub some muck on the family’s name. I heard Robert was running for County Commissioner next year. He’d probably win too.

“Emma,” the sheriff said. His hand gripped my shoulder, and I felt his nails dig in through my sweatshirt. He twisted me around to face him.

“How have you been, girl? I’ve heard good things.”

“I’m doing well, Sheriff.” I grabbed his hand, lifted it off my shoulder, and dropped it as if it were repulsive, rotted flesh. I wiped my hands on my jeans.

“Same old Emma, I see.”

The sheriff smiled as if it hurt his face, and his jowls shook at the effort. He was a bull-in-a-china-shop sort of man and kept his dark receding locks slicked back like he owned stock in several hair products. His girth had grown proportionate to his arrogance since I’d last seen him.

“Congratulations on winning the election, Sheriff. Do you have any clues about what happened to my sister-in-law? This isn’t like her at all.”

“I’m hoping your brother can help me with that. What do you say, Mr. Love? Would you like to chat here or back at the Newtowne station?”

 

****

 

I knew better than to ask the sheriff’s permission to sit in on the “chat,” AKA interrogation. There was bad blood between our families as far back as anyone could remember. My school years with the younger Wathen brother, Robert, did nothing to dissuade me from my family’s low opinion of the clan.

Deputy Sam Mattingley (yes, that same Sammy Mattingley—he of ice cube notoriety) was a different story altogether. Sam was a tall lanky man with a face full of freckles and an aww-shucks way about him. Despite our childhood pranks on each other, we became good friends over time. It only took a wink and a smile, and Sam had a chair set up for me just outside of the door. I could hear every word…

The sheriff started slow, and I’ll give him the credit due—he knew how to get an interviewee to open up.

“Can you give me a description of your wife, Mr. Love? Or a picture for our case file? I knew her, of course, but a detailed description with any unusual identifying features, that sort of thing, would be helpful.”

“Okay. Gwen is five foot, five inches tall, and weighs about a hundred thirty pounds. I know because she was just saying the other night that she’d gained a few pounds and needed to go on another one of her crazy fad diets. She has shoulder-length wavy black hair. Two weeks ago, she had two pink streaks put in the front of her hair at Brandy’s beauty parlor out on Route 235. She said it framed and accentuated her face or something. I thought it was a little strange at first, but it looks good on her. She has a small mole at the base of her neck that she wants Doc Johnson to look at on her next appointment. The only other thing is a birthmark. Where I won’t say…”

“It could be important, Mr. Love, if we need to identify…Never mind. We’ll let that go for now. Mr. Love, what do you think happened to your wife?”

“I wish I knew, Sheriff. I’m afraid for her. There’s the blood on the necklace, and her purse is still here. I think she’s been taken.”

“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions, Mr. Love. Ordinarily, we wait twenty-four hours to follow up on a missing person’s case when it’s an adult, but for now, at least, her disappearance appears to be involuntary. I understand your pain, Mr. Love, and we’ll do everything in our power to find her. I’d like to monitor your phones in case any ransom demands are made. Is there anything else the sheriff’s office can do for you during this horrible time? I know, I know—catch the perp—but would you like a police presence at night, for instance? You know, to keep an eye on the place? I can spare a deputy…”

“Thank you, Sheriff. I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“That’ll be fine then. Mr. Love, besides the broken door glass, did you notice anything else different in the house this morning?”

“No, except my wife wasn’t anywhere to be found. Otherwise…wait, there was a half-empty glass of milk on the kitchen counter. That wasn’t unusual for her though. Do you think she got up in the middle of the night and that’s when they nabbed her?”

“It is certainly possible. How long have you known Miss Maria Clements?” “A year or so, maybe. She was recommended by a family friend. Honestly, we couldn’t ask for a better live-in companion for Nana. Maria’s been a godsend. She sees to all of Nana’s needs…and our grandmother can be a handful in her condition. Why do you ask?”

“Did she get along well with your wife? Any tension between the two of them? You know what they say about two women not being able to live peacefully in the same house. Was there anything like that?”

“No. They got along well.”

“I’m surprised. Miss Clements is quite a looker. I’m sure you’ve noticed, and you know how women can be. Young Deputy Abell got all tongue-tied when she opened the door this morning. Young and shapely, yes sir…not that your wife wasn’t a lovely woman herself. But no jealousy there at all?”

“No, Sheriff, and I don’t see what this has to do with—”

“So, she’s just an employee of your family? Nothing more? Ever tempted to stray a bit, Mr. Love? Nobody could hardly blame you.”

I heard my brother’s sharp intake of breath and a soft growling sound. The sound he learned to make to control his ill temper. “No, I have not. What are you implying, John?”

“Well. It’s just that the both of you live here but were conveniently absent when the break-in occurred and you’re each the other’s alibi.”

“My wife is missing, Sheriff. There’s nothing convenient about this situation. Is that all or is there another bee in your bonnet?”

“I reckon that’s about it for now. You know what they  say  in  the  movies,  Mr.  Love—‘don’t  leave town.’ ”

I heard the sheriff’s chair scrape against the floor. I gestured to Sam to grab mine before the sheriff cleared the door.

“Oh, one more thing, Mr. Love,” the sheriff said. “Did you know Miss Clements has a police record? Seems she was picked up over in Chapman County for prostitution ten years ago.”

David W. Thompson

https://www.david-w-thompson.com

David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer and a member of the Horror Writers’ Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.

Christmas In The Holler

 A short story by David W. Thompson

Story cover by Erika M Szabo

Christmas was coming, and the goose was gettin’ fat—or so the young’uns have been singing for a month of Sundays. But the geese were already headed for greener pastures this late in the season. Our only hope of a decent holiday meal was waiting for me in the thick woods surrounding our cabin. 

I reckon if Ma had her druthers, she’d take a fat roast turkey over an old, dried-out, and chewy goose anyway. I sure would rather sit the river’s edge and wait for one of those geese to come floating by than trudge through the frozen-up hills praying for a stray gobbler to make a fatal mistake. But we play the cards we’re dealt. That’s what my daddy always says, and lately, our family wasn’t dealt no winning hands.

Things been bad for most of the folks in the holler though, so wasn’t no sense in me flapping my jaws over it. Folks just look at ya funny anyways. Still, I prayed extra hard last evening. I asked the Almighty again to make sure Pa was safe. Mining was a dangerous job.  I prayed for him to be home for Christmas. Things weren’t the same since he took that job at the new coal mine over in Mercer County. Ma said he sent home every penny he could, but things were still as tight as a frog’s backside, and that’s waterproof.

Next, I asked about the Neely family, who lived further up the mountain. I figured things had to be hard on them since Mr. Neely rolled his old Farmall tractor last month and broke himself up right smart.  “Love your neighbor as yourself,” the good book says, but what was a body to do if they was hurting just as bad? Quit your whining, Francis. I thought as I pulled on my best pair of socks—the ones Ma darned up for me. I wiggled my toes into Pa’s hunting boots. Ma packed some cotton scraps (left over from the Easter dress she made for Sally Mae) into the toe part so my feet wouldn’t woller around too much. Dressed as warm as I could get (and still walk), I grabbed Pa’s old double barrel 12 gauge and a pocket full of shells. I smiled, remembering the first time I shot that gun. Pa warned me to keep the butt tucked tight against the pocket of my shoulder, but my arms were short and weak, while my determination was long and strong. When Pa pointed out the target, I let the gun stock slip under my arm and yanked the trigger. The blast knocked me over quick as one of the football players I saw on Mr. Myer's television set once. Pa said that as soon as we had the money, it might be best to start me off with a secondhand .22 rifle instead, but money was hard to come by.

A brisk breeze and wet snowflakes slapped my cheek when I opened the door. I stepped out quietly, not wanting to wake the young’uns, but Ma still heard.

“You dressed warm enough, Francis?”

I nodded. “I’m good, Ma. Thanks.”

“You want me to fix you something? Won’t take a minute. Cup of coffee, maybe?”

That one caused me to pause for a minute. Ma always said I wasn’t old enough to drink coffee.   

“Maybe when I get back. I packed some deer jerky and a chunk of the bread you baked yesterday.” I turned back toward the door.

“Do your best, son, but don’t shoot any hens, and be safe out there.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I closed the door, leaving the wood stove's warmth behind.

I followed a well-worn trail down to the river. ‘Coon and ‘possum tracks were all over the mud bank, but I was after a fat turkey. I decided to move across the holler to a stand of beechnut trees. The turkeys wouldn’t be too far away if the nuts were dropping.

Water seeped into my right boot when I crossed the river, and I shook my head. That was careless, Francis. You don’t need frozen up toes.

Moving uphill. I found the old log Pa, and I used to sit on when we were squirreling. He only let me watch after the old gun knocked me on my backside. I didn’t care. It was enough being out in Creation with my Pa, loving every minute of it. Truth be told, I wasn’t it no hurry to shoulder that gun again. It was a few years before he trusted me to have another go at it, and it didn’t kick near as bad as I remembered.

I sat on that old log, half-rotted after all the years, remembering Pa, our time together, and worse—our time apart. My eyes got wet, and I wiped at ‘em, saying a silent prayer that he’d be home soon. Then, a follow-up request that the turkeys would be moving soon. It was cold. Sure, my fingers and toes was gettin’ numb, but I swear to Goshen, my brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders either. My head was nodding, and I almost forgot why I was out in the Creator’s frozen paradise.

When the sun was straight up in the sky, it offered a bit of warmth. At least the crust of snow and ice on my coat and hat thawed out. I hoped the layers of wool would keep me dry as the water dripped off my hat and down my neck. A shiver ran down my back.

Nothing but songbirds were moving, and there wasn’t enough meat on them to feed Sally Mae more or less the whole family. Mr. Roosevelt said we was in a depression, and there wasn’t nothing great about it. “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without,” he said. Doing without was hard on the young’uns, though. Money was tight, and game was hard to come by, with everyone looking to the woods to feed their families.

I was taking a notion to move further up the mountain when I heard something moving through the brush to my right. Hard to get an aim on any critter coming in that way, at least for a right-hander like me. I scooted around on the log seat and pulled back the hammers on the shotgun.

Pa said never point your gun at something you didn’t want to shoot and to keep your finger off the trigger until ready to fire. So, I had the gun pointed in the right general direction so old Mr. Turkey wouldn’t see my movement, and my finger rested outside the trigger on the trigger guard.  Something else Pa said was a good hunter never took more than he needed, but there wasn’t much chance of that.  And all I needed right now was for the majestic bird to take a couple more steps. My mouth watered at the thought of a slice of juicy turkey breast. I swallowed it down and held my breath.

One more step, two, and…

A small hand pulled aside a branch, and Silas Neely poked his head out. Sweat broke out on my forehead as I let down the hammers on the shotgun. Silas was young to be out on his own, but with his Daddy laid up, I reckon that made him the man of the family—for a while, anyway. I waved, hoping he wouldn’t mistake me for a critter. He nodded and walked toward me. The shotgun resting on his shoulders was as long as he was tall. A piece of baling twine served as a sling to help him carry it, and a thick wrapping of tape held the stock together.

“Guess we’re after the same thing, Francis. You have a hankering for a Christmas turkey, too?” Silas asked. His eyes were deep and sunken, his cheeks hollow. I wondered if he’d been sickly.

“I sure am,” I whispered. “You must've put on a growth spurt, Silas. You’re as skinny as a ribbon snake and look like an old mule off its feed.”

Silas looked down at the ground and scuffed his boots in the leaves. When he raised his head and looked at me, his eyes were deep-set and shadowy. His pant leg only reached to his shins, about the same length as his oversized coat. A worn hat, two sizes too big, was pulled down low on his forehead, and a turkey wing bone call hung around his neck. I guess I stared at the double patches on his britches a bit too long. His face turned all red, and he kicked at the leaves again.

“Ma’s been right busy with Pa and the babies. Little Sarah’s sewing ain’t too good, but she does her best,” he said.

“That’s all right. Turkeys don’t care none, and I hear tell you’re a fine hunter.”

Silas looked up and smiled. “Pa says I’m near ‘bouts a man now.”

“I was thinking I’d try on up the mountain a ways. No sense in us hunting on top of one another. There’s a decent grove of persimmons up there, and the beechnuts are hitting the ground here. But where would you rather try? Both spots are promising.”

“I’ll head up if it’s all the same to you, Francis. Pa and I took a gobbler up there last spring. It’d mean much to Pa if I took another one there.”

He held out his hand, and I shook it. “Good luck to you, Francis.”

“You too. Hope you get a good ‘un.”

I sat back on my log and watched him walk away, slumped over like he carried a fifty-pound sack of ‘taters on his narrow shoulders. Something must’ve flown into my eye about then. My vision blurred, and I wondered what Christmas would be like at the Neely house.

***

Long after the sound of Silas moving through the woods stopped, the birds started singing again. A pair of squirrels chased each other around a big oak tree, paying no attention to me. Reckon they figured I was just a thick branch poking out of that log and no threat to their play at all.

The hairs sticking out under my hat and those little hairs in my nose were froze up into icicles. Despite the cold, I smiled as I watched the squirrels’ antics, and I realized I best keep an eye on ‘em. I might need them for dinner—if the turkeys didn’t cooperate.

The sun was getting lower and peeking through the trees on the west side. It shouldn’t be long now. The turkeys would be moving and headed to their roost. The thought no more than jumped into my head when I heard a shotgun blast uphill from where I sat. Maybe Silas got lucky. For a moment, I was jealous, then felt ashamed of myself. Pa said you shouldn’t envy a neighbor’s good fortune. I reckon the good book says something about it, too.

The shotgun roared again. I heard Pa’s voice then, clear as day. “Pay attention now, son. Silas must’ve busted up a whole flock of birds!”  

My eyes got watering, and I wiped at ‘em with my coat sleeve. Did hearing Pa’s voice mean something bad happened? Like some omen? As soon as my eyes cleared, sure enough, a big gobbler came busting through. He stopped for a second to look behind, and my gun spoke. The big bird dropped where he stood.

Pa always taught me to respect the life of the game we’ve taken, but I had to restrain myself from hollering and hooting. My family would have a fine Christmas dinner. Now, if only Pa would come home.

I knelt by my prize turkey, admiring his full, sleek feathers and wide tail fan. His spurs were nearabouts two inches long and the biggest bird I’d ever seen by far.

“Thank you for the gift of your life,” I said. “Your sacrifice will feed my family on the holiest of holy days and it will not be forgotten when we sing the Creator’s praises.”

I cleaned the bird, saved the gizzard and liver, tied a piece of twine around his feet to carry him across my shoulder, and sat down to wait for Silas.

***

I couldn’t help but smile all over myself as I waited. Ma and the kids would be tickled pink when I walked in the cabin door with our Christmas turkey slung over my shoulder. I was planning my entrance—wondering if’n I should pretend to have been skunked. I imagined the disappointment on everyone’s faces and decided against that.

I didn’t have long to wait for Silas. I heard him stomping through the underbrush and could tell he carried out more than he carried in. I smiled at his good fortune. When his figure appeared, it wasn’t a turkey I saw, and I stared, trying to make out the furred critter he struggled to carry.  I stood and walked toward him, and the ringed tail identified his prize as a raccoon.

“I see you had some luck, Silas. Congratulations.”

“You too? I heard you shoot.”

I held up my turkey.

“I reckon I messed up, Francis. I was cold and started thinking I wasn’t gonna see nothing. All I could think about was not having any meat to take home for Christmas. Then this ‘coon poked his head out of that hollow sycamore tree and started scrambling down. I figured a big old buck ‘coon was better’n nothing. As soon as I shot, a whole flock of turkeys took off. They was practically on top of me, but I never saw or heard ‘em coming. I took a shot at one but missed him clean. Ma hates ‘coon though. Had too much of it lately, I reckon.”

Silas stared at my dressed turkey and licked his lips. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes.

Visions of Ma pulling a golden-brown roast turkey out of the wood-fired stove danced in front of my eyes.

“You of a mind to trade that fat ‘coon for this scrawny bird?” I heard myself ask. “Heck, I’d a never had a chance at him if you didn’t run him to me.”

Silas licked his lips again and stared at me to see if I was teasing. He shook his head.  “I appreciate the thought, Francis, but my Pa don’t abide by no charity.”

“Charity? Hellfire, Silas. Baked ‘coon is my family’s favorite meal. You should see the young’uns squabble over a chunk of ‘coon. You’d be doing us a favor, truth be told. But I understand if you don’t want to give it up…”  

“Pa wouldn’t want me to…”

“It’ll be our secret. Like I said, I only got the bird 'cause of you, so I reckon he’s as much yours as mine anyway.”

Silas stared at the turkey like it was the world's salvation, then dropped his head and held that ‘coon all the tighter.

“Mmm Mmm, Ma sure would be happy about that nice ‘coon. Best eating in the woods, Pa always says.” I told him.

Silas gave me a look I couldn’t make out. Then he nodded his head and smiled.

I slipped the bird off my shoulder and hung it on Silas’. I reached for the ‘coon, and he paused only a second before turning it loose.

“Merry Christmas, Francis.”

“Merry Christmas to you and yours, Silas.”

***

We walked a short way together before the trail forked, and we said our goodbyes.

The trail got steeper as I approached home. My boots grew heavy as if they were filled with lead sinkers, and I wondered if it was from the cold or my worry over what Ma would think about me giving away our turkey.

My little brother Billy met me at the door, hope shining in his eyes.

“Whatcha catch, Francis? Did you get us a big ol’ turkey?” he asked. The light in his eyes faded when I held up dinner.

 “Oh, Ma, it’s another stinking raccoon,” he said.

“Since when did you turn your nose up at raccoon meat, Billy Ray? ‘Sides, I know your brother did his best. Now, you apologize right this minute.”

Billy dropped his eyes to the floor. “I'm sorry, Francis. He is a nice fat ‘coon.”

I ruffled his hair and smiled. “It’s fine, Billy.”

Ma laid out a supper of fried squirrel and biscuits. The two squirrels didn’t go far between me and Ma and four young’uns. But I wasn’t much hungry anyway. Besides, Ma made the best biscuits in the whole county.

After dinner, I helped wash the kids up and got ‘em tucked into bed.

“I know it’s kind of late, but I’ll fix us a couple of cups of coffee if you don’t think it will keep you up,” Ma said.

“That would suit me fine,” I said. “I do still have a bit of a chill.”

I busied myself with wiping down the old shotgun while Ma started the coffee. When I was done, she placed a steaming hot cup before me.

“Now, tell me all about your hunt, Francis, ‘cause I reckon you left out a few parts. Sheriff Giles stopped by. He left just before you got back. He said the Neely boy was toting the biggest tom turkey he’d ever seen and the boy seemed bashful about how he came about it. He’d been hunting along the same patch of woods as you. You know anything about his good fortune?”

I looked down at my cup of coffee and thought for a moment.

“I asked Pa about something the preacher said one time, Ma. It was about the right hand not knowing what the left hand was doing. Pa said he wasn’t as smart as the preacher, but the way he figured it, if you did something good for someone, you should keep shut about it. If folks knowed you did good, then you were just pumping yourself up, and then the good didn’t count.”

Ma’s eyes got wet, and a tear slid down her cheek. I’d never seen Ma cry before, and it upset me greatly.

“I’m sorry, Ma. I know we needed it, and you were counting on a turkey.”

“It ain’t that, boy. I couldn’t be prouder of you. You did just right.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I reckon you’re old enough and deserve to know, Francis. That ain't all the sheriff stopped to say. There was a cave-in at the mine, son.”

“A cave-in? Was Pa hurt? What else did the sheriff say?”

“That’s all he knew, or maybe all he would say. I’ll be on pins and needles until I know, but news travels fast in these hills. So, say your prayers extra hard tonight.”

***

That night, sleep was harder to get ahold of than a greased pig at the county fair, and I don’t think the coffee had much to do with it. My gut was twisting and turning—it felt like two tom cats fighting over a can of sardines in there. ‘Course, my brain wouldn’t shut up either. It kept throwing more “what-ifs” at me than the law allows. Leastwise, there ought to be a law about it.

It had been a long day, though; eventually, my body had enough. But I hate even recalling the dark dreams I was tortured with, and I ain’t gonna dwell on ‘em much. Suffice it to say I envisioned my Pa trapped and broken in a pitch-black hell hole of a mine, his funeral after that, my family’s grief… well, I reckon almost every possible horrible outcome.

I remembered hearing his voice in the woods—an omen? Please, God, don’t let it be so!

I dreamt of Pa, but in my dream, a demon took him over and was after me to drag me to perdition. I screamed at the demon and felt him grab my arm.

Pa’s voice said, “It’s all right now, Francis.”

I could smell meat burning. Was I already in hell?

“It’s all right, son. I’m home now.” The voice sounded like Pa, but I was afraid to open my eyes…afraid of what my waking eyes would see. A demon? A ghost?

I remembered what my Pa said the day he taught me to swim. “Even the bravest man gets scared, Francis. They just don’t let that fear whup ‘em.”

I forced my eyes to open.

“Is that you, Pa? Really you?”

“In the flesh, son. Lordy, I’m proud of you, boy. Merry Christmas.” He grabbed me up in a hug so tight it hurt, but I didn’t complain a lick. Pa was home!

***

A week ago, I went home to the mountains. A dear old family friend had passed away, and we went back to pay our respects. My Neely was ninety-nine years old and only missed his hundredth birthday by a few days.

After the service, Silas introduced himself, which was a good thing as I’d never recognized him otherwise. He walks with a cane these days, and his hair is the color of fresh fallen snow. He said he lost his wife last year and was all alone in the world.

“Reminiscing is one of God’s finest gifts to us older folks, don’t you reckon, Francis?” he asked. “I can still close my eyes and recall when our families were poor but richer than we knew. I dread the day my memories fade, old friend. They are all I have left.”

I nodded, knowing exactly what he meant.

“I haven’t forgotten what you did for me, Francis, For us.”

Sally Mae was the last of us to live in the home place, along with her husband and two teenage boys. She’d found this old notebook I used to scribble my thoughts in long ago, boxed up with some of Ma’s belongings. I hadn’t read what I wrote back then for many years. And there’s been a few—between that Christmas and now. Over the years, a golden-brown turkey or a fine smoked ham always graced our table. And most years, we had more set before us than we could have hoped to eat.

I got home from the mountains just in time for our Christmas. My wife baked a pheasant for our holiday meal. A turkey is too much for just the two of us anymore. That pheasant was something to brag about and left me licking my fingers—or would have if my wife wasn’t watching. But to this day, that baked ‘coon, on the Christmas day my Pa came home? That was the best Christmas dinner I’ve ever had.

David W. Thompson

https://www.david-w-thompson.com

David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer and a member of the Horror Writers’ Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.