Officer Of The Watch: Blackout Volume 1 (25 page)

The river was broad and slow in this stretch, with deep water.  On the opposite bank, a massive stone outcrop jutted from the ground, rising sixty feet into the air.  It formed a massive rock wall along a two hundred yard stretch of the opposite bank, and the low hill it formed had earned the local moniker 'Little Big Rock'.  Levy settled himself onto an old fallen pine tree and began unwinding the fishing line on one of his cane poles. 

"After a good rain like we had the past few nights," Levy said as he threaded a worm onto his hook, "the fish will be lookin for food washed into the river.  Give it a day or two for the mud to wash out of the water, and the fish start bitin like crazy."

Levy took his cane poll and swung the baited hook in a long arc out into the middle of the river with a plop.  The bright orange cork bobbed up and down in the gentle current as the hook settled into the water.  The river carried the cork very slowly to the left and Levy sat back to watch as it floated by.  Eric finished tying a larger hook with a synthetic rubber night crawler on his Zebco, and he moved upriver a bit so his casting wouldn't interfere with Levy's bait.

"Gotta be careful with a spinner like that," Levy said, shaking his head. "There's trees and rocks and all kinds of trash piled up deep in this hole.  You hit some of it with that hook, and you'll lose your worm."

"I know, Granddaddy," Eric said.  "I'll be careful."

Eric cast his lure three fourths of the way across the river and began reeling it slowly towards him.  Every few turns, he would jerk the lure a couple of feet through the water to imitate a jittery, injured worm trying to swim.  Nothing bit on the first cast, so he tried again in a slightly different spot with the same result.

"I'm gonna move up a little ways," Eric said.  "Maybe they'll hit it up where the water's a little less deep."

Levy just grunted.  As Eric moved off, Levy's orange cork bobber disappeared beneath the water.  Levy stood and pulled up sharply on the cane pole, setting the hook.  He pulled a large, flat blue-gilled brim from the water and grinned over at Eric. 

"Good luck," Levy said as he pulled the fish from his hook and dropped it into the bucket of river water.  The fish flapped and splashed at first but settled down quickly.  Eric shook his head and took his tackle box with him as he walked upstream far enough to be out of sight of his grandfather and started fishing.

After more than an hour of trying different spots and different lures, all with the same negative result, Eric was becoming frustrated.  He'd lost three complete worm rigs and two shiny spinner baits to hidden obstacles in the murky water.  He decided to go back and check on Levy and see if the old timer's luck had held.  As he walked up to his grandfather, Eric could hear the fish splashing in the bucket by his side.  Eric looked in the bucket and was shocked to see enough fish in the bucket to hide the white plastic bottom from view.  Levy never said a word, just looked up and nodded as Eric set his spinner reel down and picked up the spare cane pole. 

When Eric had unwound the fishing line and tied on his hook, he added a couple of small split-shot lead weights and a bright orange cork bobber.  Levy pulled his line from the water and set his pole next to his log seat as he stood. 

"Come with me, Doc," Levy said, and he grabbed the nearly empty cricket cage. 

Levy led the way, pushing through the briars and brush until they were back on the old logging road.  Levy scanned the trees for a moment, then snapped his fingers and pointed to a young tree that was no more than twenty feet tall at its highest point.  The canopy the tree formed was broad and thick with wide flat leaves larger than a dinner plate. 

"This here's a Catawba tree," Levy said as they reached the base of the tree.  Levy reached up to one of the low-hanging branches and grabbed a broad leaf riddled with holes.  He turned the leaf over, and smiled broadly, "And these," he continued, "are Catawba worms."

Levy began plucking the two inch long black caterpillars from the leaf and dropping them into the cricket cage.  He left a few of the larger worms and moved on to the next leaf he could reach, repeating the process.  Eric followed his grandfather around the tree, pulling worms off where he could reach as well.

"You never want to pick a leaf clean," Levy said, "and it's best to leave the bigger ones, if you can.  That way you know there'll be more worms next year."

Eric nodded. "That makes sense," he said, "but what's so special about these worms?"

"It's the smell," Levy said.  "You wouldn't believe it, but these things drive fish flat out crazy, Doc.  You can have a bad day on every other kind of bait, but drop one of these sticky, stinky little worms in the water, and the fish'll be crawling out onto the bank to get more of it."

When they'd gone around the entire tree, there were about thirty worms crawling around inside the cricket cage.  Levy tore off a few pieces of the broad, flat leaves and dropped them into the wire cricket cage with the worms.  A few of the remaining crickets were able to use the leaves to mount an escape, but Levy didn't seem to mind.

When they were back at the river, Levy took one of the larger worms from the cricket cage and laid it flat on the log.  With his antique Case pocketknife, Levy carved the worm into three roughly equal sections.  As soon as he cut into the thick, rubbery hide, a slimy paste squirted out and Eric felt his stomach shift.  Levy stuck one of the sections on his own hook and another on Eric's. 

They swung the bait out into the water at roughly the same time.  Eric turned to ask his grandfather a question and felt a sharp jerk on his line.  When he looked back to the water, both his and his grandfather's cork bobbers were nowhere to be seen.  For a moment, Eric stood with his mouth open, not quite believing the results he was seeing.  Then, his rod jerked again, and Eric's attention snapped back to the water and the present moment.  He pulled up sharply on the cane pole to set the hook and pulled a massive brim from the water as Levy did the same. 

"You see, Doc," Levy said as they took the fish off and dropped them into the bucket to splash and thrash about, "you're used to fishing for sport and for fun.  That's all well and good, but what we're doin now is different.  If we don't catch fish, then we don't eat supper.  Reelin in that eight or ten pound bass is a challenge, and it's a thrill, but if you don't get that big boy in hand, then all that time spent chasin him is just wasted."

Levy cut another worm, and they baited their hooks with it.  Eric dropped his in the water first, and within a few seconds, the bobber bounced once and disappeared again.  Eric shook his head but couldn't help chuckling to himself as he pulled another fish from his hook.  In less than an hour, the five gallon bucket was so full they couldn't fit any more fish in it.  Levy cut a branch and strung a dozen brim on it by running the thin end through one side of their gills and out their mouth. 

"Granddaddy, there's just one thing I don't understand," Eric said as they were packing up their poles, the bucket, and tackle boxes to head back up the hill to the house.

"What's that, Doc?"

"Well," Eric said, should be "pointing to the bucket and the loaded branch of fish, "you can catch fish like that on your own, so why did you need me down here with you?"

"To carry the bucket back up the hill, of course," Levy replied with a chuckle and a wink.

CH. 52

A Long Way Home

Joe gripped the steering wheel hard, his knuckles white from the strain.  The last building of the city fell into the dim shadows deep within his rearview mirror.  The old station wagon thundered down the road and the wind tore at Joe's hair.  The air was hot and muggy, but at least it was moving, and that helped. 

Joe ground his teeth.

Two houses empty, and one he wished had been.  They left the Chesapeake and Norfolk behind with many more questions than answers.  The man they'd seen, the one they'd found shot, had said there were two groups that came looking for him, and the second one was the violent group.  Joe wondered who the first set of visitors had been. 

And he wondered who had sent in the A-10's.  The National Guard can't respond to a threat with that kind of force unless some very specific conditions had been met.  And even with everything he'd seen, Joe wasn't quite ready to go
that
far just yet.  He shrugged his shoulders slightly and gripped the steering wheel tighter, trying to silence the doubts rolling through his mind.

Joe wondered which group he'd left hog-tied and without a ride outside Chris's home the day before.  Were they the ruthless thugs that had put two bullets in the stranger? Or were they the ones that came first with questions and an open hand? Suddenly, Joe slammed on his brakes.  The '58 slid to a halt, the back end starting to slide around to the right.  Joe had to cut the wheel hard to keep the car from going into a spin. 

He had almost driven past the faded gray mailbox and gravel driveway. 

Joe pulled the station wagon into the driveway and started blowing the horn.  A grizzled old farmer in dusty tan overalls came around the corner of the porch with a double barrel twelve gauge in his hands.  He turned his head and spat a thick jet of dark purple tobacco juice to the side and arched it over the white railing of the porch. 

"Whoever you are," Gilbert called, "you'd better stop right there!  I'll shoot ya down if I have to, I swear to Christ!"

Joe stomped the brakes again and threw his empty hands out the window.

"Gilbert!" Joe called, "It's me, Joe.  We need to talk, old man!"

Gilbert snorted and spat to the side again.  "Well, Joe," he said slowly, "there's better ways of sayin that, but okay."

Gilbert flipped the shotgun around so the muzzle was pointing up and to the left, away from anyone in the area.  Still, his right hand was close to the trigger, and he could swing the shotgun down quickly from that position.  The old farmer fixed Joe with a hard stare.

"Okay, Joe," Gilbert said carefully.  "You've got my attention."

"I hate to come at you like this," Joe said shaking his head, "but you need to hear me out, Gilbert.  Things are bad in the city now.  I watched A-10's dropping missiles and making strafing runs over Norfolk, and I'm pretty sure they were the
good
guys in this.  You guys need to get out of here while you still can."

Gilbert knelt by the car and looked Joe in the eye for a long moment.  Finally, he shrugged his shoulders a bit.  "This is our home, Joe," Gilbert said.  "There's a war coming and who would we be if we left our home right at that moment?"

Joe shook his head and thrust his door open.  He got out and pulled Gilbert to his feet.  He half dragged the farmer to the edge of the yard and pointed to the south.  There was a small subdivision of nice, large suburban homes about a mile and a half distant. 

"There," Joe said, pointing to the track of homes, "you've got nine neighbors to your south.  Do you know any of them?"

Gilbert was silent for a moment.

"I didn't think so," Joe said, releasing the man.  "Who do you have out here, Gilbert? Who is there to help you if your grandson breaks his arm or leg? Who's out here to help if you get bit by a moccasin? You got people to look in on or people that look in on you?"

Gilbert didn't reply and he didn't nod or shake his head.  He stared sullenly at the farm house and slowly dropped to his knees.  He buried his face in his hands for a long time, breathing heavily.

"I know it's hard to leave," Joe said, kneeling next to the old farmer.  "You're right, Gilbert.  There's a war coming.  Who do you have to help keep the war outside and away from your family? Can you do it? All on your own, without any backup, can you keep your family safe?"

A long moment of silence stretched, and it seemed that no one breathed.  By now, the rest of the family was on the porch, and Tom was out of the car.  The boys' mother glared daggers at Joe, but Gilbert's wife was nodding slowly.  She, at least, understood the situation.  And it seemed that Gilbert did too.

"We've got nothing to bring," Gilbert said slowly, softly.  "We've got nothing to offer."

Joe shook his head and pulled the farmer back to his feet.

"I think we both know that's not true," Joe replied.  "You've got decades of knowledge and experience to pass on.  You lived and thrived in hardships people my age have only read about in books, if they're lucky.  We're going to need your perspective and your experience down the road."

"I never thought I'd be the one to leave this place behind," Gilbert said slowly, looking around the farmyard with a wistful eye.

Joe gripped the old farmer by the shoulder and offered him his right hand.

"Don't worry, Gilbert," Joe said solemnly.  "When the time comes, I'll help you take it back."

"I'll hold you to that," Gilbert said, and he took Joe's hand and shook it hard. 

There wasn't much left to say after that.  In less than two hours, they had secured everything that could be packed and stowed in or on top of the station wagon secured.  Joe pulled out onto the road and headed south.  The two young boys, one with his arm fresh in a splint and a sling, sobbed in the back seat, as they turned to watch the old farmhouse fade into the background.

Gilbert never turned back once.

Ch. 53

Hand In Hand

The sun was an angry red ball low on the western horizon when Eric took the last slimy fish from the bucket at his feet and laid it on the thin, bowed wooden plank in front of him.  He was breathless, and his forearms ached a little.  This would be his thirty seventh brim cleaned and scaled, and his grandfather had skinned four long, sleek catfish.  Their heads hung from four spikes that had been driven deep into the wood of a massive pecan tree in the back yard.  The iron spikes had been imbedded in the trunk so long that it looked as if the tree were weeping rusty tears from four deep black eyes.

When Levy finished filleting the slab of catfish he was working on, he plucked the four heads from the tree and dropped them into a stinking bucket that was encrusted with flies and fish innards.  Scales flew from the brim Eric held on the table, and he was almost done with their last fish.  Levy dropped the remaining catfish in buttermilk so cold it made the side of the aluminum bowl that held it sweat fat, cold beads of water.  The pink chunks of fish floated in the thick liquid like ice cubes.