He tried to move, but his hands and feet were bound. What in the hell?
He tried to sit up. A harsh voice close to his ear, breath stinking. “I’d stay right where you are if I was you. Otherwise, you get another tap to the head.”
He was silent for a moment, each jostling bounce triggering a wave of pain. He felt light-headed, disoriented—a concussion, most likely. He half opened one eye, caught a glimpse of a rough-hewn-looking character, bearded, in camo fatigues, cradling a short-barrel M4 with laser sights, sitting in the bed of the truck.
The sun was up, golden light filtering through the forest canopy softened with morning mist. They were on a downhill grade that kept going and going. Something told him that they must be on the far side of the Mount Mitchell range, heading down the long slope of over six thousand feet of altitude to the inhabited valleys on the far side of the mountain. The driver shifted out of gear for a moment; John heard at least one other vehicle, some laughter—and a strange sound then… squealing. It sounded like pigs.
Damn it, he thought. I get tangled up in this for some damn pigs and moonshine. What a reason to get taken by whoever this is.
He looked up at his captor. “Where am I?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Silence for a moment, his head throbbing. “Thirsty. Could I have something to drink?”
His captor chuckled, waited a few minutes, looking off as if to convey who exactly was in charge, and then he reached into a pocket, pulled out a bottle, and uncorked it, offering it over.
“Hands tied,” John said, and his captor grinned.
“Yup, well, have a touch of this.” He held the bottle to John’s lips. It was shine, pure shine, but John took a gulp anyhow, coughing and gasping, and a moment later, he vomited it back up, his captor cursing him and then laughing even as he passed out again.
“All right, drag the son of a bitch out.”
John came back to consciousness as someone pulled him by his feet toward the tailgate of the truck. He opened his eyes, and there was a moment of barely suppressed panic at the sight of a hunting knife, wondering if he was about to have his throat cut. Someone cut the bonds around his ankles and roughly pulled him upright, ordering him to turn around. His hands were freed, a slice of skin from his wrist going with the rope.
He flashed back to his nightmare experience of POW training as a green second lieutenant during a time when outright physical abuse was an accepted part of the program. Even though all knew they were in Fort Bragg, North Carolina, more than a few cracked under the torment. He limped out of that training with a sprained ankle, one eye swollen shut, and a cracked rib when he had attempted an escape, which all were expected to try. He had run afoul of a Green Beret “guard,” whom he had at least had the pleasure of kicking in the groin, which triggered the “guards” into giving him some payback.
Try never to show pain, don’t show fear—it had been drilled into him then. He hated to admit it now, but he definitely felt pain, and it was hard not to show fear.
They were in a forest clearing, definitely miles north of Mount Mitchell, its peak and ridgeline clearly visible in the early morning light. Somewhere up in the Burnsville area, he guessed.
Reiver country.
“Bring him over here.”
He was shoved hard, nearly falling over, struggling to maintain his footing and some semblance of dignity. They were at a mountain crossroad, of all things a local fire station, engine still within, a burned-out gas station next door and a few run-down houses and single-wide trailers, run-down long before the Day. Whoever called for him was sitting in an overstuffed lounge chair inside the open fire station. Several men, all dressed in camo gear, were gathered around the chair, whispering, glancing back at John.
In spite of his dazed condition, his thoughts flashed to a movie about some dumb-ass canoeists going out for a weekend in the mountains of Georgia, a movie that scared the crap out of every Northern boy. When he moved from New Jersey to attend college at Duke, his Southern friends often teased him with suggestions they go canoeing and see if they could find some locals for him to meet.
A couple of the men inside the fire station definitely looked like extras from the film, especially the one that he assumed had shot him, his few remaining teeth blackened as he gazed sardonically at John. The only thing missing to make the moment terrifyingly complete was a mentally disabled kid playing a banjo. It fit every worst stereotype ever held about folks living in the mountains of southern Appalachia.
“So this is the great John Matherson?”
Things were out of focus, his head aching from the blow that had knocked him out. His damned tooth was throbbing, and another wave of nausea was hitting. This was certainly turning into one hell of a rotten day.
Shoved again from behind, John staggered into the gloom of the fire station, the shadowy figure in the lounge chair chuckling at his obvious discomfort and then ordering someone to fetch a chair for their guest.
Knees trembling, John half collapsed into the chair and leaned forward, gasping for air, each breath a torment thanks to what he assumed must be a cracked rib or two from the bullet impact.
“Get a medic. George might’ve cracked this poor man’s skull.”
“Lucky if that was all I cracked,” a voice replied. “I popped him square in the chest before tapping him on the back of his head. If it weren’t for that fancy Kevlar vest of his, you’d be talking to a corpse now.”
“Nice vest, Matherson. You’d be dead now if you didn’t have it on,” the voice interjected. “Someone help him out of it. We can use it ourselves.”
John did not object as the flak vest was pulled off, suppressing a gasp as the one taking it off none too gently pointed out the impact point, bruised black and blue.
“Vest is mine now; I claim it,” his captor announced. “I’m the one that shot him, then took him prisoner.”
“We settle that later. All captured supplies go into the common store.”
“The hell you say!” the man with the blackened teeth exclaimed.
There was a moment of silent confrontation between George and the apparent group leader sitting in the lounge chair. With a curse, George finally tossed the vest aside and walked out.
Relieved of the Kevlar, John sat back in the padded chair, stretching his shoulders, breathing deeply, trying to judge for himself how badly he was hurt. Every breath hurt, but better that than an exit wound the size of his fist with his heart going with it.
“So where is this bastard?”
It was a woman’s voice, older. He looked back out the doorway at a gray-haired, slightly bent woman in faded jeans and a flannel shirt carrying an old-style medical bag.
She approached John, took out a flashlight, and shined it into his eyes so that he winced, telling him to follow the light, rough, callused hands fingering his head. It hurt like hell as she did so, the light causing him to lose focus for a moment.
She taped his chest, feeling along his sternum so that he winced when she pressed in hard. Sticking a dirty finger into his mouth and then pulling it out and examining it for a moment, she finally wiped the finger on her flannel shirt.
“Don’t see any blood in your spit. You cough any blood up?” she asked.
He said nothing, slowly shaking his head.
“Good. Just a cracked rib, no lung punctured by it. You puke at all?”
“Yes, a bit earlier.”
“Concussion, not too bad—that and a cracked rib or two. That’s all.”
Without further comment, she picked up her medical bag, opened it, pulled out an oversized bottle of aspirin, shook out two, and handed them to John.