Jake pulled the line up again, this time with the net in the other hand. When he saw the slimy head through the muddy water, he scooped the net towards it. As the massive catfish struggled to escape, he flared his tines, only entangling himself further. Jake had committed himself and leaned halfway out of the boat. He had seen the size of the beast and refused to let it escape. Clayton quit laughing as he saw the giant tail swirl the top of the water.
“Get over here and give me a hand!”
“Okay, okay! Just don’t lose him!”
“Grab the back half; be careful!”
“Okay! On three!”
They heaved the thrashing beast into the boat on three and stepped back to avoid getting pierced by one of the fish’s pointy tines. They stared in awe of the giant fish.
“Wow! He must weigh what, sixty, seventy pounds?”
“Maybe more; he’s a big one.”
“What do we do with him? There’s no way he’ll fit in your ice chest.”
“Let’s let him go.”
“What?”
“Maybe I’m getting soft, but I have a sort of respect for the big ones. They’re survivors; they’ve made it through a lot. I don’t feel like it’s my place anymore to take that from them. Besides, the big ones don’t taste as good anyway.”
“Kate’ll never believe me if I tell her we let a seventy pound catfish go.”
“That’s why they’re fish stories, son. Besides,” Clayton winked as he continued, “in the story, he can be a hundred pounds. Now, help me get this thing back in the water.”
***
Moses’ barking awoke Kate from her nap on the secluded sandbar. The recent floods had nearly submerged it, but a small finger remained. Her skin was warm and pink from the sun’s rays. Great, sunburnt in October; just my luck. She grabbed a bottle of water from her pack and stood to stretch.
Kate called out to Claire, “Do you need anything while I’m up?”
“Oh no dear, I’m fine. Ooh, you’re going to be burned.”
“I know; just my luck.”
Sasha padded after Kate as she strolled across the beach to Moses. She scratched him behind his ears while he continued to bark.
“How’s your shoulder feel today?”
“It’s better. It hurts a little when I cast, but other than that it’s as good as new.”
“That’s good. What’s Moses barking at?”
“He thinks I’ve got a fish. He hates fish – well, he hates fish that aren’t deep fried at least.”
Kate laughed, “I think by the time we leave this place, we’ll all hate fish.”
“You know what?” Geram smiled and said, “I do believe you’re right.”
Kate sat on the bank beside him as he continued to work the spinner bait through the water.
“What happened that night; how’d you get shot?”
“I lost focus for just a second, and the next thing I knew I was hit. I guess it just wasn’t my lucky night. If it hadn’t been for Jake…” his voice trailed off.
“I think you were very lucky that night.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Have you ever been shot before?”
“Never.”
She sat in silence for a while as he occasionally cast the rod and began the cycle of reeling it anew.
“It gives you some perspective, doesn’t it?”
“It does. I’ve had several dreams about that moment where I stared at his barrel. I wasn’t ready to die – on so many levels, I wasn’t ready to die.”
“I had a dream the other night about my mother. It’s the only dream I’ve had about her since she passed.”
Geram placed the rod on the bank as he sat down in the sand and faced her.
“What was it about?”
“We were in this beautiful restaurant at this beautiful table. There were candles and the reflections of the flames danced on the silverware and china. We were the only people in the place. Mom looked angelic, like I’d never seen her before; her face was so radiant. She never said anything; she just smiled at me with the most amazing smile. Behind her was this sculpture. I don’t remember what it was, but I remember being in complete awe of it. The detail was indescribable, the curves and lines were perfect; I couldn’t take my eyes off of it.
I asked her who made it, but she didn’t answer. She just kept smiling at me like an angel. It made me feel so warm and safe to see her smile like that.
I never saw who it was, but when I asked her again, a hand reached across my shoulder and pointed at Mom. I was like, ‘Mom! You made this?’ But she never said a word; she just kept smiling back at me like she’d never been happier.”
Geram thought for a while, before asking, “What do you think it meant, Kate?”
“I’m not sure. I know of all people, Mom was not an artist,” Kate smiled at the memory of her mother.
They sat in silence as they waited for Jake and Clayton to return, the distant sound of their motor was barely audible.
“Maybe,” she said, “maybe it was supposed to mean that there’s something more.”
“Maybe it was.”
Kate buried her feet in the sand and looked away. “Things are going to get bad, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, they are.”
“But there’s something more.”
“Yeah, there’s something more.”
“Then I can accept that.”
A note from the author:
I hope you enjoyed the first book in the series; if you did, please leave a review on Amazon and spread the word; it would be greatly appreciated. The sequel to The Western Front, Kratocracy , is also available on Amazon. I’ve included an excerpt from the book on the following pages.
Regards, -Archer Garrett
KRATOCRACY
Kratocracy (Kra-toc-ra-cy) [kruh-tok-ruh-see] (Origin: Greek, krateros, strong) (noun, plural – Kra-toc-ra-cies) (similar: Kratocrat –noun; Kratocratic –adjective): Government by those who are strong enough to seize power through force or cunning. (Montague.)
One
The four grey SUVs cautiously approached the outskirts of Viejo Guerrero, known to the gringos as Old Warrior City. The vehicles were dented and dusted thoroughly, with the occasional rusted bullet hole in a door or fender; the windshields were cracked and caked with dirt and grime in the areas beyond the reach of the dry-rotted wiper blades.
The cartel soldados in the vehicles were anxious to make the delivery, but were fearful of what may lie between them and Falcon Lake. They gripped their rifles tightly as they peered out the windows of the vehicles at the abandoned structures and barren landscape. Dread was a new emotion for many of the halcones and sicarios; they were more accustomed to inflicting terror than being gripped by it.
The ones they feared were surrounded by myth and mystique; most reasoned the source to be gringo irregulars, but some of the more superstitious among them told stories around campfires about the spirits that roamed the borderlands. These spirits, they would say in hushed voices, were angered by the choices of those in their ancient bloodline; the drug trade was destroying the delicate borderland, and the spirits were angry.
Who could blame these men for their superstitions? The borderlands were a place steeped in centuries of bloodshed and wars, and nearly every man had a tale of a strange encounter that either they, or someone they dearly trusted had experienced. Now there was incessant talk of the mysterious riders that were haunting the soldiers of the cartels.