DMB Pulp: Top 10 Stupid Things I Survived, #8
Fishing with Fire Ants, Water Moccasins, and Tarantulas
[Follow these links to catch up with the #10 stupid thing and #9 stupid thing I survived growing up in Texas.] Ahhh, nothing beats fishing away a late summer day at your own private, secluded fishing hole full of 1-3 pound large-mouth bass. So peaceful. So relaxing. Nothing to get in between me and the thrill of antagonizing an otherwise lazy bass into striking my Strike King Pro Series 1 Crankbait (a yellow/green mid-level diver).
Well, nothing except the fairly regular disruption of angry water moccasins swimming directly at me from across the pond. Meh, it’s easy enough to dispatch (or temporarily scare away) any and all cottonmouths with the trusty .22 caliber pistol on my belt. (For some strange reason, firing small arms into the pond never seems to negatively impact the fishing.)
That only leaves the minions of fire ants swimming on the surface of the pond (yes, fire ants can and do swim) and swarming around the banks. But seriously, fire ants are a mild nuisance at worst. Their sting is hardly noticeable, and all they leave behind is a tiny pustule (or, you know, dozens of them). It’s not like they’re eating my precious eye-goo or climbing around on other sensitive mucous membranes. It would be downright irresponsible for me to permit that. By occasionally shifting my fishing spot on the bank and regularly knocking the ants off of my clothing, I’m able to one-hundred percent enjoy my relaxing time of fishing…until…
It’s time to go home. Actually, it’s about ten minutes past the time that I should have packed up my tackle box and headed for the car (my sky-blue, 1984 240 model Volvo parked roughly one-hundred yards away because that’s as close as I can get it without sticking it in the mud). I permitted myself “one last cast” a few too many times, and it’s rapidly getting dark. My pulse rate climbs a bit as I toss all my tackle in my box, clamp it shut, and start timidly toward the car.
Venomous snakes and fire ants are one thing. Now I have to deal with jack-in-the-box style “sproing” of hidden tarantulas lurking in the tall grass on either side of the primitive trail that I’ve beat down over the years. As we all know, fears are often not rational. Looking back now, I probably should have been a bit more concerned about the venomous snakes that could have incapacitated me at worst or at least left me in need of urgent medical attention. But it was the tarantulas that freaked me out the most (despite the fact that I knew then and know now that you have to try pretty dang hard to get bit by a tarantula).
It only takes a few strides before the first tarantula springs out from under my foot and three feet into the air. I jump several inches backward, catch my breath, and mutter an unholy swear. The cycle repeats every several steps I take toward the car: a tarantula springs out of my way, I spring back and curse. Finally, I reach my car and carefully ensure none of the wretched, leaping spiders find their way into my car along with me.
Ahhh, another peaceful summer afternoon spent fishing. And on my way home, I get the satisfaction of squishing a few dozen tarantulas on the warm surface of the pothole-riddled blacktop road.
At the Desk This Week
I took the family on a road trip this week to visit the inlaws. The best thing about driving cross-country is all the time I get to spend dancing around in my unfettered imagination. It always leads to good things, and this time was no exception. I landed on a few critical fixes I need to make to the episode of The Green Ones I’m working on currently. Plus, I was able to map out the motivations and events involved in the upcoming multiverse war that I’ll pave the way for at the end of this episode.
My pace of life over the last few years has made it difficult for me to prioritize a multi-hour period of imagination and mind-mapping, but this really is something that I need to build into my weekly schedule if I’m going to genuinely commit to fiction writing again. The stories turn out so much better when I’m taking the time to push myself and my characters via mental “what-ifs” before I sit down to write.
Twitch and Die! Empty but Living, Scene 5-8
[Click here for an introduction by Jim Buckner]
[Start with the introduction to the series.]
Moving steadily toward the Marcon place, Chancho noted more proof of the suspicions he’d formed from the vantage of New York Hill. The town had waged war against itself. Doors lay burst from hinges. Bullet holes peppered walls. Barricades barred roads and porches. Occasionally an auto had been driven through a wall as a battering ram.
As the three strode down the center of the road, front porch after front porch, Chancho blocked out the mud, ash, and scattered remains of a war waged both behind closed doors and in the open. Instead he began to notice the unexpected. Foremost, the lack of bodies.
Blood stains remained, but nothing fresh. They hadn’t seen a single body since crossing the fence, living or dead. How could a war be waged without casualties? Where could they have gone?
In the middle of a burned-out block, Chancho spotted five upright oil drums among the charred remains. “Pssst, Angelo.” He called them to a halt. If they were to survive as aliens, they needed knowledge of the rules of the land. “Un momento, por favor.”
Chloe clutched his arm. “What do you see?”
Stepping over half-burned timbers and blackened sheets of tin, Chancho reached the first drum. Smoldering embers in the lower third of the barrel cracked and hissed.
Chloe rested a hand on his shoulder. “One of the lights we saw from the hill.”
“They’re in a circle with that one in the middle.” Chancho scrambled over the blackened boards toward the center drum. It also smoldered but smelled much worse than pine or cedar. The lower half of the barrel was buried in ashes as additional fuel had been piled on top without emptying its contents.
A couple feet from the barrel he felt something shatter beneath his boot—something small and brittle. Something felt but not heard. He stepped back and recognized the jawbone of a human skull. “Madre de dios.” Scanning the ash, he found the remains of several other bones jutting from the pile. He held up his hand for the others to stop. “It’s a funeral pyre.” He backed up, slowly at first. Then he turned and hurried to the edge of the street where Angelo and Chloe were catching their breath.
Chloe spoke first. “That’s why there aren’t any bodies.”
“You cannot blame them for that. Caring for de dead is a basic human instinct.” Angelo spit and crossed himself several times.
“Maybe, after a war is over.” Chancho remembered the battlefields of Celaya where Villa had charged Obregón’s European-style defenses with wave after wave of revolutionary cavalry. He’d returned a month later and the bodies were still decomposing in the sun, three deep. Only their valuables and their boots had been removed.
“But these people are Italian,” Chancho nodded at Angelo, “Polish, Mexican. We do not burn our dead.”
“But under these circumstances?” Chloe gestured to their surroundings.
“Unless there is some reason to fear the dead,” Chancho finished his thought. All three of them stood in silence. “Lo siento, mis amigos. I’ve been in a morbid mood.”
“I cannot image why de hell you would not be gay about all of this.” Angelo grunted as he resumed their pace. “We will be there soon. Marcon’s is on the next block. Then we find what we find.”
The Marcon house remained intact, nestled below the small mound known as Italian Hill. On the other side of the rise, the Black Diamond Rail snaked its way to #7. Avoiding the house, Angelo led them directly into the backyard—a cramped space where the hill met the house. There, built partially into the slope, was the outdoor oven.
“No one baked bread better than Phebe.” Angelo stopped a few feet short. “It is strange to see it empty.”
Chancho knelt before the brick oven, a squat chimney covered with adobe. Even dormant and with heavily-filtered sun, the surface was warm to the touch. He tugged opened the lower metal door to look inside. “Señora Marcon claimed she left the book here, and that Serge—” he jerked backward, lost his balance, and sat in the dirt.
“What is it?” Chloe helped Chancho to his feet.
“Snakes.” He knelt again, this time a couple of feet further from the opening. “Rattlers, mostly dormant. Lo siento, just a little fright.”
Chloe joined him. “There’s a whole den of them. Clever spot, really.”
Chancho’s gut writhed. He didn’t mind snakes so much, but the sounds of their scales sliding past one another, their rattles flicking lazily within the belly of the stove, added to his overall uneasiness.
“There.” Chloe pointed, her hand nearing the oven’s opening.
“What is it?”
“The message from Serge. It’s here.”
Angelo spit and danced in a circle while muttering in Italian.
Chloe leaned closer and read the words etched into the mortar just inside the door, “I forgive you. Get out.”
Angelo stopped gyrating. “What?”
Chancho looked up. “Get out seems pretty clear. He knew about the outbreak. But I forgive you?”
Angelo blew snot onto the ground. “Several of us suspected she and Serge’s brother…” he shrugged. “She loved Serge.”
Chancho stood up. “If she was telling the truth about the message, she was telling the truth about the black book.”
“It cannot be. How?” Angelo wrung his hat in his hands after emptying the other nostril.
“We don’t know how the infection works. Maybe it’s slower on some.”
“But Marcello—”
Chancho placed a gentle hand on Angelo’s shoulder. “Your brother could not have left a message like this. The sickness,” he shuddered, “it had possessed him.”
Angelo slapped his thigh and put his hat on. “Serge was a pit bull. Once he clamped down, he never let go.” He shook his fist. “It was one thing we held in common. The other was a hatred for Vezzoni. If he came for the black book, it was either to keep it from Vezzoni or use it against Vezzoni. The bastard, I will kill ‘em.”
Chancho added, “Or to stop the illness only he knew the truth about.”
“Either way, common enemies make strong friends.” Angelo kicked the metal door of the oven shut. “If Serge is still Serge, he will help.”
“Well let’s do something. This standing around is freezing me.” Chloe rubbed her arms and leaned into Chancho’s embrace.
While holding her, Chancho looked skyward. The blanket of gray obscured any sense of time. He doubted it could be noon. “We have time, but we shouldn’t spend the night within the fence.”
“No argument from ole Angel, but it will make no difference underground.”
Chancho shivered. He didn’t like cramped spaces. He raised a single brow, begging Angelo to dispel his anxieties.
“Sorry, my Mexican friend. Assuming the bars are not open, there is only one place Serge could be—the #4. Besides, if Phebe’s right, that is where it all started. It would make no sense to risk coming here without having a look.” He rubbed his hands and blew into them. “At least it will be warmer in the hole.”
Chancho fixated on movement behind Angelo, but the Italian didn’t notice. “There might still be some of my grappa inside. That would warm us up good.” He started for the house, but Chancho waved him off.
“Very slowly, I want you to turn around.” Chancho didn’t move while Chloe peeked over her shoulder and Angelo turned. Unflinching, a boy no older than five watched them from the middle of the road. He wore a girl’s winter coat. Red.
Chloe whispered, “He’s just a child.”
“The most common survivors of war.” Chancho released Chloe and stepped forward. The boy crouched, preparing to bolt. Chancho held up his hands, palms out. “We want to help.” He spoke barely loud enough for the boy to hear. Without shifting his expression, the boy shook his head.
“Have you seen the man who lives here?” Chancho pointed at the Marcon house. The boy cocked his head. Chancho took the gesture as a yes. “Is he safe?”
Again the boy shook his head, and Chancho realized his unblinking eyes had been fixed on Chloe the entire time. “Does he stay in the shadows?” The boy tilted his head the other way. “In the mines?” Without breaking his gaze, the pointed in the direction from which they’d come.
Angelo’s voice cracked, “The #4.”
The boy blinked and started to flee.
“Wait!” Chloe’s voice echoed between the hill and the Marcon place. The boy stopped obediently. “Are there more like you?” He seemed confused, so she tried again. “More children?” He nodded in the affirmative for the first time. Chloe knelt down with her hand outstretched. “Would you like to leave this place?” Wide-eyed, the boy glanced toward New York Hill before putting his fingers to his mouth as if he were smoking. Then in a blink he sprinted away.
Chancho and Chloe followed to the edge of the road. Fitted with stockings and wrapped in tape, the boy’s feet struck the road’s surface with muffled slaps. Leaving puffs of ash in his wake, he turned the corner and was gone.
Chloe shook visibly. Chancho embraced her and struggled to force down his emotions. This little one had been the one with the least to lose. Only the outcast among outcasts would disregard the rules so readily just for a closer look at the only woman, the only mother, in town. It was exactly the sort of thing Chancho would have done as a boy.
In the silence left behind, he knew without doubt other ears were listening, and other eyes were watching—both living and dying. He crossed himself. Looking to heaven, he forced his mind back to the task at hand. The three of them had an appointment hundreds of feet below ground with one of the dying.
“How many do you think there are?” Chloe gripped Chancho’s wrist three blocks from the Marcon place.
“Many.”
“How many?” She dug her nails into his skin until he stopped to look at her.
He shook his head. “Too many.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She hadn’t even brought up her concern yet, and he was already dismissing her. She threw his arm down. “How can you say that? They’re only children.”
“What did you expect?” Chancho kept his voice low and level. “They are the survivors.”
“Survivors? And how long do you think that’s going to last?” Chloe stamped. “Look at this place? We have to do something.”
“We are doing all we can.” Chancho pulled his sombrero low over his brow and hurried to catch up with Angelo.
“Del Rio Villarreal!” She spoke louder than she’d intended. Her voice battered the piles of debris, the clapboard siding, and loose window panes lining both sides of the dirt road. She couldn’t shake the boy’s wide-eyed bewilderment when she’d suggested he escape Thurber.
“You are drawing too much attention,” Chancho hissed without turning to face her.
“How can nothing be all we can do?”
Chancho refused to respond.
She resumed an angry march, now yards behind him. “I expected more from you, of all people. This is not over.” Who was this listless man trudging through the ash in front of her? So callous, cold, and indifferent.
“I am only one man,” Chancho spoke while facing forward, barely audible over his shuffling feet.
Then both of them fell silent. Chloe felt lost—more than in the eerie dark of New York Hill. How could she love a man who understood her heart even less than she did herself?
Downtown Thurber resembled an old-timer’s toothless grin. Violent contests had splintered doors, shattered windows, and left piles of rubble scattered throughout. The hotel remained the tallest building in town, roughly equal to the largest smokestack at the kiln. The towering brick walls bore the pockmarks of continuous gunfire. Above the upper floor windows, the porous surface had been scorched and discolored by smoke.
Chancho stood motionless in the road below and gazed upward at its dizzying height. The structure’s shattered windows—gaping mouths and staring eyes—oppressed him. The brick and mortar came to life, mocking his weakness. Failure. Foreigner. Dreamer. The situation was spinning out of his grasp. And exactly when he needed Chloe’s steadying force the most, she’d joined the accusing voices. He was alone on a fool’s errand.
Movement near the ground caught his attention. He lowered his gaze to see Chloe and Angelo focused on the Black Diamond Locomotive straddling Main Street. On the hitch between the engine and its tender stood the little boy. After staring for several seconds, he disappeared through the gap.
No one made any effort to hail him. Whether a good omen or bad, it seemed the boy had become their ever-watching mascot. Currently, his presence had served to anchor Chancho’s attention earthward toward the Black Diamond.
Still on the rails, the locomotive had been left downtown, connected to its tender and a single passenger car. He imagined Vezzoni or some other important individual filling the people with hopeful lies from its back landing moments before abandoning them to a brutal fate. But why wouldn’t the train have been evacuated along with the leadership of the mine?
Angelo hailed them from the back of the passenger car.
“You were wondering why the boss would have left his train?”
Chancho’s eyes widened at Angelo’s continued astuteness. “Si, compadre.”
“Sabotage. Look at these scorch marks.” Angelo indicated a wide-ranging area of burns on the ties, the gravel beneath the tracks, and the back of the car.
Chloe knelt. “Don’t you think this could have been done since?”
“He’s right.” Chancho slid beneath the passenger car. “The scarring is mostly underneath. There’s shrapnel embedded in the ties.”
“A bomb.”
Chancho scooted out from under the train. “A booby trap.”
Chloe scowled at him. “That sounds awful sophisticated.”
Chancho focused on the narrative unfolding before them. He wasn’t at the beginning of the story, and he wasn’t alone after all. “Even before Vezzoni left town, someone knew he was responsible.” Chancho dusted himself off and looked Angelo in the eyes. “Who does that sound like to you?”
“Serge. He would know how to build something like this. We blasted plenty of rock together.”
Chancho started toward the front of the train. “Keep an eye out. I want to check something.”
Chloe tried to stop him, “What’s up with you and trains?”
Chancho didn’t answer. He gave a wide birth to the entrance of the passenger car as he passed. The steps were clear of debris and clean of settling ash. With a shudder he continued toward the engine.
Leaping up the stairs, memory briefly transported him to the last time he’d been behind the controls of a steam engine. The results had been near-tragic. He forced the accusing voices beneath the surface. This time would be different. He wouldn’t take Chloe and Angelo for granted. He would put their needs first.
He quickly assessed the condition of the backhead. The controls were intact. Throttle lever, brake lever, and pressure gauges all seemed good. The firebox even had fuel in it, ready to go… assuming it still had water in the boiler. He shifted to his left. The gauge glass was broken. He thumped the valve with his finger before swinging out of the cabin and onto the runner.
With a quick scramble, he straddled the top of the boiler. He slammed his hand on the release and popped open the water dome for a peek and then a listen. The echoing drips indicated a level high enough for emergency use. The crown sheet probably wasn’t covered, but she’d make steam for a while before stressing too much. He dropped the dome lid as quietly as he could. It still created a reverberation among the downtown buildings louder than he would have liked.
“Get down from there,” Chloe chided him. “We’ve gotta get going before we become that nuisance you talked about earlier.”
“Almost finished.” Chancho scrambled back into the cabin. “Never hurts to have contingencies in place.”
“You’re starting to take this planning thing too far. Besides, what would the three of us need with a train?” Chloe joined him in the cabin.
“Please, not now.” Chancho reached beneath his serape and yanked out a patch of guncotton. “Stand back.”
“Fine, forget the kids. Don’t get me wrong,” Chloe continued, “I suppose in this situation I’m grateful for the advanced preparation. But then what’s left for me?”
Chancho struck a flint into the firebox. The chemical reaction sparkled and flared, followed quickly by a small, dancing flame. He closed the box and twisted the atomizer a quarter turn. A mist of fuel fed the flames.
He gripped her by both shoulders, feeling the urgency of his words lump in his throat. “Your job is to make sure I don’t kill us.”
“Oh.” She pursed her lips. “Well then, first off, what the hell are you doing? And secondly, shut up so we can get the hell out of here.”
He turned the valve for the blower a quarter turn. “Sounds good, señorita. Lead the way.” Chloe jumped down while Chancho took a final moment to scan across the rooftops of Thurber. The clouds were moving, but still too thick for sunlight to pierce their oily bellies. He tugged his serape closer around him. Its colorful stripes strengthened him against the streaks of brown, black, and gray.
To the east, the #4 tipple stood silhouetted against the gray sky, less than a mile away. The day had now progressed past noon, and the sand in the bottom of the hourglass always seemed to drain faster. “Lo siento, mis amigos. I’m ready.”
Thanks so much for taking the time to read Twitch and Die!, Season Four of the Lost DMB Files. I’ll be publishing FREE daily scenes from the Lost DMB Files until…I die…or something terrible happens. Seriously, I’ve got over 400 scenes written so far, and I’ll be writing more until the story reaches its natural ending. You are totally welcome to read the entire story for FREE! If at any point you decide you would rather finish the story in ebook or print format, just click the buttons below and you can do that as well. If you enjoy reading the serial releases, BUT you would also like to support me as a writer (my kids need wine!) please subscribe to my premium content for bonus scenes, exclusives, and insider access to my process. And of course, I’d be grateful if you would share this post with any of your reader friends who you think would enjoy the Lost DMB Files. Happy reading!