Copyright 2012 Ron Hudson
Swamp Victim
Desert Victim – Published 2011
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---Some scenes in this book contain violence
Or language not suitable for certain audiences. ---
*Author's Note: This book is FREE, because parts of it are contained in the latest
Version, which is published under the title:
Hell in the Low Country by Ron Hudson.
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Hell in the Low Country
Chapter 1
It was another typical Saturday morning at Flood’s Place. The crowd started gathering and raising hell early. A weekend regular, Alvin Ramseth, known to all as “Big Al,” hadn’t arrived yet, but was a short distance away speeding down the highway on his 15-year-old Harley. He loved to go through the swamp with the overpowering exhaust of the Harley muffler echoing to an ear-splitting pitch that could be heard miles away. He always let the motorcycle coast when crossing the bridge at the Combahee River. The exhaust from the engine, which was on its last legs, would pop and suck back, causing a loud “bat, bat, bat” that could not be duplicated by any machine known to man, except maybe another Harley. The motorcycle and its rider speeding down the highway was a sight straight out of the movie, “The Wild One.” Big Al never missed a chance to watch a Marlin Brando movie on TV and likened himself to the movie star. Even though he didn’t smoke, he would roll a package of cigarettes in the sleeve of his white tee shirt when he wasn’t wearing his black motorcycle jacket. He thought it added to the rough Brando persona he tried to imitate. A bandana flapping from the back of his head as he cruised down the road completed the picture.
Al did his best to portray a macho image, but in reality, he had one overwhelming fear. In the past year, an image of a supernatural black man had been haunting him. The first incident occurred on Public Landing Road when he and Tee were on their way to the river to go fishing. As Tee slowly drove the pickup across the railroad track, they saw an old black man coming down the opposite side of the road. He was a small man and looked to be at least 75 years old. The man had a full head of kinky snow-white hair. It made a perfect oval shape around his black face, which made his head resemble an oversized fur ball. He gave a friendly wave as they passed. Both of the men in the vehicle stared ahead and ignored, what to them was a loathsome individual. Al looked back over his left shoulder through the window to see the man’s face amidst the trailing pickup dust. In his vision still being blurred from the previous night’s drinking, not to mention the three beers he had already consumed to quench the morning after cottonmouth, he couldn’t believe his eyes. The old man’s black face was perfectly visible in the dust and looked like a genie rising from a jug. It rose above the pickup and swirled along behind the moving vehicle. Then it settled down into the bed of the pickup still swirling a smoky trail. As it hovered over the truck, the old black man raised his right hand and wagged his finger back and forth, as if to say, “Al you are a bad, bad man.”
Al’s reaction resembled Simi of the Little Rascals. He blinked twice and bobbed his head down then up. Being too embarrassed to reveal the hallucination to Tee, he quickly turned his head forward and said, “We shoulda run over that old bastard.”
Tee replied, “I think we have better fry right now Al.”
Al’s mind wasn’t able to turn loose the mental image of the man he now thought of as “Fuzz.” Fuzz haunted him day and night. No one else saw the old man. Al knew it was just his imagination, but he couldn’t keep it from coming back over and over again. Sometime Fuzz would just pop up for no reason and give Al a friendly greeting. At others, he would slowly rise up ahead of Al from a swirl of smoke and wag his finger.
Rolling up to Flood’s, Big Al shoved the kickstand down. He reached down and turned the key off, and the old engine responded with a final wheezing chug and anemic backfire. He was late this morning. Honey Boy Hamlin and Skeeter Crosby’s motorcycles were already parked in front of the store. Oats, the proprietor, had a small bell mounted on the front door to announce customers when he was in the back stocking or performing other tasks. Al entered, and the bell made a jingle, jingle. He ambled over to the bar and sat between Honey Boy and Skeeter. Rambunctious bantering had started before his butt hit the seat.
“You better catch up Big Al, we already two beers ahead a-ya,” said Honey Boy.
Apparently, Skeeter had a bad night. He was quiet. Staring at his beer, the typical loud mouth didn’t say a word.
“Fuck you assholes. Gimme a Bud, Oats,” said Al as he sat down.
As Oats sat the beer on the bar, he said, “Well boys, we gonna bring Jeff Ireland into the club, what’d you think of that?”
“What the hell you talking about,” said Al.
“You’ll find out at the next meeting. I’m bringing Jeff Ireland into the club. He is a good man and believes in our objectives. He will make a great addition to the Cobbs.”
“That’s bullshit. That old fart don’t have what it takes to be a member of our club, and he certainly don’t have the balls to keep up with the rest of us. What you wanta do a crazy thing like that for Oats?” said Al.
“It’s a done deal. He will be at the next meeting, so let’s make him feel at home when he shows up.”
The Cobbs were a group of holdouts devoted to waning southern white bigotry. Their leader was Otis “Oats” Schoenfeld, Jr. This honor fell to him primarily because he had been the head of the local Ku Klux Klan in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s. Although a few die-hard segregationists supported groups such as the Cobbs, as racial tensions cooled in the south, most respectable people didn’t want anything to do with their radical ideology. The misfits had no by-laws or formal membership roster. Their rules were informally determined by a few of the most active leaders. This was intentional to make it difficult for authorities to trace their often-lawless behavior. The members were a close-knit group. Several members were “bikers” who hung together to form a sub-cult of hell raisers and hard drinkers. The club met when Oats felt like calling a meeting. Usually, this was once a month, and it was held at what was commonly referred to as the clubhouse. It was on his property, which was about a mile from Flood’s Place. One or two of the Cobbs were always on hand at Flood’s Place soaking up beer, playing pool, and occasionally eating a pickled hot sausage or pig’s foot. Here, in a milieu of excessive alcohol consumption is where most of the club’s mischief took root.
As the day passed, Lowcountry rednecks of all persuasions gathered at Flood’s Place. With weekend sports games on TV blaring and pool balls clicking, music from the jukebox completed the uproarious scene. Throughout the day, one carefree bunch or another filled the place. In the morning, it was mostly sports fisherman on their way to the Salketcher stopping by to fill their coolers with ice and a six-pack of beer and swap a short fish story before hitting the river. Around noon, the football and sports fans started congregating only to leave after the games. Around 8:00 PM, the night bunch would gather. By 11:00 PM, there wasn’t a sober person in the place. The jukebox played the traditional country music of the day, mixed with the old favorites by artists such as Hank Williams, Earl Scruggs, Conway Twisty, and others of Grand Ole Opry fame. There were always a few female regulars who got attention from the mostly male crowd. Tonight the only female under 40 years old was Jill Gillis. Jill was well known for “being able to hold her ‘liquor’ as well as any man.” Most of the other women were well into their years, and practically all of them were ove
rweight and downright ugly. Their saving grace was that they got better looking as liquor flowed. When the hour grew late, all but the ugliest of the ugly could be seen departing with male partners.
Almost every Saturday night one or more fights broke out. Tonight was no different. Al was slow dancing with Jill to the whining voice of Tammy Wynette. It started when a newcomer tried to break in on Big Al. The man was a stranger driving from Charleston to Savannah and just happened to stop at Flood’s Place. No local would ever challenge Big Al on the dance floor or anywhere else. He was more than rowdy. Al was just downright mean, and when he drank, which was most of the time, he got even meaner. Unfortunately, the newcomer was not privy to the reputation of the quick-tempered Al. One of the locals, seeing an opportunity to have a little fun, dared newcomer to break in on Al. When he tried, without warning Al smashed him with an unexpected right hook to the face. The man was propelled into the dancing couples, which resulted in another fight among the drunken group. Before it was over, several men had broken bones and blood was all over the room. The drunken fracas was over in less than five minutes. A few people, including the newcomer, scrambled out the door, several of whom returned when things settled down. The drinking and somewhat orderly “shin-dig” continued until Oats blinked the lights at 2:00 AM. By 2:30 AM, the place was empty and Oats locked the doors before toting up the night's profits.
“Another good night,” he said to himself as he turned out the lights and went upstairs to rest his 74-year-old body, oblivious to the horrendous events that would soon unfold around him.