Fever: Chapter 7 (Ed)

    You both sleep in well after dawn, Zecora still wrapped tight in your arms.  She’s the first to wake up, and she wakes you up to make love again.  You don’t mind at all: you’re always ready to go in the morning.  Afterwards, she makes a quick breakfast with a strange name.  You’ve never had it before, but it’s got rice and eggs and fish, and a mix of spices that you can’t fathom.  After breakfast, you make your plans.
    You promised Zecora you’d stay with her forever.  You meant it, but you can’t stay here in this place.  It would mean certain death.  They’d likely hang the both of you from the nearest trees if they discovered you here.  Men like Morgan would take pleasure in doing it.  Even the more docile residents of Chevalsboro would wash their hands of it, cluck their tongues as your bodies were cut down and say that the two of you were practically asking for it.  Maybe you could hide out for a little while, but they’d find you eventually and drag you out of the forest with force.
    The two of you have to leave together.  Not right now, though.  Zecora has one last duty.  There’s a woman who will be having a baby in a couple of days.  Maybe three.  Maybe four.  It will be difficult, and she’ll need Zecora’s help.  After that, Zecora will have no problem abandoning her home. The people of Chevalsboro will just have to fend for themselves after that.
    You think it’s noble of her – a fine plan.  In fact, there’s something you should probably be doing yourself.  If Morgan thinks you left Chevalsboro last night, that would mean you should be showing up in Farmingham, the only place the road goes to.  It’s unlikely he’d be looking for you, but on the off chance, it couldn’t hurt to make your presence known there.  You’ve got other reasons to go.  There’s a bank in Farmingham.  You could have your savings account in your bank in Ohio closed, and the money wired.  You’ll be needing cash.  You don’t know where you and Zecora will be going, but you’ll need money wherever it is.  There are more stores in Farmingham too, you explain to Zecora; you need to do some shopping.  She asks you what you need, and you dodge the question.  She senses the dodge and presses you on it.  Fine, you say, you want to buy her something.  A gift.  It’s not anything you’re going to need for the journey, but still you’re in love with her and want to give it to her anyway.
    She raises an eyebrow skeptically, then it lowers as she smiles and kisses you.  She kisses you again later when it’s time to part ways.  She takes you to the edge of the forest, where it runs along the side of the road.  It’s full of false starts and quick returns for strong hugs.  You’re not heading anywhere fast it seems.  It’s a bit easier to go after you share a quick lay in the dried leaves.  Now you manage to finally separate, and you climb up onto the road.  There’s no one in view, so you keep waving back to Zecora, now hidden under the branches.
    Your heart aches to leave Zecora behind, but it’s so full of hopes and dreams and expectations that you practically skip down the road to Farmingham.  The weather is fine.  There’s a little breeze to keep you just a little cool.  There aren’t a lot of people out except a few farmers in their fields.  You wave your hat to them, a big smile on your face.  They wave and smile back, unsure why, except for seeing that strange man looking so happy.  You whistle all of the melodies you know, at least all the happy ones in major keys.  When you get through all of the tunes, you start over from the beginning.
    Once you get there, you find a room in Farmingham’s only hotel.  You make sure you’re seen around town.  The next day you visit the bank, and it takes a bit before you get your money.  The afternoon you spend shopping.  You get a new pair of shoes for yourself.  Your old ones are falling to pieces, and you and Zecora might be spending a lot of time walking soon enough.  Then you go to the store to get your gift for Zecora.  There’s not a huge selection.  The man behind the counter tells you he can order something else if you want, won’t take more than a couple of weeks.  You haven’t got that kind of time, so you take the best one that he has.  It’s not all that flashy, and it costs too much, but you’re pretty sure Zecora will love it.  At least you hope she does.
    You hear odd news while you’re in town.  It’s got everybody buzzing.  It seems that James Longstreet, confederate hero of the war, Lee’s own right hand man, has resworn his allegiance to the United States government.  He’s been made the commander of all of Louisiana’s militias.  You don’t know what to think about that.  Maybe he plans with sticking by his new oath, and plans to bring law and order back to this state.  You don’t trust him, though.  You imagine he’s more like that Colonel Morgan.  A lot of Southern men didn’t survive this war.  Those who did are jaded and cagey.  They’re not the sort of men you’d trust.  You wouldn’t put it too far past them to stage another rebellion.  Seems like most of the people around you are thinking the same thing, and they’re happy about it.  It only sounds like bad news to you.  Rumor has it that he’s already been to Baton Rouge and is on his way to Shreveport to tour and inspect the various state militias.  No doubt Morgan will want him to stop by so he can talk himself up, maybe get a promotion.  Fools like him think too much of themselves.  It doesn’t matter much to you in the long run.  You hope to be gone long before Longstreet can become a problem.
    That night, in your room, you polish your shoes until they’re gleaming.  You never really did that in the army, until the big parade at the end.  You want to look good for Zecora though, and the next morning you set off at the break of dawn.  You’re a little more nervous on your return trip.  With nothing else to worry about, you start wondering if she’s going to like her present.  It’s a silly concern, but you’re in a silly mood.
    It’s dusk by the time you reach that painted mile marker and vanish into the woods.  You’re glad at least that you’ll be through the woods before it gets pitch black.  The moon won’t help you tonight – the clouds are gathering and it looks like you’re in for a heavy summer rain.  The closer you get, the more butterflies grow in your stomach.  While hopping from one bank to the other in the swampy section of the trail, you could be using both of your hands for balance.  Instead, you’ve got one hand in your pocket, which holds Zecora’s present.  You keep rolling it around in your hand, playing with it.  Maybe she’ll love it.  Maybe she’ll hate it.  Maybe she’ll cry, either in joy or sadness.  You don’t know how she’ll react, and that’s what’s bugging you.
    You’re so distracted you don’t notice the smell of smoke.  It’s not the smell of Zecora’s cooking fire.  It’s viler, thicker – full of tar and pitch.  It’s not until you make that last leap onto dry land that you notice the smell.  It’s the sight of Zecora’s front door that makes you snap to attention.  It’s laying on the ground, having been ripped from its hinges.  You enter her home.  You’re not panicking, the instant you saw the door you know what has happened, so you’re not surprised by what you see inside.  You take in everything.  The smashed masks.  The torn bed.  The kicked over cooking pot.  One wall that they tried to burn, but wouldn’t catch.  Some of this is the consequence of violence.  Zecora put up a fight.  Some of it is the work of ransacking men.  You did enough of that in the war to know what it looks like.  There were a number of men here.  You see their footprints but you can’t tell how many.
    There’s nothing else here, and you walk out the door.  Then you look up.  There’s a noose hanging from the lowest limb of the nearest tree.  The rope is still attached, uncut.  The knot itself is still perfectly tied.  This noose wasn’t used, nor was it meant to be.
    It was meant to be a sign.  It was meant to be a threat.
    You’re not a man who takes a threat lightly.

    The people of Chevalsboro aren’t the types who lock their doors at night.  They’re good small town folk.  Everybody knows each other' names.  Crime is unknown within the town limits.
    There’s an exception to this rule.  The man who runs the General Store always locks the front door at night.  He’d never openly acknowledge it, but he knows that the people of Chevalsboro are foolish and petty, and in fact they’d rob him blind if they thought they could get away with it.
    It’s not a strong lock.  He imagines that the townsfolk might try to sneak in at night while he slept in the room upstairs, but they wouldn’t dare break the lock.  It’s more than enough to the deter them.  He’s behind the counter, doing his books before heading up for the night.  It turns out the lock is no deterrent to your foot as you kick in his front door.
    His reliable countertop has always kept him comfortably separated from his customers.  It doesn’t even slow you down.  You step up onto it with one polished shoe, then you’re over.  Now your left hand is gripped firmly around his throat and you force him back against the wall.  Jars of walnuts and hard candy and other assorted sundries crash to the floor and spill their contents.  Your rifle is in your right hand.  You press the muzzle hard against his face, just below his cheekbone.  It’s in a position where he can still answer your questions, but still hurts like hell.  Just pull the trigger and the man’s dead.
    “Where is she?”  You bark at him.  “Who took her?”
    “Oh god,” he cries, “please don’t kill me!”
    “Who took her?” you demand to know.  “Was it Morgan?”
    “Yes!  Oh god, yes.  I didn’t do nothing, it was him and his men.”  He relieves himself in his pants.  You believe that the storekeeper didn’t play an active role, but he was still a party to what has happened.  This whole town can burn as far as you’re concerned.
    “Where is she?  Where did they take her?”
    “I don’t know!” he screams.  The muzzle of your rifle leaves his face, but only because you’re swinging the butt of your gun.  You club him hard right in his solar plexus.  There’s a sick gasp and a crunch, and you let him fall to the floor.  With your foot, you roll him over onto his back, then you lower your knee onto his stomach.  Between his battered chest and your knee in his gut, surely he must feel like he’s being crushed to death.
    “Where is she?” you repeat.
    He moves his mouth, but no word comes out.  There’s no air in his lungs to form words with.  You place the gun to his temple.  “I’ll ask you one more time and you better answer if you want to live.”
    He tries to answer your question before you can ask it again.  It comes out a wheezing whisper, and you didn’t hear it.
    “Louder!” you bark.
    “Sweet Acres,” the storekeeper barely manages the words.
    “I don’t know what that is.”
    “Mor... Mor... Morgan’s plantation.  North of town.  There’s only one road going that way, and it’s at the end.”
    You remove the gun from his head, your knee from his gut, and stand up straight.  You’re still hovering over him, like some awful angel of death.  “I need a horse,” you say to him.
    He nods and feebly waves a hand.  “End of the alley.  Tied to the post.  It ain’t mine, mister, please don’t take it.  Please don’t shoot me.”
    You don’t shoot him.  You’re already leaving out the back.
    “You didn’t need to do this,” he pleads, still begging anyway.  “I’d a told you if you’d just asked.  They’re waiting for you.  They’re expecting you.  They want you to come.”
    You don’t hear him say it.  You’re already gone.