Water Hazard by Tim Baker

"When the well is dry, we learn the worth of water."Benjamin Franklin





Water Hazard
By Tim Baker
Preface


The motor home glided along Route 40 toward the Ocala National Forest effortlessly pushing the warm night air aside. In its wake it left a turbulent mixture of dead love bugs and diesel fumes.

From his perch in the driver’s seat, 76-year-old Herb Thomas watched the black carpet of Florida highway roll up to and pass beneath his wheels like the mat of a gigantic treadmill. The moonless night and unlit back country road prevented him from seeing more than a hundred feet ahead. His headlights preceded him through the solid wall of night.

Theresa stretched her arms over her head and yawned from the passenger seat. Taking his eyes from the road briefly he looked over at his wife.

“Did you have a nice nap?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she offered. “How long was I out?”

“Only about a half hour,” he told her.

“Where are we?”

“Coming up to the St. John’s River, we’ve still got an hour and a half to go.”

The inside of the RV was quiet with the exception of oldies soundtrack coming from the satellite radio receiver. Herb gently guided the vehicle around a slight bend in the road. As he rounded the curve he spotted a set of headlights in his side view mirror. Either the vehicle had been riding very close to his rear end or it had come up quickly because he hadn’t seen a car in the last thirty minutes.

Up ahead he noticed the flashing red drawbridge light and saw the gate arm was down. Lifting his foot from the gas pedal he let the RV coast to a stop. The two halves of the draw bridge extended skyward like two skyscrapers tilted slightly towards one another.

The Searchers sang about “Love Potion Number Nine” as Herb waited for the bridge to lower.

In his peripheral vision Herb noticed the glow of headlights come to a rest behind him. A few seconds later as he watched a tugboat pull a barge along the river, he was startled by a quiet tep on his window.

A well-dressed man in his mid-thirties stood on the street holding a road map in his hand and used the universal sign for Herb to roll his window down. Herb did so and politely asked the man if he needed help.

“Yes sir,” the man said in a gentle southern drawl. “I seem to have gotten myself good and lost.”

The man held up the road map and stepped closer to the RV as Herb put the shifter in park and climbed down to offer assistance.

“Where’re you headed?” Herb asked stepping up for a look at the map, only to see that it was a map of Minnesota. Herb got an immediate sense that something was wrong but as he looked up he found himself looking into the barrel of a semi-automatic pistol.

His first thought was that this man didn’t look like the type to be carrying a gun. He was well dressed with neat black hair and handsome brown eyes. The only flaw in his face was the familiar scar of cleft palette surgery on his upper lip.

“Just get on back in the motor home sir,” he told Herb in a polite tone that was totally contradictory to the gun in his hand.

Herb stumbled up the step into the vehicle as Theresa sang the final fade out chorus with The Searchers. The man nudged Herb with the gun and told him to climb over the seat and sit on the floor next to his wife. Then he leaned back and signaled to the vehicle behind them. Herb heard a car door open and close. A second man trotted up behind the first. Herb could not see him due to his position on the floor.

“All right then, Donny,” the first man said, “it’s all up to you now.”

“You got it, Mitch,” Donny replied.

Theresa looked over in confusion.

“Herb, what’s going on?” she asked with a slight tremor of fear in her voice.

Herb raised a calming hand to her and said to Donny, “What is it you want from us?”

Donny climbed into the driver’s seat and smiled at Herb. The smile was one that contained not a shred of humor. It was the smile of a scorpion about to sting an unsuspecting beetle.

“Y’all just sit there and be quiet,” he told them.

Theresa gripped Herbs upper arm and began whimpering softly.

Donny settled himself into the seat and put the shift lever back into drive. Herb saw a .45 Colt pistol tucked into the waistband of his tattered blue jeans. Thick mud was caked on his battered work boots. There was a cigarette tucked behind his right ear, partially covered by his greasy brown hair. A tattoo of a spider perched in its web covered most of the right side of his neck.

After a few minutes the drawbridge lowered and the RV was moving west again. Several miles later on a dark and desolate stretch of road Donny eased the RV onto the grass shoulder.

“Awright folks, let’s go on back into the living room and get cozy, shall we?” Donny said in mock politeness as he withdrew the gun and pointed to the back of the RV.

Herb held Theresa by the hand and led her to the living area. Her hand trembled uncontrollably in his.

“Sit your asses down there on the floor,” Donny ordered.

Herb helped Theresa to the floor and sat beside her, his eyes glared at Donny. His mind went back to a time when he was a 20 year-old marine, full of piss and vinegar. That marine would have taken this redneck apart piece by piece. Now his body would not allow it. The voice of his platoon sergeant, a huge Texan named Roy Anderson, came back to him.

“We’re all gonna die, just make sure that when you’re time comes you die like a marine.”

Herb put his arm around his crying wife’s shoulders and told her it was ok. Then he looked at Donny and sat up as straight as he could, taking a deep breath.

“Get it over with you coward,” Herb said defiantly.

Confusion grew in Donny’s eyes as he looked at Herb. Herb could tell that Donny lacked the intelligence to know that he had just been insulted by a man who knew he was about to die. After a few seconds of unproductive consideration Donny shrugged, pointed the gun and fired two shots in quick succession.

He looked at the two bodies lying on the floor, the old man’s arm still around his wife’s shoulders, and shrugged again.

“I guess you really don’t know when to shut up, old man,” he muttered as he turned and left the RV.

Outside Mitch was standing by the rear of the vehicle waiting with a gas can and a rag. He handed the gas can to Donny and then he went to the gas filler spout and stuffed the rag into the opening. Donny spread gas around the perimeter of the RV and dumped the last of it on the rag hanging out of the gas tank fill spout. He heaved the gas can into the woods and walked back to the showroom-clean white pickup truck. He took the cigarette from behind his ear and handed it to Mitch, who lit it, took a long drag and flicked it at the RV as he blew out a long cloud of smoke.

The mammoth vehicle was instantly surrounded by a ring of fire. The two men climbed into the truck and backed away. Mitch turned the wheel and they headed east on Route 40. Donny turned in his seat to see the show and Mitch watched in the rear view mirror.

The explosion was tremendous. It shook the ground and filled the night sky with an orange glow as flames shot fifty feet into the air. Pieces of the RV flew off in silent trajectories through the night, creating a 100-foot wide debris field.

As the furor subsided the flames continued to devour the skeletal remains of the $300,000 Country Coach.

Donny picked up the pack of Marlboros from the dashboard and withdrew two. One he put behind his ear, the other he handed to Mitch.

The spotless white truck rolled silently away from the inferno and towards the black horizon.

1


Justin DiPrete pressed himself against the concrete block wall and tried to calm himself down. The wall radiated the heat that it had taken from the hot Florida sun during the day, warming his back while the crisp night air kept his face cool. The temperature differential gave him a slight nauseous feeling. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he tried to slow down his racing heart and stop his legs from shaking. To his right Russell peeked around the corner of the building, which wasn’t even a building yet. It was the bare bones of what would be a building someday. Right now it was only a two and a half story concrete block shell with no roof. The soft sandy ground around it was a dusty mine field of construction debris. Justin wished he was somewhere else, anywhere else.

Russell brought his head back from around the corner and turned to Justin.

“It’s cool, let’s go,” he whispered.

Without a sound Russell was gone. Justin took another deep breath and trotted after him. They made their way to a dumpster and crouched behind it. Russell crept to the corner and peered around.

“Be all clear, let’s do it,” he said softly as he stood and sprinted away.

Justin followed him and they reached the car together where they both sat with their backs against the flawless silver paint. It was a nice new Lexus and it had been parked there all day. Russell told Justin if the car was still there that night they were going back for a smash and grab.

Justin often tried to figure out why he let Russell talk him into these things. Russell didn’t seem to care if they got caught or not, as if he was wanted to ruin his future. Justin, on the other hand, was terrified of being caught and having a police record that could ruin his chances of going to college. Several times he had tried to say no, but Russell would always manage to persuade him into going along. Maybe it was a loyalty thing. Russell was the first friend Justin had made when he came to Florida three years ago and for all intents and purposes remained his only friend. When Russell started going through his delinquent phase Justin figured it wouldn’t last long. Now it was looking as though Russell enjoyed it too much and had no intention of stopping. Justin truly believed that his friend would get arrested before they graduated high school the following year. The dilemma that he faced was whether to follow him and throw his life away or go his own way and lose a friend.

Russell stood and looked into the car.

“Look like a nice stereo,” he whispered to Justin. “Lemme have your sweatshirt.”

Justin pulled his hooded Florida Marlins sweatshirt over his head and handed it to Russell. Russell found a piece of concrete block on the ground and wrapped the sweatshirt around it.

Justin looked at the dark outline of the trailer that acted as the construction office 20 feet away and prayed that there was nobody inside that would be alerted by a loud noise. Even though there were no lights on or other signs of life he still worried that someone was there.

There was a large sign standing in front of the trailer. Justin had seen it many times in the light of day and despite the darkness he could still make out the rendering of a golf course with a cluster of condominium buildings around it. So far 12 of the buildings had been started and they all sat in various stages of completion. According to the sign there would eventually be 51 buildings and a community center with a pool house. Not to mention tennis courts and a bicycle path. Huge green letters boasted that the “Stillwater Resort” would be “Another Golf Community by The Hall & White Development Corp.” As he was reading about the amenities that would be offered for bargain prices starting in the low 400’s his thoughts were interrupted by a loud pop followed by the sound of thousands of pieces of broken glass falling to the ground and into the car.

Both boys froze in place, neither of them so much as taking a breath. They waited for the sound of an alarm like sprinters poised for the starters gun. After three agonizingly long seconds they let out their breath and went about business.

Russell opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat where he used the concrete block to smash the dome light. Justin scooted over and squatted by the open door. Russell handed him a black vinyl case full of compact discs. Then he passed out a wrist watch and a wallet. As Justin put his sweatshirt back on and stuffed the pilfered items into the belly-pocket, Russell went to work on the stereo.

Russell struggled with the stereo while Justin waited impatiently, a visceral fear spreading through his body like wildfire. Something was wrong, he was sure of it.

“Almost,” Russell grunted.

Justin looked into the vehicle and realized that something wasn’t making sense. There was a faint wash of light spreading through the interior of the car. As he watched, the light grew until Russell’s face was bathed in bright light. His fear escalated to panic.

The sound of an engine came over the night air towards them. Two bright white orbs of light approached them on the road 100 feet away.

Frozen in terror, the two boys looked at the headlights and then at each other.

Finally Russell hissed “Shit, time to de-ass.”

With no further communication they sprang from their positions and bolted back the way they came. Russell was about two strides in front of Justin when they reached the dumpster. Without slowing down or looking back they ran until they reached a dried up retention pond. They followed the muddy edge where the water used to be until they reached a path that eventually brought them to A1A.

From the shoulder of the road they scanned the highway in the direction of the construction site entrance. Seeing nothing to indicate that they had been spotted, they darted across the road and ran through the parking lot of a burned out restaurant. They continued running until the parking lot ended and they were on the beach.

With adrenaline still coursing through their systems they ran for nearly half a mile. When they finally ran out of steam they walked up a set of wooden stairs and stood under a small gazebo looking for signs of pursuit. They were at the intersection of State Road 100 and A1A in Flagler Beach and all looked quiet. Across the street, on the roof of a restaurant called Donnegan’s, a band played and Justin could hear people having a good time. A large tattooed biker staggered down the stairs, leaving his friends behind to carry on the festivities. He called parting shots to them as he headed for his motorcycle at the back of the parking lot.

After waiting for two large tanker trucks to roll by Justin and Russell walked as calmly as they could across the street and fell in about three steps behind the biker. Passing under a street light Justin took out the wallet from the car and opened it. There was a decent amount of cash in it, which he pocketed and tossed the wallet aside.

“Yo,” someone yelled behind them. Both boys froze and looked at each other in terror. Justin felt sweat break out on his forehead almost immediately.

“Shit,” he thought to himself, “we’re fucked.”

“Yo, Bam-Bam,” the voice yelled again.

The biker turned around and looked at Justin.

“You call me?” he asked in a drunken slur.

“What? No, it wasn’t me,” Justin stammered.

The biker looked past them and they turned around to see another biker, just as large and just as tattooed as Bam-Bam, walking down the stairs.

“You might need these,” the second biker called, holding up a key ring.

Bam-Bam tapped at his pockets, finding no keys he said “Hey thanks Todd.”

Todd tossed the keys to Bam-Bam, who dropped them. As he bent to pick them up Justin and Russell scooted around him and exited the parking lot without looking back. A minute later they had disappeared into the neighboring trailer park.