A High Country Tale Ch. 02: Three Dog Night

Road, river and countryside approaches were being monitored for any antagonistic provocations. It felt like battle modus but in conjunction with local law enforcement, the entire extended family and friend system felt more at ease, albeit on lookout, as a result. The law agencies had liaised with the family, understanding the unilateral nature of the menace presently threatening them and the greater community.

Cal had insisted on Voy's family joining with them at the family home on the Coosa River. The two children were now safely ensconced with the rescue mutt; the women were chatting amiably together. They anticipated Voy's return with Torchy from the remote riverside house to the confines of the central site, too. No one even questioned the need for her protection, for though a supremely capable loner, the transgender woman was no doubt a prime target for the coalescing 'posse comitatus' entity now organizing. Next door, Farmer and Missus Brown had the temporary addition of Doy to their household. The younger twins, Loy and Roy, were shacking up in their old bedroom of the big home, so along with Coy, all of the brothers were close and accounted for.

Local news teams had picked up the story about the Etowah Park fiasco and set up communication points around Rome for relevant news stories and alerts. One group was camped out at the county road entrance to the family compound. So much reconnaissance and goings-on pretty much precluded any clandestine activities. Cal was content for the time being.

The four runners padded lightly over the packed dirt trail in the cold pre-dawn hour. Sweatpants and sweatshirts covered them from neck to ankles, with knit head covers topping the cold weather outfits necessary since the onset of the wintery mix now burying the area. With running shoes reinforced by double sweat socks, the boys were well-equipped for the sleet now pitting lightly against the heavy material. Colder precipitation had followed the cold air brought by the onslaught three afternoons previous.

Jake and Luke had sprayed the outfits with water-proofing the night before so the cold was mitigated somewhat now as the group followed the 10K river loop Jake had mapped out months before upon arrival in Rome. Of the four, he was the most acquainted with the twists, turns, dips, ruts and such, but Cal was equally adept at the trail, having accompanied his husband multiple times on the familiar route. All had agreed that solo runs were off the table for the present time.

Hal, the great horned owl, had answered Jake's call upon reaching the river trail portion of the run. Having been taught a succinct lesson of razor-sharp talons scraping his head on the one morning he had failed to do so, he made sure both he and Luke hailed the big bird with a greeting. The four listened as the majestic nocturnal hunter had winged by above them, much to Luke's delight.

Luke had a rapport with his own resident owl in the high country and felt gladdened by the sounds of the big bird, missing his morning routine on the mountain. The two men's calls were returned in inquisitive fashion, what with the added hoots from the new guest. Hal was curious, yet apparently mollified, by the heads up to the new running partners. No claw attacks ensued. The boys even felt undefinably reassured by the bird's presence.

The troupe found the riverbank stretch somewhat treacherous for their footing by the frozen precipitation coating it. The pace dropped off to a six-minute-mile pace through the leg of the loop. At one point, after two of them had slipped dangerously, just barely avoiding a fall, they decided to slow to a walk for a quarter mile stretch. Breaking the pace was not desired but when they turned a curve toward a more raised and graveled surface, resumption of the brisk pace to which they were all more accustomed was achieved. They could see the porchlight from Torchy's cabin in the woods across the river off in the distance, the red glow surreal through the sleety mist.

Jeremy was the first to notice the faint blippings of light around the perimeter of the cottage. "Are those electric eels or swamp ghosts?" Half-jesting, he pointed the direction of his sighting. Sure enough, the next moments attested the presence of very blurry, intermittent flickering. It lit the edges of the house in an eerie outline. On guard already, the four slowed again and detoured from the path for a closer view of the spectral effect.

Carefully approaching the far riverbank and visualizing the ongoing shimmery flashes, low conversant tones of furtive speech became discernable. Separated by the river from closing the distance any more, the four hunkered down and spied on the scene as vague forms began to take shape. In the coming minutes, several persons were detected around the boundaries of the unoccupied home. They knew intuitively that someone was up to no good.

Luke, always ready with his iPhone in a plastic baggie tucked in a sock, squatted behind a huge cypress tree trunk and pulled it out. He called the detective's number in charge of the ongoing park case. When it went to voicemail he let Cal leave a message for the man about the suspicious happenings. Afterward, he left the audio recorder on in his pocket as a safeguard. Fortuitously, as it happened.

Wanting a better look, they located a fallen cypress tree trunk transecting a good portion of the river width and climbed across it. Negotiating the roughened but slippery bark, they drew close enough to make out four people now conversing in exasperated tones over an apparent plan being hatched.

"Donnie, damn it, just tie 'er down best as you can and let's get-er-done, now, asshole. It don't hafta be perfect," came the first determinable words over the water rippling beneath the trunk.

"If'n I don' fasten the damn tie good, it gonna teeter an' fall over, numbnuts," came the hissed reply from Donnie.

"Well, once she's lit, it don' matter none too much, now do it? Who's gonna be a'seein' it much from out here, anyway?" The instructor wasn't brooking any discussion on the matter and was mightily pissed at the argument. "Now, just get 'er done! Ya' pissant."

"Yessa' Massa," came the sarcastic answer.

In the gloom, we were able to make out the shape of a close to eight-foot cross. Probably wooden... By the odor wafting toward us, it would seem to be saturated in gasoline or the like. These things did not bode well, and the situation worsened by the realization that the two silent partners were presently dousing the house itself in something similar. The glint of gun metal off the intermittent flares of light alerted that the men were armed. The effect of this knowledge chilled the watchers.

Jake stood up, whispering the need to call the volunteer fire department and re-call the detective, but as he did so he lost his footing on the slippery surface, partially sliding into the running water beneath. Though he was able to stifle himself from exclaiming, the resultant splash and grunts were picked up by the trespassers. Cal saw one of them, presumably the leader, reach over and grasp the barrel of a shotgun leaning against a tree. His hackles rose, skin prickling in sudden fear for Jake and the rest of them.

"Who da' Hell be out there?" came a gruff demand through the darkness. Cal grasped his lover's arm and pulled him back onto the horizontal trunk. None of the four spoke a word, but this did little to allay the alerted interloper's nervousness. "I done heared ya, ya' rascal, and if'n yer don't be answerin' me here an' now, I's gonna be a-riddlin' that there water with enough buckshot to down a damn bear, damn it all!"

The indistinct figure could be seen pointing the muzzle of the gun in the runners' direction and Jake was forced to speak up. "Hey, mister, we're trying to check our trout lines here and I just fell in the water. No need to get yourself in an uproar," he attempted placation.

A sudden stream of harsh light cut through the darkness. All four of the morning exercisers were caught in various positions of vulnerability from atop the wide tree trunk. Nowhere to hide, they slowly raised up off their haunches and shielded their eyes in facing the unknown individuals.

"Well, ain't this just a sweet surprise," it was the nasally leader, now staring the boys down at the muzzle of his double-barrel shotgun. "Done catched me some coons and a couple dandy-boys, now, looks like," his tone was dripping evil and Cal feared suddenly for their lives. The men were carrying out a sneak attack by destructive force towards which the local authorities would take a dim view should the perpetrators be caught. Cal was rightly apprehensive of the choice to be made by these persons since it was coming down to a case of 'us vs them'. He felt they would have little compunction for saving their own sorry skin at the cost of those they deemed inferior, let alone capable of testifying against them. The awareness that dumping dead bodies, especially those of dark-skinned persuasion, was an age-old pastime in the deep South, did not escape him.

Strange Fruit. Cal flashed on the morbid poem from the tree on which they were presently busted...too much mawkish irony.

"Go on ahead an' git yo' shifty black ass selves on down from that tree and let's see's just what we got." The invitation came across anything but welcoming. Under the circumstances there appeared little choice. Clambering down, the runners felt foolish for the mistakes leading to this state of affairs. They began wondering if they would end up maimed, or worse, at the hands of the rough talker corralling them.

The scoundrels gathered the couples together at the barrels of their long guns. One produced a roll of heavy twine with which they were tied up against the gasoline drenched cabin. It was reckoned that when the coming conflagration burned out, so would be the bindings, thereby leaving no evidence. In the arsonists simple minds, the group would be held responsible as guilty parties, caught by happenstance at their own malfeasance...

"Can you reach down to my sock, baby?" Luke hadn't had his iPhone discovered. If it could be retrieved, then there was hope to get help. Time now of true essence, the reprobate band had almost finished with their preparations. They knew the match-flicking set-off would soon occur. Tied so tightly as to be unable to get to the possible saving device, the boys tried feverishly to loosen the binding knots. To no avail.

"Gee, boys, it's a right shame you fairies gonna be up in smoke in 'bout a minute...sayin' those prayers a'fore ya' meet yo' Maker?" The leer and nasty reasoning said everything about the character holding himself above his prisoners. Never once seeing the contradiction of his evil actions. The man's offensive reference affirmed they had been recognized, also. Not good.

Things looked more and more grim with each passing moment. Desperation was creeping into the four bound psyches now caught in a proverbial Chinese finger trap: the harder they strained, the tighter their ties pulled. Too proud to beg, the boys deduced that any words would prove moot anyway. The arsonists were noticeably chagrined by the exhibition of stoicism.

Well-placed kicks and punches sought to assuage desires to draw a response. The added cruelty clearly satisfied some deep-held conviction that their group was remedying an imagined slight by the biracial couples' existence. No reasoning would break down the overriding hatred they exploited in justification for their actions. Jake slumped at a brutal gun butt to the side of his head, shivering uncontrollably in his wet clothes. The other three wore various bloody noses, ears and wounds. Cal's silent tears were for the sight of his loved ones being treated so inhumanely. Unrepentant and consumed by despising contempt, the cruel torture continued unabated. Only exhaustion brought cessation to the viciousness.

A long extendo-lighter was ultimately produced and the coming heat was already sensed. But then, just as the leader of the pack flicked to light it, several things occurred.

From the corner of the boys' eyes, a yellow streak bolted through the clearing, bowling into them in the awkward attempt to stop. The stray dog was on a mission. Somehow, she had sensed the danger to her saviors from the house miles away. Whining, scratching the door until let out, the dog had streaked away into the darkness, yowling as she ran. Following her instincts to the house by the river, the yellow cur rushed to the restrained boys and went straight for the tight twine bindings cutting off the blood flow to deadened hands. The miscreant, Donnie, saw the dog and exclaimed about her appearance. She was rabid in attacking the knots with her teeth, ignoring the outcry amongst the four villains. "That old mangy bitch be bitin' those boys' cuffs, Billy, we gotta shoot her 'fore they get loose!" he screamed.

Two rifles raised to stop her but as they rose, two additional streaks broke the periphery of the glade. Black and brown snarling balls of fur launched simultaneously at the aiming guns, like a copperhead at an exposed leg. Before they could even reach their triggers, the gunmen were hit by the airborne canine missiles and both were attacked by teeth full of savage need. Retribution was, indeed, in the air. The yellow dog's similarly abused escaped siblings had answered her yowling calls. The two tore into the malefactors harming their sister's patrons. Screams of surprise and pain ricocheted through the sleet-suffused surrounds and blood pumped from savage bite wounds.

Billy and the other reprobate watched in disbelief, then went for their own rifles. A sudden shriek arose from Billy's accomplice as the man backed toward the edge of the dell near the marshy bog side. Without warning he shot skyward, grabbing a butt cheek in abject agony as Jeremy saw a copperhead pit viper attach itself by airborne strike. It sank its fangs and latched on, embedding deeply into the flabby buttocks. Jeremy next beheld a writhing in the bog grass surrounding the bitten man. With horror, the bound runner watched literally dozens of other snakes strike, threatened by the unwitting arsonist.

Copperheads: the most aggressive of all vipers in the Western Hemisphere and also the most social. They commune together in clans. This den had been prodded into attack when the gunman stepped one foot too close. Within seconds, a horde of the serpents overwhelmed the man. He sank under the onslaught. His cries awakened fauna within a mile radius by his squeals of dread at the mindboggling assault. It would prove fatal by the toxic venom delivered en masse.

Billy, stunned by the vehemence of the violent barrage, pulled himself together. Leveling his shotgun at the boys and the gnawing dog helping them, he curled his finger around the trigger. Before he could pull it, a whooshing flurry of wings and talons struck his eye and trigger hand. One set hit each. The razor-edged talons of the great horned owl sank in just ahead of the weapon's discharge, wresting it away from its intended target.

Hand and eye were both punctured to bone in fractions of a second. Silent screams howled in his brain, yet no word passed his lips. Only copious, viscous drool. The bursting vessels of his hand spewed blood over the gun while the gelatinous goop filling his ruined eyeball gushed over his face. The forgotten lighter and shotgun clattered to the gravel ground cover. The now piteous man followed their descent, all three hitting the ground together.

Yellow Dog chomped through the final cords, thus allowing the prisoners to loosen hobbling ankle restraints. Three of them rose as one, lifting Jake with them who was woozy from the cold and beating. Free now, but dazed by the manifold levels of catastrophe just aimed at the cruel offenders.

No matter the just comeuppance so efficiently dealt as if in their behalf, the spared runners cringed at the ferocity leading to the gruesome scene. The soft pitting by tiny points of ice both swarmed and muffled the atmosphere like a macabre snow globe.

Distant whines of undulating sirens roused them. The four burst into reflexive attempts at triage for the badly injured scalawags. The two men neutralized by the dogs lay moaning in pools of blood and terribly ripped flesh. The snake-bitten man was motionless, copperhead fangs still embedded in the dead, steaming flesh. Billy lay over his shotgun, quietly sobbing from a single eye, shredded hand balled in permanent disfigurement.

It was an incredibly ugly scene. Hopefully not entirely unbelievable, it crossed the two men-of-colors' minds. The scene would no doubt demand multiple EMS units. The plausibility element would also soon play out. Cal prayed for common sense to prevail when the first responders arrived.

Jake thankfully regained significant lucidity after being stripped, rubbed and dressed in Cal's sweats at Luke's insistence. Remaining on alert for concussive symptoms, Luke and he texted the Rome EMT corps who were at dawn shift change, stressing the need for both the oncoming and out-going team members. He and Luke purposely down-played the bloodbath with only perfunctory detail to substantiate the requirements, aware that media members were surely listening in to the police radio channels.

Police cruisers arrived and two police officers, both veterans, pulled to the side to vomit their coffee and donuts. The detective set up a perimeter for security, cautiously skirting the boggy side of the clearing at the boys' snake warnings. The old veteran stared at the scene for long minutes, absorbing the details and the wounded as the young doctors worked feverishly to stabilize the three survivors with zero equipment, supplies or medications. Their husbands lent hands with what could be done by untrained persons. Luke handed over the cellphone audio of the entire scenario to the detective, thanking the gods that be for his foresight to leave the device in record mode. It proved integrally important.

The two siblings of Yellow Dog now sat placidly at the edge of the clearing, grooming one another, while the rescue herself hung close to the men receiving her returned favor. At the opposite corner, two remaining copperhead pit vipers lay limp, morbidly attached to their victim...dead after expending their totality defending the den. Multiple other oozing fang wounds bore out the collective offensive.

Looking up from tending Billie's ruined eye and hand to see the detective's deeply disconcerted countenance probing him, Luke gestured upwards into the canopy of overhanging cypress branches. A magnificent specimen of great horned owl preened its sleek feathers, aloof to the carnage below. The wise law officer absorbed more and more with the passing minutes. The trained eyes missed nothing.

EMT units descended on the site, taking control of the multiple medical emergencies. The wounded were further stabilized, gurneyed and strapped, then loaded for transport. Amazed EMT's looked gratefully to Jake and Luke, along with their husbands, for saving surely terminal shock patients by their astute work. One woman EMT neuro-tested Jake for concussive effects. Satisfied of no serious damage, she extracted a promise for a full work-up within the hour.

After their departure, Detective Lusk thoughtfully approached the young doctors. He stared at the two with their men as the four commiserated together on a large flat boulder. "If I hadn't seen this with my own eyes, there would be no way I would have believed it," he began. "I have been appalled at the tactics and manners these people have employed in their misguided path." Sweeping his hand backward around the open glade setting Torchy's woodland home, he added, "Not only here but over the past days.

"Your family," and here, he nodded at the blanket-wrapped Cal, "has exhibited the integrity and character bred by the America in which I have always believed." The detective held up Luke's iPhone and went on, "I have listened to the audio recording Dr. Cevennes so shrewdly thought to capture. The responses in the face of what just went down here, at the Etowah Park incident, and over subsequent times up to now have secured my respect for you two couples, men."