Flywater

The blast from the 12-gauge shotgun shattered the morning’s tranquility and hit the right side of General Bonner’s head, knocking him down like a duck at a shooting gallery. A second blast shredded small holes through his lightweight cotton camo jacket, as he lay motionless on the ground. Any hunter with-in earshot would assume another outdoorsman had succeeded at putting a wild turkey on the dinner table, and never imagine the carnage that had just taken place.

Sprawled out, face down in a field of dried grass, Bonn awoke and placed a cupped hand to his head’s burning scalp. He managed to roll over and let out a low moan as he lightly touched the hot searing flesh of his peppered body. When he tried to open his eyes, only one would respond. The blue Florida sky had a light crimson coating, and consciousness, disguised as a peaceful sleep, became a losing battle. After several panicked attempts to breath, his limited vision blurred to darkness before his body went limp.

In one urgent gasp, his lungs devoured the crisp spring air that doused the fire in his breath. A slight degree of consciousness returned long enough for him to see strange, red-tinted, passing clouds in what should have been crisp blue skies.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked aloud, unsure if had actually spoken. It wouldn’t be the last time he found it difficult to differentiate his words from his thoughts.

Another cool, cleansing breath brought a distorted degree of reality, but any significant clarity of his predicament remained nonexistent. After propping his body up to a sitting position, his chin dropped and he stared at the blood-soaked camouflage patterns emerging through his hunting clothes. Warm, wet drops of red sweat trickled off the tip of his nose and dotted the belly of his shirt. Still puzzled by the crimson tint wherever he looked, he wiped his drenched brow with the back of his hand and discovered it was oozing red streams of blood, not sweat. The gravity of his situation became real as he attempted to stand. Akin to a drunken stumble, General Bonner hit the ground face first as his world went black.

Bonn awoke again, only this time, to the sight of two men dressed in street clothes standing over him with a look of disbelief on their faces. The larger of the two strangers was as rigid as a cigar store Indian and cradled a shotgun in the crook of his crossed arms. His disheveled, shoulder length and greasy blond hair matched the three-day gray stubble covering his face. The bill of his green John Deere cap shielded and concealed his eyes from the brilliant morning sun but accentuated a strange crusty brown substance in the corners of a twisted smile. His tall and physically imposing presence dwarfed the short, dark-skinned Mexican companion standing next to him.

Although small in stature, his accomplice bore a malicious facade characterized by long, coal-black hair, slicked and tucked behind his ears. He wore beltless gray dress pants that hung precariously on his butt and a white wife-beater T-shirt that was drenched with sweat. The only clean parts of his wardrobe were the white Adidas tennis shoes that completed his wardrobe; both men were dressed in stark contrast to the camouflage clothing used by most hunters.

Bonn made a barely audible plea to who he thought were two Good Samaritans, “I've been shot. I need to get to a hospital.”

That’s when it happened; the dirty blonde spit a slimy stream of tobacco juice that moistened the brown crust rimming his mouth. He then forced a tobacco-stained smile before saying, “We’ll take you.” In that moment, Bonn noticed a slightest change of expression, a “tell” in poker. Instantly, the adrenaline pumping through his torn body accelerated and blasted back the pain long enough for him to grasp the reality of the situation, the men were not saviors, he was their prey. Instinctively, as consciousness approached critical mass, and while he lay face down in a coagulated puddle of sand, dirt, and blood, Bonn’s fingers tightened to a death grip around his shotgun.

“Did you hear me?” The dirty blond shooter asked then nudged the General’s motionless body with the toe of his boot.

When he felt the boot push on his ribs, Bonn rolled over on back and squeezed a vice lock grip on his shotgun so he could raise the barrel. “Drop your gun,” Bonn said. “Do it now!”

The shooter raised his hands in surrender. “Whoa, buddy. You’ve got it all wrong; we’re here to help you”.

“I’m not your buddy. If you make any sudden moves, I…will…kill you,” Bonn said with a weakening voice that trailed off as he struggled to remain conscious. Instead of trying to stand and risk falling again, he was able to kneel and single-handedly shoulder his weapon. Then, with his free hand, he reached for the shooter's gun and pawed at the grass. While patting the ground in a blind search, the sensation of cold steel hit his fingertips. Trying to hold two weapons of considerable weight wasn’t an option, so he pitched the shotgun into a dense mass of Palmettos.

The bulbs were waning dim as shock continued to impede his ability to think clearly. He pulled out his cell phone to call 911 and discovered a shattered black screen. Bonn’s inability to process rational thoughts kept him from taking the logical step and using one of the attacker’s phones to call for help. As he fought off feelings of hopelessness, he was painfully aware of his rapidly depleting strength, and the concept of surrender lingered as an option.

“Where's your vehicle?” Bonn asked. When neither man responded, he wasn’t sure if he had spoken loud enough. “Where…is…your vehicle?” The question sounded eerily similar to screaming.

As he struggled to separate the onslaught of cognitive messages, and while teetering on the edge of a dark abyss, Bonn painstakingly forced himself to stand. The persistent shouting intensified his headache to the point where his world began to spin into a retching nausea of coffee colored bile.

After wiping his mouth with an already bloodied sleeve, he simply asked, “Where’s…truck?”

They answered together by hitching their thumbs towards the woods behind them. When it became obvious, Bonn might be losing his fight with consciousness, they waited to see if he would drop. But through the silence, the unmistakable click of the safety mechanism on Bonn’s gun convinced them, he wasn’t going to pass out any time soon, and he would shoot if he felt the world going dark again.

“What’s your name big man?” Bonn asked and pointed his shotgun at the shooter.

“You don’t remember me…Bonn?” the shooter asked and spit another brown stream of tobacco juice that splashed on Bonn's boot.

Bonn stiffened and spoke with authority. “You called me ‘Bonn’; I’ve never met you in my life. Who the hell are you?”

Then, as though a monumental reveal was about to take place, the stranger used his index finger to gradually push the bill of his hat up so the sunlight would illuminate his face.

“The name is Carl, just Carl,” he said, then raised an eyebrow, smiled, and with the tip of his tongue, licked a crusty deposit of dried tobacco juice from the corner of his mouth.

“Okay, ‘Just Carl’, here’s what’s going to happen, both of you are going to walk in front of me with your hands and fingers locked behind your heads,” Bonn said. “When we get to your vehicle, you're driving me to the black Explorer you passed driving in here.”

The blank stares on their faces had Bonn wondering if he had been unconscious with his eyes open and only thought he had spoken, “Do you understand? Comprende?”