Mud Creek by Kelly Ferguson

Author:Kelly Ferguson [Ferguson, Kelly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781734122206
Publisher: Fair Park Publishing
Published: 2020-06-08T22:00:00+00:00

Dust particles floated down long golden rays of light that found their way through the cracks in the oak boards of Carl’s back shed. The faint outline of a body mixed with the shadows, shapes, and an odd collection of forms created by the random junk scattered across the floor

It was Willard.

Willard squinted his eyes, held his head and prayed to die.

The clanking of a chain interrupted Willard’s prayer.

The door flew open, and the light exploded into the small darkened room. Willard fought the light with his hands. Voices came from the doorway.

Mizel and Junior, a two-hundred-fifty-pound gorilla of a redneck with a shotgun, entered the shed.

“Willard, you slept most of the day away. Mr. Carl wants to see you.”

“What for? What about my truck?” Willard fired question after question. He struggled to get up from the hard-oak floor.

“Just get moving, Willard. Mr. Carl doesn’t like to wait.”

Willard’s body recovered from the abuse of the hard floor with each movement. His head did not.

“Mizel, I’m starving. You fellas eaten breakfast?”

“Willard, it’s ten minutes ‘till two in the afternoon. You missed breakfast and lunch. There’s no time to eat, now. We’ve got to go.”

Junior poked the shotgun in Willard’s ribs and nudged him toward the store.

“Junior, you need to be careful with that gun before you hurt somebody.” Willard laughed.

When Willard, Mizel, and Junior approached the storefront, Willard noticed a closed sign over the door. Mizel knocked, and the door sprung open. Shotgun toting rednecks guarded the store’s doors, shades covered each window, and the twenty-five to thirty member cadre of Carl’s thugs milled with nervous idle chatter. When Willard and his attendants entered the room, dead silence struck. Willard tasted vomit in his mouth. Carl’s famous “Jesus is coming” meetings struck fear in the bravest soul. He used these meetings to refine his bootlegging empire which ran on greed and fear. Willard once witnessed Carl beat a young man unconscious with an ax handle when he failed to repay a loan on time. Carl demanded fierce loyalty and strict discipline. Willard held on to what little denial he could muster.

Carl sat in his customary chair, which looked like a crude throne. He wore a small panama hat cocked over one eye; his shirt was unbuttoned, and a revolver hung under his arm. Mizel and four of Carl’s cousins made up the inner circle. They owned the blood and shotguns and everyone else dropped their guns and knives in a former salt box near the door. The room overflowed with tobacco smoke, sweat, and tension.

Mizel and Junior brought Willard to the center of the circle to face Carl.

Carl rose from his throne and paced back and forth in a measured gait, looking at the floor in thought.

“Now boys, here we have an individual who has gotten on my shit list.”

Carl addressed the crowd without acknowledging Willard or making eye contact. Carl whirled and back handed Willard across the face. Mizel and Junior caught Willard.

“But, Mr. Carl…” Willard tried to speak, but Carl drove his fist into Willard’s stomach.

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