Dead Men (and Women) Walking by Anthology Read Free Book Online

couldn’t get it to
move, but after Buster had cut away some hidden vines we were able
to pull it free. The gate dragged on the ground as we pulled on it.
There was no way we would be able to put it back in place on the
way out.
    As I pulled my work gloves
off and stuffed them into my back pocket Buster went back to work
with his machete. He was beginning to clear a path with amazing
quickness.
    “ Buster,” I said as he
hacked at the dead plants. “Buster? I don’t like this. We shouldn’t
be here.”
    By the time I was able to
get the words out of my mouth Buster was too far from me to hear
what I was saying. Not that it would have really mattered anyway.
He was hacking away at the plants, clearing a path big enough for
three people to walk side by side through and still have a little
room on both sides of the end people. He looked like he was running
as he swung the machete down, back and forth. The Mad Machete Man
from Bishopville whacking at the plants with absolutely no mercy.
All he had to do was laugh and he really would have seemed
maniacal.
    “ Come on, John,” he yelled
back. His voice was faint.
    That’s when I realized I had
gotten back in the truck and closed my door shut. For a moment I
wasn’t really sure I had ever gotten out, much less helped Buster
move the gate.
    “ Aaah. . . shee-it!” Buster
yelled.
    I had gotten out of the
truck and had been headed toward the path when I heard Buster’s
scream. I almost dropped a load in my undies when I heard that
scream. I froze. I was scared.
    “ Bu. . . Buster?” I asked,
quietly. I walked slowly through the area that Buster had cut with
his machete. All the limbs that he had cut were dead and lying in
his wake. Graying moss hung off of dead tree limbs; dead vines
clung to the trees and hung off of foot thick branches from those
slumping trees. Kudzu plants were all over the trees.
    Abraham. That was his name.
Miss Catherine’s lover’s name was Abraham. Same as Lincoln and that
guy in the Bible whose people were to be given to the Promised
Land. Nice fellow that Abraham was.
    Babble. . . babble. .
.
    “ Buster?” I yelled as I
began to run to find him.
    “ What?” Buster’s voice came
back. I stopped running. Buster sounded irritated.
    “ Where are you?” I called
out, sheepishly. A shameful feeling it was at being scared of
hearing him scream.
    “ Over here.”
    I walked, slowly at first
then quickened my pace. I was trying to keep the fear of being in
this dead swamp where 67 other people had met their demise from
getting to me. I certainly didn’t want to look like I was afraid to
be there in front of Buster. The teasing would never end if he knew
exactly how I felt about the place.
    Buster, as far as I could
tell, wasn’t afraid of anything. He always reminded me of that
bulldog in those old Warner Brothers™ cartoons. He was the bulldog
who wore the brown derby and the red sweater. What was his name?
Butch?
    I was more like the little
Chihuahua that seemed to always be bothering good ole, tough ole
Butch.
    “ What you doing, Butch?”
the Chihuahua would ask as he bounded from side to side, dancing
around Butch as he walked along the street. “You gonna pound some
cat, huh, Butch? Can I go, too, huh, Butch?”
    “ Ahh. . . Shut-up,” the
bulldog would always say right after he backhanded the Chihuahua
across the room or the yard or even the street.
    “ Yeah, yeah, sure Butch,”
the little Chihuahua would say then look toward the camera, as if
he were real, and say, “That’s Butch. He’s my hero. He’s not afraid
of anything.”
    “ Buster? Buster? What you
doing, Buster? Going to go see your girl, huh, Buster? Going down
to the arcade, huh, Buster? Can I go too, huh, Buster?”
    Ka-pow. Ka-thump.
    “ Ahh. . .
shut-up.”
    “ Yeah. . . yeah, sure,
Buster.”
    I half walked, half ran to
where Buster was standing. The Chihuahua was fresh in my mind. He
was hacking away at a tall, bushy thicket. Kudzu dangled off of