Riotfish, Inc.: In Debt: Chapter 31

It was perhaps two hours later. The Riotfish were a study in impatience, standing outside the cabins, watching over their equipment in the relentless heat.

“Are you sure you told him the right place?” Oliver asked.

“For the fifth time, yes. There’s only one place like this in town. I don’t think he would have trouble finding it regardless. I wonder if something happened.”

“Something’s going to happen to him, being this late,” D’khara muttered darkly.

Oliver was leaning against a stack of ammo crates, reading something on his datapad, and Little Timmy was off in the grass, pulling blades up one by one, but with a fury and intensity that would have the lawn bare by nightfall.

It was another fifteen minutes before a huge, shiny red pickup truck rolled into the parking lot. The window rolled down, emitting a frosty blast of air conditioning as a lean, scruffy man in a wifebeater leaned out.

“Y’all them Riotfish what called?”

“Yes,” Fleer said icily. “Two and a half hours ago.”

“I’m Robby,” he said cheerfully, ignoring the chill. “Hooo dog, you boys are a crew,” he said, smiling a monotoothed grin. “Y’all after some deer?”

“Something like that,” Fleer said shortly.

“Well get on it, brother! Load up and let’s go!”

The Riotfish transferred their equipment into the bed of the truck.

“David, where should we sit?” Oliver asked. The cab of the truck was clearly not going to accommodate Oliver’s frame.

“Y’all just jump on in the back there,” their driver said. “It’s got a nice cool breeze, and we’ll be there before you’re ready to hop out! I got a cooler with some beer back there if you want.”

“Oh, um. Thank you, I suppose.” Oliver replied, climbing gingerly into the bed of the truck. The vehicle settled noticeably as he mounted. D’khara, Roger, and Little Timmy tucked themselves in between Oliver and the equipment as best they could.

“You can ride up front with me, Mr. Suit. We’ll get you there lickety-split.” Their scruffy host leaned forward confidentially. “I keep the good beer up front.”

They started their journey rollicking merrily along the interstate, weaving more than Fleer was comfortable with, especially with three unsecured people in the back. Robby was clearly ready to have a great time driving them into the swamp.

“Whereabouts in the swamp are you boys headed?” he asked.

Fleer pulled up the coordinates on his datapad and showed the map to their driver.

Robby’s face drooped, and the truck slowed somewhat.

“Out there? That’s old man Daugereaux’s land.”

“Yes,” confirmed Fleer. “That’s where we’re headed.”

The truck slowed a little more.

“Only, old man Daugereaux don’t let nobody hunt on his land.”

“Well, he’s expecting us,” Fleer assured him.

“He don’t much like visitors, neither,” their driver said.

“Look, he’s asked us out there. Surely he has visitors?”

“You ain’t kin of him. And you ain’t friends.” The truck slowed further. People began passing them.

“We’re contractors. We were asked to come out! He has people come out, right? To fix the plumbing and such?”

The driver gave Fleer a side-eye.

“You ain’t been out there, have you? Old man Daugereaux don’t have plumbing.”

“Doesn’t have– look, I personally guarantee that he is expecting all of us and all of our equipment there. Today.”

Robby fell to muttering to himself as the truck slowed further. The people passing them began to honk.

“Didn’t tell me nothin’ about goin’ to old man Daugereaux’s place. Doggone out-of-towners, drinkin’ my beer and gettin’ me in trouble. Gonna get my truck shot up again, and it ain’t even paid for yet.”

The driver stared balefully at Fleer.

“Any damage to my truck, and I’m charging it to you,” he said.

“Yes! Fine! Can we just get there please?”

“Doggone wife’s gonna be mad at me again, Daugereaux is gonna be mad, and them boys are gonna laugh.”

They trundled down the interstate, ignoring the honking and rude gestures of those who passed. It took perhaps an hour before he turned off the interstate onto a seedy, weedy little road that had more hotpatch than asphalt. The crew bounced and jounced in the back trying to hold onto their equipment as the uneven road surface overcame the shocks on the truck. Robby continued to shoot accusatory glances at Fleer from time to time.

They turned off again onto something that could be called a road only by the most generous of souls. The vehicle rocked back and forth alarmingly, and everyone in the back had to hold on to both their equipment and the truck. After 15 interminable minutes of this, they turned off again.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” Fleer asked, rattling around in his seat. “I don’t think this is made for vehicles.”

They were driving along two dirt ruts leading into the woods. Tall grass grew thickly between the ruts, and tree branches hung in close, screeching along the truck and slapping the passengers in the back as they bounced along.

Robby gave Fleer a flat, nasty look, and turned back to his driving, muttering to himself some more.

“Like I don’t know how to get to Daugereaux’s. Everybody knows how to get to Daugereaux’s, just don’t nobody oughta go. Doggone out-of-towners. Don’t even know a tractor trail when they see it.”

They rattled on down some more, until the trail widened some, the tree branches backed off, and the ground softened beneath the tires. A vague odor permeated the cab of the truck, a little astringent, a little sewery, and definitely very natural.

The tractor trail petered out a quarter-mile further on, dead-ending into an open area that somebody probably considered a yard. Whereas the grass grew thickly in most places, here it had been pounded to oblivion by truck tires. At some point in the distant past a half-hearted effort had been made to class the place up by pouring gravel for a driveway, but most of the gravel had since sunk into the mud. Many ruts and tire marks covered the soft ground. The air was thick, hot and still, dripping with humidity. The area was quiet, punctuated only by the occasional strident, penetrating call of cicadas looking for a mate.

Robby hunched down behind the steering wheel while Fleer disembarked.

Fleer walked up to the cabin planted on the edge of the water. It was standing on stilts to keep it clear of the swamp. Steep-roofed and dismal, it clearly needed years more maintenance than it had ever gotten. Grim, dirty windows stared at Fleer as he mounted the steps to the broad porch that dominated the front of the house.

A tiny, shriveled old man sat in a rocking chair snoozing quietly in the afternoon heat. He looked a bit like Daugereaux, but if that’s who it was, then instead of the camera adding fifty pounds, it had added six inches of height and removed fifty years. The manikin here looked nearly mummified. He was wearing bib overalls with no shirt, and old white rubber boots.

Unsure how to proceed, Fleer clumped heavily up the stairs, making hollow booming footsteps that reverberated in the empty space under the porch, hoping to wake his contact.

The little man slept on.

He clomped across the porch, making more noise, but the raisin in the rocker didn’t budge.

Gently, he leaned over Daugereaux.

“Mr. Daugereaux?” he said loudly.

Nothing.

Oh, I hope he’s not dead, thought Fleer, gingerly reaching out to shake him.

The old man exploded forward with a squeal and a holler. Fleer screamed a little himself, and fell over. The Riotfish in the truck were immediately on their feet, guns trained in every direction. Robby was nearly on the floor of his cab.

It took several seconds lying on the porch for Fleer’s heart rate to lower back to a healthy speed.

“Oh, chief, you done scared me, waking me all up over a sudden like dat.” The wizened old man stepped into Fleer’s view. “But I think I done ‘bout scared de faces offa you, too. Isaiah Daugereaux. You pronounce dat ‘DOH-zhuh-row’,” he reminded Fleer. “Pleasetomeetyou.” He held out his hand to the recumbent mercenary.

Fleer gingerly shook his hand while lying on the porch.

“David Fleer,” he said weakly, “an honor to meet you.”

Fleer stood shakily to his feet and took a moment to compose himself.

“Welp, you boys come on in. We will get you somethin’ to eat, den I can show you on around de place.”

“Yes,” Fleer replied, smiling faintly. “Um, where can my men unload our equipment?”

“You jus’ drop all dat in de yard, and all y’all come on in. Ma Daugereaux gonna feed y’all first.” He squinted at the truck. “Is dat Robby?” he yelled, putting the emphasis on the last syllable of the name. “Rah-BEE!” he yelled. “Come on in and get you somethin’ to eat! Momma been cookin’, yeah!”

Robby rolled down the window and peeked out timidly.

“You ain’t mad at these fellers?” he asked.

“May nawn,” replied Daugereaux. “I hired dese boys for a work. Besides, you know I cain’t shoot dem trespassers no more. De cemetery down back is already full.”

Robby gave a sickly smile. Daugereaux leaned up to Fleer and muttered, “I’m making him a joke, me. We ain’t got a cemetery here.”

Fleer nodded, slightly relieved.

“Got to have a priest bless it before you can call it a cemetery.” He gestured at the rest of the Riotfish, who were unloading the truck and yelled to them. “You boys can put all dat jus’ right dere! Robby, you gon’ come eat?”

Robby shook his head.

“Wife’s expecting me back before dark, I’m gonna get in a pile of trouble if I’m late again.”

“Well, go on then. Tell your mama I said hi!”

“Will do!” Robby hollered back. The Riotfish finished unloading, and Robby and his bright red truck rumbled off back down the tractor trail.

The Riotfish made a tidy pile of their equipment and then trooped into the cabin behind Fleer and Daugereaux.

The inside of the cabin was plain and surprisingly cheerful. Tall windows allowed the strong sunlight to illuminate the main room. The air inside was humid and still despite the front door being left open, and felt at least ten degrees hotter than outside. The interior did little to soften the penetrating song of the cicadas. A creaking screen door clapped shut behind them, pulled to by a long, rusty spring. The floor was plain wood, and smelled strongly of pine cleaner that had been over-applied. The old floor had been mopped so long and so hard that the softer parts of the wood had been worn away and the grain stood out in stark lines.

“Fellas, welcome to my home. Dat cute thing over by de stove is my adorin’ wife, Ma Daugereaux.”

Ma Daugereaux was a tall, rawboned woman that topped her husband by nearly two heads. She was lean and weathered, flapping around the kitchen in house slippers, a muumuu, and a grim face that could have found a home in American Gothic. For all that, her voice was surprisingly gentle. She was already busily pouring out cups of coffee and arranging a tray of snacks.

“Red beans’ll be a couple hours yet,” she said, bustling around. “You all have some coffee in the meantime. Y’all want anything for your coffee?”

“Sugar, please,” Fleer said.

Oliver sat cross-legged on the floor, since no chair would hold him, and gazed at the coffee cup, made tiny in his massive hands. The fluid was thick and oily and impenetrably black.

“Um, sugar for me too, please,” he said. Oliver had never gotten the taste for coffee, but he felt certain that enough sugar would make it palatable. Ma Daugereaux brought around another tray, and Oliver doctored his cup with a generous stream of sugar. He stirred it for a moment and took a sip.

The sugar had done little to mitigate the harsh, dark flavor of the coffee. The bitterness was like dragging a rusty sawblade across his tongue. After suppressing a gasp, he wondered if it would be rude to ask for more sugar.

“Well let me introduce myself and my men,” Fleer said, standing. “I am David Fleer, owner of Riotfish Inc., and the leader of our happy little crew. Over here is Oliver Gutshell, our lead strategist and heavy weapons specialist. He’s as strong as he looks, and as smart as Einstein!” Oliver gave a little wave, holding in tears after having hazarded a second sip of coffee.

“Next to Oliver is Roger, our close support specialist and grenadier. He is a terror on the battlefield, and is ferocious with a blade.”

“Carrots die! In. The fridge,” Roger noted.

Little Timmy was leaning back in his chair against the wall, the two legs of the ancient chair finding an insecure purchase on the old wooden floor. He grinned uncertainly at the coffee, then slammed it back in one mighty chug. In deference to the social setting, he refrained from screaming, but his eyes bulged, and a sound like an over-pressurized steam boiler escaped from him.

Fleer turned to him next.

“Over here is ‘Little’ Timmy Navarre, another of our riflemen. He’s also our demolitions expert, and a force to be reckoned with. He’s mastered dual-wielding his submachine guns, and easily puts out the highest volume of firepower of any of the Riotfish. In his spare time, he experiments with new explosive compounds.”

“Yeah hi whatever the coffee is amazing thanks” Little Timmy said. His eyes were jittering, and his face twitched in various places.

“And in the corner is D’khara Arilburr, our armorer and shotgunner. He packs a mean punch and can clear a room faster than you can blink.”

“Especially after Mexican food,” D’khara muttered. A couple uncomfortable coughs and glances circled the room as the joke fell flat on the floor and died quietly. D’khara went back to staring disapprovingly at his coffee. He took a sip, and his eyebrows rose in surprise. He took another sip, and some of the disapproval melted from his face.

Old Man Daugereaux stood up.

“Well, I am Isaiah Daugereaux, and I have lived here on dis land my whole life. I done my duty in de Second Corp’rate War, and raised two chirren, who have grown and gone. I got me a problem wit dese awlmen on my land, and I did not spend seventy-five years here just to have dese young chevalier come in and take over. I aim to take my land back from dem, and dat is why I have axed for you all’s help.”

“Oh, interesting, you were in the Second Corporate War? Who were you with?” Fleer asked.

“We don’ talk about dat,” Daugereaux said shortly, without even looking at Fleer.

“Ah. Yes, sorry.”

“Now here in a bit, when we all done snackin’ up some food, I will show y’all around de land. In de meantime, less enjoy dis quiet little moment before de stormclouds roll in.”