The Family: Long Road Home (VOL. 3)

Chapter 1

The car stereo crackles in the warm midday, the wavering signal is spotty on the rural backroads.  "Howdy yall, it's Stretch, your favorite DJ here at KOKLA radio." The voice of a spunky disc jockey with more energy than I've ever had in my life fills the silence after the previous song ends. Her bubbly personality reads loud and clear regardless of the static drowning her out every couple of seconds. "It's 12:30 in the afternoon here, Texas time. I know nobody's listenin' 'cause y'all are all out making plans to rock and roll the weekend away. So here's a jam to remind yall not to work too hard now. Go on an' take it easy while ya listen to "Take it Easy" by The Eagles. Alriiight!"

"Take it Easy" begins without a hitch, but taking it easy is the exact opposite of what I'm doing. It goes without saying, life isn't all sunshine and sweet tea when you're on the run.

My cheek meets the orange, shag, carpet cushioning the floor of the van with enough force to make my jaw pop. If it hadn't been for all the padding, I'd be seeing stars right about now. I take only a second to assess whether or not I'm hurt before shouting at the mangy hippy forcing my face into the matted rug reeking of cigarettes and sweat.  "Chop, you have 2 seconds to either move your hand or lose your hand!"

Chop-Top tangles his slim fingers in my knotted hair and forces my head further into the crunchy carpet, muffling my threats and asphyxiating me with the stench wafting from the fibers. "Aw, put a sock in it will ya?" With one surprisingly strong hand, he holds me to the floor and hunkers low like we're under enemy fire. His eyes flicker with flashbacks of his war days which Drayton claims never happened.

While there's no actual shootout in progress, the Sawyer's number one enemy isn't far behind. Just outside the rectangle rear window a tan sheriff's car coasts between the yellow lines behind our van. I caught only a glimpse of the car in the distance before I was eating the rug. That glimpse was all it took to rekindle the hope that once burned in my chest. Today could be the day.

For the first time in the days since we abandoned the farm, the van we've called our temporary home is silent.

Drayton's at the wheel. He drives slow and steady, careful not to make a single mistake that would give the trooper ammunition to pull us over. The roads have been swarming with police since it all went down. All it takes is one slip up, one person recognizing any of us or the van we're in, and every cop in Texas will be on their tails like fleas in Nubbins' hair. They don't trust me not to flag down the cop through the window or throw myself out of this van. That's why I'm face-down in the carpet. They're suspicious, wary, and not taking any chances.

"Just act natural, children. Lay low and stay out them windows." Loretta tells us as she stares ahead at the endless sea of gray asphalt stretching on through the backwoods country. She feigns repose well, but her anxiety bleeds through. I can see it in how her eyes flicker back and forth between the rearview mirror and the road. The rhymic click of her knitting needles has ceased. She's abandoned the crafty project she's been using to distract her mind and has taken to wringing her hands.

Nubbins doesn't share the same fear as his family nor does he heed his mother's warning. He doesn't bother to hunker down or avoid the cop's line of sight. He boldly stares out the window at the uniformed driver, squinting as the sun glares off the hood of his car. "I don't know what y'all got your p-panties in a twist over. B-bacon would hit the spot right 'bout now." He finishes that statement off with a couple of oinks.

Bubba squabbles after his brazen brother. He tries to get up and pull him out of the window to hunker down like the rest of us, but groans when his leg protests. The smell of blood is heavy in the van. The gash in his thigh has stopped bleeding for the most part, but moving around too much breaks the scab trying to form and reopens the wound. I know because I've met the business end of his chainsaw too. The scar wrapping around my leg is a remembrance of that. Looks like he got a taste of his own medicine.