The Death of 1977 (Book 3)

Through the Downtown district, past the beach and up and into the misty mountains Livingston traveled. The further up he ascended the thinner the air seemed to become. The rain was ever persistent to the point where seeing straight was a task, but Livingston made short work of it due to his familiarity with the location.

It took nearly an hour for the man's truck to escape the main road and venture off into a forest that was clustered with fleeing bats and parrots. Once he approached a bushel of trees that was entirely too thick for a vehicle to pass, Livingston stopped the truck and got out.

He reached into his back pocket to pull out his pistol before trudging through the trees and past a timid waterfall to find three barking German Shepherds who were being restrained by three, young, black men standing behind the falls with green parkas on and AK-47's all pointed directly at him.

Livingston brushed aside the mist before shining his pistol at the men. All three men glanced at each other before one of them turned back to Livingston.

"Where have you been?" One of the men shouted.

"Away on business," Livingston said aloud.

Once more, the men turned to each other before parting and allowing Livingston to pass through.

"The Bushards are not here!" One of the men called out.

Livingston ignored the comment while sifting through the wet forest until he came to a slab of wood that was attached to the side of a cave entrance. The carved wood bore the image of a person's sad face. Livingston examined the face with both his eyes and right hand, curiously caressing the soggy wood before he skittishly entered into the dark cavern.

The stifling heat and humidity, along with various toxic fumes caused Livingston to recall why he had stayed away for so long to begin with.

There was a bludgeoning stench attached to the cave, like that of human waste. The man took off his ball cap and covered his mouth with it before taking out his lighter and igniting it to brighten his way deeper into the cave.

"Who is dere?" A man's voice shrieked.

Startled, Livingston angrily groaned, "Put your bloody gun away, you fool!"

At once the black man who was holding a rifle backed down. "Thank goodness, you're here." He exhaled.

unimpressed as he carried on further into the cave, Livingston asked, "What's

know how dat

find three more men who were all holding rifles of their own at four black men and three black

but also stomp a bit harder onto the muddy ground towards one

God awful racket off!"

it keeps dem motivated." The man

up the tiny radio from off the ground and smashed it against the wall. The commotion caused all the people that were lying on

Livingston raged, "Does

one person after another

since we've

the men

least three seconds before Livingston hauled off and slapped the man across the face so hard that blood spewed

seven grams?" He screamed. "They got more than that back in

dey are tired."

tired, they're

leave." One of the male workers suddenly spoke

who was a sweaty mess from his head all the way to his sandaled feet. His overgrown beard looked as if it hadn't been groomed in

expression on his own soaked face,

Livingston, the man proclaimed, "I said, we want to leave. We have been in here for God knows

this isn't slavery. You all signed up

we were told dis would be only for a month." One of the female

all around at the people who all appeared as if they were readying themselves for a revolt of sorts. But Livingston didn't even flinch. He just put his

me before slapping me down. When I was thirteen, I attempted to attack my father from behind, but he caught me and beat me so bad that I had to lie in the hospital for two weeks. Then, when I turned seventeen, I took this gun here and I pointed it at his face. The man

the gun directly at the male worker in front of

pulled the trigger of this gun and