The Death of 1977 (Book 3)

Chapter 4

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.

the cave, Livingston asked, "What's with

"We don't know how dat happened. It's

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

only wince but also stomp a bit harder onto the muddy ground towards one of the men holding a

awful

it keeps dem motivated." The

the ground and smashed it against the wall. The commotion caused all the

at them all, Livingston raged, "Does this look like motivation

went over and yanked one person after

they gathered since we've been gone?"

one of the men answered,

and slapped the man across the face so hard that blood spewed

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

dey are tired."

tired,

of

around to face the man 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

haughty expression on his own soaked

said, we want to leave. We have been in here for God knows how long, and we are

slavery. You all signed

of the

of sorts. But Livingston didn't even flinch. He just

I tried to punch the man in his face, but he managed to stop 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

directly at the male worker in front of

pulled the trigger of this gun and shot him once in the head and three times

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