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.

into the cave, Livingston asked, "What's with the face outside? Who changed

don't know

he came to a shabby steel gate. He pushed open the gate to find three more men who were all holding rifles of their own at four black men and three black women who

not only wince but also stomp a bit

God awful

keeps dem

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

raged, "Does this look like motivation to

the man went over and yanked one person after another up

much have they gathered since we've

men answered,

at least three seconds before Livingston hauled off and slapped the

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

are tired." The man

not tired,

of the male workers

sweaty mess from his head all the way to his sandaled feet. His overgrown beard looked as if it hadn't been groomed in months, and his eyes were flushed with red, making

on his own soaked face,

Livingston, the man proclaimed, "I said, we want to leave. We have been

isn't slavery. You

we were told dis would be only for a month." One of the female workers stood up. "We want to go home

they were readying themselves for a revolt of sorts. But Livingston didn't even

side to side inside his hands. "My father was a very...vicious man. He was a bully to my mum and me, and my three brothers coming up. When I was seven, 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

that point, Livingston pointed the gun directly at the male

seconds to prove him wrong. I pulled the trigger of this gun and shot him once in the