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. Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org exclusive © material.

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.

Looking completely unimpressed as he carried on further into the cave, Livingston asked, "What's with the face outside? Who changed it?"

The man walked alongside Livingston saying, "We don't know how dat happened. It's been dat way since July."

Livingston just glanced at the man oddly as 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 were all just lying around on the ground as though they were resting.

The sound of reggae music playing in a distance caused Livingston to not only wince but also stomp a bit harder onto the muddy ground towards one of the men holding a rifle.

"Turn that God awful racket off!" he growled.

"But it keeps dem motivated." The man contended.

Without hesitation, Livingston picked up the tiny radio from off the ground and smashed it against the wall. The commotion caused all the people that were lying on the ground to subtly awaken from their leisurely siesta.

Pointing at them all, Livingston raged, "Does this look like motivation to you?"

Angrily, the man went over and yanked one person after another up from off the ground like unruly animals.

"How much have they gathered since we've been gone?" Livingston asked.

Appearing frightened, one of the men answered, "Uh...no more dan seven grams."

It took at least three seconds before Livingston hauled off and slapped the man across the face so hard that blood spewed out of his mouth.

"Since July, these fuckers have managed to only gather seven grams?" He screamed. "They got more than that back in January!"

"But dey are tired." The man whimpered.

"They're not tired, they're lazy!'

"We want to leave." One of the male workers suddenly spoke up.

Livingston gradually turned 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 months, and his eyes were flushed with red, making him appear as though he hadn't slept in days.

With a haughty expression on his own soaked face, Livingston asked," I beg your pardon, govenah?"

Stepping closer to Livingston, the man proclaimed, "I said, we want to leave. We have been in here for God knows how long, and we are tired."

"Wait a bloody minute, this isn't slavery. You all signed up for this."

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

Livingston looked 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 hands on his hips and dropped his head before pacing back and forth across the ground.

"Philippe told me that you all were getting bold." Livingston stated as he took his pistol and studied its frame from 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 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 told me that I didn't have the guts to pull the trigger."

At that point, Livingston pointed the gun directly at the male worker in front of him while still speaking.

"It took me exactly four seconds to prove him wrong. I pulled the trigger of this gun and shot him once in the head and three times in the stomach."

The worker stiffened his upper lip and stood completely inflexible in front of the weapon that was pointed so daringly at his face.

"One...two...three...four," Livingston slowly counted before pulling the trigger and planting a single bullet into the head of the man, sending him hurtling backwards onto the ground.

From there, he pulled the trigger three more times to where the bullets made contact with the man's stomach. The remaining workers either screamed out in terror or vomited all over the ground before backing away.

Once Livingston was through, he turned around to one of the guards and said, "If they are bold enough to revolt, then they are bold enough to work." He then turned back to the frightened workers. "I don't care if the Bushards aren't here! We all have a task to complete! I want to see diamonds! Not seven grams, but pounds and pounds of the fucking things! Back in '69, they found at least twenty-two pounds in this very area! Believe me when I say, it can be done again! You want to go home? Complete your task!"

All of the workers immediately gathered themselves from their positions before picking up their axe picks and diligently digging into the walls.

Livingston then approached the guards and said, "I don't care if you all are the same color, they are workers, not your brethren. You want to keep them motivated? Have them look at that dead man on the ground. And keep that damn music off."

"Yes...yes, sir." One of the guards stuttered.

With that, Livingston slid his gun back into his rear pocket before turning and exiting the work area. "Keep up the good work, everyone!"

He kept on and on until he cleared the cave and came face to face with the guards that were waiting outside in the rain.

He then gathered all three of them together in a huddle and presented to them one of the Polaroid's.

"You see this girl? She's been asking questions about the Bushards. She's an American."

"I've heard of her." One of the guards spoke up. "My brother sees her in town sometimes."

Nodding his head, Livingston said, "Yes, she is an American, which means she probably knows what's happening here."

"Can we have her picture?"

Slipping the photo back into his pocket, Livingston replied, "There's a good chance that I'll run into her before you chaps do. Play like you're bloodhounds. You have her scent; use your teeth if she happens to run across this area." He pointed at their weapons."

Livingston then turned away from the three men before carrying on towards and into a mist bank where he eventually vanished out of sight.