Wrecked – Chapter 5
Sgt. Dewey Beverage & suspected Taliban soldier Akhbar Ali have washed up on a deserted island.
Chapter Five – Bug
Young Dewey Beverage is sitting in a Tallahatchee Jail holding cell when he’s approached by a squat, pale, balding man who raps his bulky brass ring on the bars.
“Killed your pops, kid?”
Dewey looks up, his face caked in tears. “It was an accident.”
The squat man shakes his head. “I knew your old man, kid. Even if it was an accident, it was no accident. You’re better off without him.”
“Are you my lawyer?”
“I’m the guy who’s gonna get you outta here. The name’s Bug. Bug Powell.”
Sgt. Dewey Beverage shoves a stick in the sand and balances a bulky brass ring on top. “We’ll see this shine from a mile away. If we happen back upon this stick, we’ll know we’re on an island.”
Akhbar nods. “That is good thinking, Sgt.”
Dewey pauses, eyeing up Akhbar. “Thank you.” He quickly shoves a finger in his fellow shipwreckee’s face. “You’re still gettin’ locked up when we get out of this mess.”
Akhbar smiles. “Whatever you say, Sgt.”
A now-teenaged Dewey is riding his bike from Tallahatchee High School to Powell Construction’s latest work site, where Bug hands him a tightly-wrapped package.
“Get this to our Russian friend, kid.”
“Before I go, Bug; have you ever thought…bigger?”
Bug leans back in a rickety old rolling desk chair in the trailer that is his temporary office as construction foreman. “Bigger how?”
Dewey drops an Army recruitment pamphlet he got from his high school’s career fair on Bug’s desk and Bug picks it up, flipping through it.
“Selling dope & crank has made you big in Florida. But how would you like to be nationwide?”
Bug drops the pamphlet and glances up at his young drug-running protege. “Still not following.”
“The Middle East has some of the most expansive poppy fields in the world. The right connect could make you the American Heroin King.”
Bug nods, intrigued. “And how would I go about getting this connect.”
Dewey grins. “I’m gonna go to war.”
Dewey & Akhbar have trekked nearly ten miles along the shore when the sun starts to set and they decide to make camp under the palm tree canopy on the jungle’s edge.
“So far, so good,” Dewey mutters, leaning his head against the tree trunk. “Maybe we really are on a tarantula.”
“Peninsula,” Akhbar corrects.
“Hell, maybe we’re in Florida,” Dewey chuckles, shutting his eyes. “Good ol Florida. Home sweet ho–“
Akhbar shoots back up to his feet and points at the sand beneath him. “How big are the house cats in Florida?”
Dewey looks down at a paw print the size of his head.
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