Page 1 of Moonshine Lullabies

PROLOGUE

Collier…

“Watch y’self, now,” Cypress said, and he took a very large step over a log in front of him.

“Now how the hell you expect me to take a long ol’ step like that?” I demanded. “An’ what am I watchin’ myself for?”

He hitched a laugh and said, “Big ol’ Moccasin right there, brother.”

“Oh, hell no – fuck you! Y’all are on your own!”

Hex and Cy laughed at me, but I didn’t do snakes. Especially not a venomous one that swam like lightning.

“You better be fuckin’ jokin’ now,” I grated, and that just made ‘em laugh harder.

“He’s not. You got your waders on and thick-ass jeans on up under ‘em. Quit your cryin’ and go around that a way.” Hex pointed, and I kept a wary eye on the dark snake that blended near perfect with its surroundings.

“I tell you fellas, it’s about fuck-this-shit o’clock. We runnin’ up against snakes and shit today.”

“Ain’t much farther, you big pussy.” Cy was grinnin’ at me, and I scowled.

“Pussy my ass,” I muttered.

“Well, I reckon,” Hex declared, swatting at a mosquito on the side of his neck. “That is what the porn sites call a man-pussy or whatever.”

“Dude, what you lookin’ at that type of porn for?” Cy demanded before I could.

Hex shrugged. “You fuckers accidentally come up on it yourselves – don’t pretend like you don’t.”

I exchanged a look with Cy, who shrugged.

“I ain’t ever,” I declared.

“Me either,” Cy said, but his big grin was giving him away.

“Fuckin’ liars.” Hex’s shoulders shook with his laughter as Cy held out his hand to me. I tossed him the rope he was after and he pulled the sled thing we’d fashioned toward him, the pile of metal parts on it rattling under the pile of fishin’ net we put up over it to hide it from plain view.

We were trudging through the muck, along a path only Cy could seem to see with a whole ass still lookin’ to get it set up. It was the fourth one of its kind we’d built out here and we were tryin’ to get it goin’ where it wouldn’t be found by the law.

So far, so good on that – we was hopin’ our luck would hold.

My papaw was an old Shiner like Hex’s daddy’d been. They were friends, my papaw, and Hex’s daddy and when I’d fallen on hard times and somehow gotten into mining coal; up there in Tennessee, up there in one of the small operations on the Cumberland Plateau… well, my papaw didn’t like that one bit.

He knew the mines was a sure way to shorten a man’s life expectancy. He’d seen fit to reach out to a friend of his who reached out to another friend who reached on out to Hex. I’d agreed to come on down when Hex’d got a hold of my old papaw and said to send me on down this way.

I didn’t really have any regrets about it. I was makin’ enough money through the club to send back home to keep the family holler in the family and my papaw and them comfortable. It sure beat grubbing around in the dark, comin’ out black as pitch and hackin’ up more black shit every night.

I was a lot less tired and didn’t hurt so damn bad, either. Coal mining was hard on the body. So was Shinin’, but not near as hard as minin’.

Sure, the life I was livin’ now was hard too, just in a different type of way. But I tell you what. I’d much prefer takin’ a bullet and dyin’ quick than to be buried alive or die a slow death of the cancer or black lung or whatever.

“Collier, you got it?” Cy asked, and I lifted up on the back of the sled, up out of the sucking mud as he hauled forward.

He nodded once in thanks and we kept pushin’ deep into the swamp but stayin’ out on the edge before the water, makin’ our way to this raised spit of land that stayed well up outta the tide, with enough canopy cover to keep the still hidden.

We worked our asses off, getting it done – well, mostly Hex and I did. Cy wandered off to catch something or other for on our way out, in case we encountered anyone on up there on the road where Hex’s truck was parked and Cy and my bikes were stashed.

We was just putting our tools ‘n shit in the back of Hex’s truck, the sun dipping down past the horizon but the sky still stained some with orange, when Cy’s phone started trippin’. He pulled it on out of where it was screamin’ bloody murder, some soundtrack from some horror show or movie, and he answered it. “What’s up, Tater?” Cy asked by way of greeting and his fourteen-year-old nephew came over the line barely loud enough for me to hear – but I heard him just like Cy did.

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