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mustards.
    About ten thirty, I heard an engine. It wasn’t a car; it was a steady, low sound and had to be a diesel. I came up on a small planted field, and there was an older man on an old Massey Ferguson tractor. I walked toward the fence, and he came over.
    “Howdy,” I offered as a greeting.
    “Mornin’.”
    “It’s good to see something moving,” I said, motioning to his tractor.
    “It’s the only damned thing thet runs ’round here. Powar’s out, no phone. Whur you headed?”
    “I’m trying to get home, down near Orlando,” I answered.
    He chuckled to himself. “Better you an’ me! That’s one hell of a stretch to try’n walk.”
    “Well, doesn’t look like I got much choice. How’s things going around here? Seen any trouble?” I asked.
    Cocking his head to the side, he replied, “Naw, no trouble round here. We can handle trouble.” He opened up his old weathered coat to reveal what looked like a Ruger Blackhawk in a nice leather holster.
    “Yeah, that ought to handle any trouble. Nice piece. I thought field artillery was illegal in Florida,” I said with a smile.
    He laughed and slapped the top of the fence post he was leaning on. “Well, I don’t think that much matters right now. I ain’t seen any cars, ’cept a couple of old trucks and nothing that looked like a sheriff in the last two days.” He tilted his head to the side and kind of squinted an eye. “You just headed down the highway here?”
    “Yeah, toward Chiefland, then I’ll cut over toward Ocala.” I motioned with my chin in the general direction to the south.
    “Down the road here a couple of miles is an intersection. Thar’s two stores there. The first one you come to will probably have a bunch of colered fellas hangin’ out in front of it. Watch them fellers. The one on the other side the intersection should be okay, an Indiun feller owns it, but he’s okay.”
    “I appreciate the info. Good luck to you. I’m gonna get on the road,” I replied.
    He pulled a glove off his hand and stuck it out. “Name’s Frank Jessup.”
    I pulled off my glove, and we shook hands. “My name’s Morgan Carter.”
    “If you have any trouble getting through the county by any of the deputies, you just tell ’em Frank said you is okay.” He had a devilish grin on his face.
    “I’ll do it, Frank, but I sure hope to not see anyone, deputies or otherwise.”
    With a wave, I headed down the road. About an hour and a half later, I came around a small bend in the road. There on the right were the two stores. Just as Frank said, the first had about a dozen black men standing around in front of it. They ranged in age from teens to some that I guessed were in their sixties. As I approached the first store, I unzipped the Devildog and laid one of the bandanas over the XD so it couldn’t be seen at casual glance. I stayed on the road and paid no attention to those in front of the store. I heard some of them talking; I glanced over and saw four of them moving my direction. Then one of them called, “Hey, white boy, where you goin’?”
    I was just getting to the front of the store, not to it really yet. These guys were quick. Four of them were coming across the parking lot toward me. They looked like typical corner rats. All four of them were wearing hoodies. They all had on baggy-ass pants and some fashion of a hat—three of them with the tag still dandling from the brim. The hoodies they wore distinguished them enough that that was how I thought of them. One of them had gold dollar symbols on it; he was Gold Dollar. Another had silver dollars on his, so he was Silver Dollar. Of the other two, one had a Magic emblem, and one had a giant pot leaf. These two became Magic Man and Pothead.
    They came trotting up in a group. “Hey, he look like a soldja boy!”
    “You a soldja, white boy?” asked Gold Dollar.
    “Nope.”
    “Well, you gotta soldja pack. What’cha got in that soldja pack, boy?” Gold Dollar seems proud of