The Death of 1977 (Book 3)

Chapter 3

Negril, Jamaica

The Rainy Season

"Walk with me, if you will. Here, beyond this beach aptly named Bloody Bay, lies an uncanny, if not deadly revelation that has rocked the people of Negril.

What lies behind me, deep within this bamboo forest is a horror the likes you have never witnessed before.

As we venture deep into the crevices of the quiet glade we can hear almost nothing. No kinds of wildlife to be seen or heard. Only quiet...eerie, deep quiet.

The deeper we delve, the more the human imagination begins to develop a sense of fear and trepidation, until...we find the unthinkable.

Right here, in this massive ditch, once was the resting place of exactly eighty-six men, women, boys and girls. All of which were torn to pieces by some wild animal just three months earlier.

Who discovered and buried the people is still a mystery. What kind of vicious beast could have wrought so much havoc is still baffling.

Local authorities are hesitant to say just what kind of animal could have murdered all of those people, but villagers in and around here say that this entire area was at one time, and still is cursed. Some even call this area 'The curse of Satan.' © 2024 Nôv/el/Dram/a.Org.

The soil that I have in my hands is all but infertile. As I mentioned earlier, the sounds of animals is all but non-existent. It's as though they are aware that this entire forest is a nightmare.

I, your host, Silas MacDougal, even have reservations on remaining here. Even as I stand here I feel a deep presence lurking about; something sinister following me.

It's said by some of the neighboring villagers that voices can be heard coming from this very forest both night and day. There have been stories of giant animals once stalking people in this very village over fifty years ago. Creatures that have plagued this once peaceful Oceanside crest that was at one time called home, have now turned it into a wasteland, with nothing to show for it but memories.

What sort of animal could have wiped out an entire village? Who was it that buried all the bodies? How could such evil have been overlooked for so long? What the hell are the kids doing running around our set?" Silas angrily shouted in his Scottish vernacular. "Cut, cut, cut!"

All around Silas, his young camera operator Rebecca and her younger brother and microphone man William were little Jamaican children running, frolicking and acting as if the entire forest were their private playground.

All Silas could do was take off his ball cap, toss it to the ground and look on in utter disbelief. "Where the hell did they come from all of the sudden?" He fussed.

"They're from the other village," Rebecca, who also spoke in a Scottish dialect, said as she turned her camera off.

Spinning around and around, trying to catch all of the racing children in a single eyeshot, Silas remarked, "This is crazy! I'm filming a documentary here, not an episode of Sesame Street!"

Impishly grinning, Rebecca said, "They're just kids playing."

"Let them play somewhere else!" Silas ranted as he began for the foot of the forest. "I wanna at least get the introduction complete before it rains again for the tenth time today, for God's sake!"

No sooner had Silas and his assistants exited the forest, a short, bald, old Jamaican man dressed in a white buttoned down shirt and slacks began approaching him.

"Now what," Silas rolled his eyes.

"You know what he wants." William moaned.

Wiping his sweaty face with his dingy undershirt, Silas promptly pasted on the shiniest, phony smile he could assemble.

"Good afternoon, Pastor Bena!" Silas warmly greeted with open arms.

"Hello, my friend!" Bena responded in kind, kissing Silas on both cheeks. "How are you?"

"Still out here doing my job," Silas gritted his teeth behind his cheesy smile. "What brings you all the way out here, might I ask?"

"You will have to forgive de little ones, dey just got out of school." Bena pointed all around at the children.

"Oh, is that it?" Silas strained to say.

"I and de congregation were just wondering when you and your film crew will come and visit de church. We have a very special service just in store for de three of you."

"We would be very glad to show up this Sunday, Pastor." Rebecca cut in with her own smile.

"Yes, between doing our documentary and all the rain, we've just been so busy." Silas added.

"Den Sunday it is!" Bena happily tossed up his hands. "God be with you all! Come now, children, we must go!"

Silas and his crew waited until Bena was out of earshot before Silas dropped his fake smile and said, "Those Protestants never give up. Hopefully we'll be done with this shoot before Sunday, and then we can—

But before Silas could speak another word, the clouds in the sky darkened within a matter of seconds before the rain came pouring down upon everyone on the beach.

"You can't be serious!" Silas shouted at the sky. "You're supposed to be an almighty being! Don't you have a sense of humor?"

The crew, children and pastor all clamored along their way off the beach while just a few yards back, seated comfortably inside a dusty brown pickup truck was Livingston.

Livingston was a rugged looking, thin, white Englishman with the looks of a mid-forty year old. He wore a lazy, five o' clock shadow, as well as a dirty white ball cap. His khaki pants and muddy boots would have suggested that he had been working all day long non-stop, while his unspoiled white t-shirt looked as if he had just pulled it straight out of a washing machine mere seconds earlier.

He sucked on his newly lit Cuban cigar all the while glaring an amused smirk at the unfortunate documentary crew that was scrambling like frightened mice to get both themselves and their beloved equipment out of the rain.

Livingston turned on the truck before pulling off of the embankment he was parked. He drove down the muddy, rural road, past numerous fleeing villagers who were trying to escape the weather's conditions. There were men, women and children, some of which were either running, riding bikes or even donkeys.

Livingston carried on past all of them until he made it to a main road that led down a rain-slicked highway in the afternoon, after work rush.

From left to right there were people on both sides of the road walking or remaining underneath their tents selling food or whatever else they saw fit to peddle. But by then, running from one place to another was all but useless, it was going to rain and everyone beneath its path was going to get wet.

By that point in the dreary season, if a person wasn't accustomed to the conditions, then they were just as well to up and leave the country altogether.

Livingston tooled along the road until he caught sight of a rundown hardware store. Without slowing down for a yellow light, the man took his truck off the main road and down an alley before stopping behind the store. He then honked the horn and waited for at least ten seconds before a young, scraggly looking black man came bolting out the backdoor with a brown satchel in hand.

The young man approached Livingston's side and knocked on the glass. Appearing annoyed, Livingston rolled down the window and growled in a cockney British accent, "Get in!"

At once, the young man ran around to the other side of the truck and climbed inside. Gawking and gazing all around, Livingston said, "Hold on."

The man drove down the alleyway and through a block before careening down yet another alley and parking. The rain pelted the truck so hard that it felt as if the old vehicle would shatter to pieces at any moment.

Putting the truck in park, Livingston dashed out his cigar before turning to the man beside him. "Okay, whaddya got?"

Reaching into his satchel and glancing behind him as though he were being watched, the man asked, "Where have you been all dis time?" He spoke in a Jamaican tone.

"I just got back from Lincolnshire two days ago." Livingston replied. "But don't worry about that. What do you have for me?"

Taking out a collection of photos, the man said, "I took dese about six days ago." He presented his Polaroid's. "Dis one was taken down at the Bay."

Livingston only twisted his lips and rolled his eyes. "Forget him."

"But he and de other two have been taking pictures and filming." The young man insisted.

"I've seen him before. He's filming some kind of movie out in the woods. He's a Scottish twit. Forget him."

Brushing aside his photo, the man pulled out another. "Dis one is part of the JLP, but he and his followers have also been roaming around de outskirts near de Palm Forest."

Livingston sat and thought for a moment or two while glaring hard at the photos. "How many followers does he have?"

"About ten or so," he skittishly replied.

"Or so," Livingston turned up his nose. "You bloody fool, I need an exact number."

"It's hard to tell. Dey are young; dey come and dey go at will."

Appearing disappointed, Livingston said, "Keep an eye on them. I thought all that political rubbish would have been over by now."

The man then handed Livingston another photo. "Who is she?" He queried.

"De workers down at The Kabal say dat she is a server dere. She also works down at de hatchery."

"So, what does she have to do with anything?" Livingston shrugged.

"She's an American."

Looking perturbed, Livingston ranted, "Why are you taking pictures of tourists?"

"She's a tourist who's been here since August."

At that very moment Livingston paused. He allowed the sound of the battering rain to take control of his senses, but only momentarily before he returned his attention back to the photo of the young woman.

"An American, huh," he grunted.

"Yes. Apparently she's been going around and asking questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"Questions about... Arthur," the young man seemed hesitant to reply.

"Oh really," Livingston lit up. "She's probably FBI or CIA. I know that the Americans have been using females for quite some time in their surveillance, but I didn't know they were using blacks. This could be an issue. But I'm quite sure our friends will have something to say about it all the deeper she digs."

"They're not here," the young man stammered.

Livingston spun his head around like a top at that second and stared hard at the man. "What are talking about?"

Looking absolutely terrified, he replied, "No one has seen any of dem since dey all left back in July."

Livingston's face turned a shade whiter at that instant. "You're off, they have to be here!" He said out loud.

"All three of dem haven't been seen in months." The young man sat back and away from Livingston.

Livingston sat and looked out the window as a black woman came out the backdoor of her shop to empty some trash.

He had to think, if not for the situation at hand then for himself. Something was out of place; the pieces of the puzzle were nowhere to be found. Any logic he could grasp just to stall for more time in between thoughts would have been welcomed.

"You say this girl works at The Kabal?"

"Dat's right."

Livingston took both her photo and the one before it before reaching into his pants pocket. "What about the workers? How have they been holding up?"

"Without Arthur and de others dey are becoming more...bold."

Glaring at the man with a slight grin, Livingston snickered, "Bold, you say? My bleeding father was bold. That never stopped me from...Never mind." From out of his pocket he pulled a wad of dollar bills and handed the man three of them.

The man took the money and complained, "Dis is all?"

"You'll get more when I get more info on these two." Livingston held up the photos. "Now, off with you."

"Should I tell de workers that you're back?"

Livingston shoved the pictures inside the glove compartment before saying, "No...I'll see to that."

Appearing disheveled, the man got out of the truck and began walking in the rain. Before he pulled off, however, Livingston rolled down his window and yelled, "Philippe, keep an extra eye on the woman! Even if you have to fuck her, make sure she doesn't leave your sight!"

Livingston then drove down the alley and back onto the main highway. For a brief moment, the man actually had to rethink his journey from his homeland to another land. That is, however, until the Bushards managed to capture his imagination all over again.

The man's stomach began to twist into all kinds knots.