Free The Elephant Mountains by Scott Ely

swamp. Finally he calmed down enough to feel safe closing his eyes. He hoped the sleep that awaited him would be deep and uninterrupted.

SIX
    A fter breakfast, he gave Angela a shooting lesson. He started her out firing one of the AK-47s at a big cypress knee perhaps twenty yards away. Gradually she worked up to a smaller knee at fifty yards. By the time she had shot a hundred rounds, she was hitting most of the targets. He told her for the time being semiautomatic would be fine. He did not like to contemplate the idea of her panicking with the selector switch on automatic. Now anyone who planned on causing them trouble would have to deal with two instead of one. She would no longer be all bluff. He did wonder if she could actually shoot someone.
    â€œYou have to use that rifle, you just think about that bartender,” he said.
    â€œI will,” she said. “I won’t let you down.”
    â€œI don’t want to have to shoot another person. But sometimes there’s no choice.”
    â€œI don’t want to die.”
    â€œMe neither.”
    She chambered a round and then worked the bolt to eject the round from the chamber. She dropped the magazine and then reinserted it and chambered a fresh round.
    â€œSee, I could do it blindfolded,” she said.
    â€œYou’re ready,” he said.
    â€œThanks.”
    He hoped she was ready. He hoped he was never going to have to find out if she was.
    After he took his position in the bow, Angela maneuvered the boat out of the swamp and into the flooded creek. They had traveled a mile or so when they came around a bend and saw a barge moored on the slack-water side of the creek. It had a house built on it. Someone had given the house a fresh coat of white paint. It shimmered before his eyes in the sunlight, a stark contrast against the muddy water of the creek and the rusted metal of the barge. A couple, dressed in white bathrobes, were standing at one end of the barge with coffee cups in their hands. First the woman and then the man waved. He waved back. The couple were all smiles. They looked relaxed and peaceful.
    â€œGo in slow,” he told Angela.
    He settled the Saiga into a comfortable position. As far as he could see, they were not armed. When they got closer, he stood up and slung the shotgun over his shoulder to appear less threatening. Angela steered the airboat up to the side of the barge and put the engine in neutral.
    â€œYou the ones doing all the shooting?” the man asked.
    â€œThat was us,” Stephen said.
    â€œAny trouble?” the woman asked.
    They were tall and blond. The woman had long straight hair that fell down her back. The man’s hair was long and curly. They were two of the most beautiful people he had ever seen.
    â€œNo trouble,” he said. “Target practice.”
    â€œTarget practice?” the man said.
    â€œShe’s learning to shoot,” he said.
    â€œHe says I’m already a good shot,” Angela said.
    â€œI imagine you are,” the woman said.
    He wondered if they knew what had been going on in the flooded countryside around them. Surely they had spotted bodies floating down the creek. He wondered if they had a radio. If they had weapons, they were keeping them out of sight.
    â€œCome aboard,” the man said.
    They climbed aboard. He took the Saiga with him, and Angela her AK-47.
    The man’s name was Fred, and the woman was Holly. They were locals who had been living on the barge for a year. Holly had a teaching degree from LSU, but she had temporarily taken a break from teaching. Fred did some commercial fishing. A johnboat was moored to the barge with a stack of hoop nets in it. A blue kayak was sitting on the deck at the far end of the barge. They had a garden, now underwater, on a strip of high ground between the creek and the swamp. They had a generator and some solar panels set up on one end of the barge. And a cistern for drinking water. They had recently