by A. American
While breakfast was heating, I rolled up my sleeping bag and compressed it into its bag, rolled up the sleep mat, and got them ready to go. One of my two bandanas served as a towel to wipe the condensation off the poncho, and then it was rolled and packed. The NVGs went into their bag and back in the pack. I rooted around in the pack and found an inexpensive pair of leather work gloves from Harbor Freight, not the old rawhide-looking gray ones; these were actually pretty good for only seven dollars. With them was a pair of Poly-Pro liners; I pulled just those onto my hands. By now my oatmeal was ready. I kept a very thick piece of leather in my bag; it’s about ten-by-ten inches and about one-fourth inch thick. I used it as a pot holder to pick up the canteen cup. I drizzled in some honey and stirred it all up. It was good and hot, and good. Did I say it was good? Too bad I only had a little more, maybe three servings if I stretched it. With breakfast done, my canteen cup was coated in glue. I poured it about half full of water and set it on the fire, adding a few more sticks to it. It boiled quickly; I stirred it with my spoon and scraped at anything I saw stuck to the side. After pitching the water, I set the cup and stove aside to cool and got ready to go. I drank all the water left in the water bottle and then pulled the Platypus bladder out, refilled it, stowed the bladder back in the pack, and then wiped out the cup with a bandana and stowed it too.
With everything stowed, I took off the Carhartt and put on the lighter chore coat; that Carhartt would overheat me while hiking. I strapped it back on the pack, hung the binos around my neck, and hefted the pack up onto my shoulders. By now, the fire was all but gone; I stomped it out and kicked the dirt from digging the pit back onto it. There was barely any smoke, and I felt comfortable leaving it. I walked back out to the road; the sign was still there, Perry 35. The sun was still low, but it was a clear and beautiful morning. I glassed the road as far as I could. There were a few cars on the road but no indication of people, so I started heading south. This is a beautiful part of north Florida, very rural and not that many people. The houses that were on 19 sit way off the road, and most were not visible from the road.
Plodding along, I came across, on the southbound side, a car with all the windows fogged up on the inside. I gave it a wide berth as I passed; I was just not in the mood to talk to anyone right now. I kept on walking. The sun was coming up, and I was getting a little warm. Undoing the chest strap, I unzipped my coat to cool down some. I was trying to keep my pace with some Ranger Beads; but, damn, you can’t think of anything while doing that. I would be counting along, and then my mind would wander, and, “Crap, how many paces was that?” Oh, well.
I came up on a little abandoned-looking building on the right. Growing up on the side of it was a myrtle tree. I was going to get me a walking stick! I walked up to the building and looked in the windows. Nothing but someone’s long-lost dreams of self-employment. Dropping my pack, I took the Leatherman Surge out of the little bag and opened the saw. A nice limb was coming out near the base; it was about one inch in diameter and good and straight for about five feet before it branched. I cut it close to the base; I wanted the little curve in it where it grew out and turned slightly to go up. With the limb in my hand, I pulled the ESEE5 out of the sheath on the pack and trimmed all the limbs and then cut it off right below the branches. This would work great. I hefted the pack and struck back out with my new walking stick.
From time to time, as I was walking, I would glass the road ahead with the binos. There was never anything of concern. I made a concerted effort to count my pace and time my progress. I noted the time on my watch and began counting. I paced off two kilometers; it took about forty-eight minutes. Now I at least had an idea of how far I was going in an hour. The property on the side of the road was broken with wooded areas, clear fields, and a few planted ones. The planted ones were some sort of a green, too small yet to tell what they were, but I guessed collards or 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 fellas hangin’ out in front of it. Watch them fellers—they’re up to no good, they’ve been known to hurt folks. The store on the other side the intersection should be 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 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, just in case these guys were as dangerous as Frank said they were. 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 in 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.; all of them were wearing hoodies. The hoodies they wore distinguished them so that I could give them nicknames in my head. 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!” yelled Magic Man.
“You a soldja, white boy?” asked Gold Dollar.
“Nope.”
“Well, you gotta soldja pack. What’cha got in that soldja pack, boy?” Gold Dollar seemed proud of himself.
“That’s none of your concern.” With that, there was a series of oh-shits and daaammns.
“Well, look here, muthafuck
a. This here—this is my corner. Yo punk ass is in my muthafuckin’ yard, and you sho’ better start showin’ some fuckin’ respect!”
His underlings got a kick out of his show. “Tell his cracker-ass, Junior!”
My adrenaline was starting to run; this had the potential to go south real damn quick. There were three distinct groups in this little parking lot. There was the rabble I was currently confronted with; there were the kids, and then there was a group of older men under the awning of the store playing dominoes at a little table.
“Well, friend, respect is earned, not given. And from the look of you, you’ve never earned a damn thing in your life.” It’s often said the best defense is a good offense. Gold Dollar’s crew laughed and hooted, and he did not like it. You might say he was pissed.
“You cracker-ass muthafucka, who in the fuck you think you talkin’ to? I own yo fuckinin’ ass. You got nowhere’s to go; you fucked!” He was so mad that spittle was flying from his mouth. He was gesturing wildly with his arms and really working himself up. About this time, one of the old men started toward us. He had long arms and was bent at the waist slightly. In his youth, it was obvious he had been a big man.
“You boys let that man be!” He had one of his long arms out, pointing at the group. Gold Dollar looked back at him.
“Shut the fuck up, old man. I’ll fuck yo ole ass up too. I know where yo ole ass stay at. Go play some damn dominos!” The old-timer stopped, resting his hands on his hips.
Gold Dollar turned to me. “Now, you gonna give me that fuckin’ pack and everthin’ else you gots, or I’m fixin’ to bust yo ass and take it, bitch!” He turned to his crew. “Look, he so damn skeerd he don’t know what to do.”
Magic Man piped up, “He don’t look too skeerd to me.”
Gold Dollar turned on him in a flash. “Oh, you a bitch now, huh T? One mothafuckin’ white boy, and you punk out!”
When Gold Dollar turned back toward me, he raised his hoodie and reached for a pistol. In pure reaction, I brought the XD out of the bag with a quick flip of my wrist. He wasn’t ten feet from me; as soon as the muzzle cleared the bag, I squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession. He immediately crumpled to the ground, letting out a terrifying wail. I quickly brought the weapon up and looked to see if any of his crew was going to retaliate, doing a quick 360 degrees. The three that were in front of me were nothing but assholes and elbows heading for the back of the store. The kids were likewise, only they were heading for the store across the street. The old men were all right where they had been. The one that tried to intervene was standing there, shaking his head.
“You don gotta worry ’bout me, son. He got what was cumin’ to ’im. These punks gots no smarts dese days, talkin’ ’bout respect. Day gots none fer no one en’ nuthin’,” he said.
I looked down at Gold Dollar; he was still wailing a high shriek. The iron smell of blood was heavy, as well as the overpowering stench of shit and piss. I pulled the weapon out of his hand and patted his pockets quickly. His right pocket had something in it; I turned it out and produced a roll of cash and four nickel bags of weed. Cash was soon to be useless, but I took two of the sacks; they may be useful later. He was starting to go into shock. A large blood clot slipped down his belly and onto the ground. A quick look showed one of the rounds hit his pelvis on his left side, and the other hit low in his abdomen, below his belt or where his belt should be worn. He was trying to talk. “Help me, h-h-help me.”
I leaned down to him so he could hear me. “Just think, if you would have just left me alone, you wouldn’t be lying here covered in your own blood, piss, an’ shit, you stupid motherfucker.”
The old man brought me back around. “Son, you bess go on now. Day goin’ to be cummin’ back with some more prolly.” I stood up and looked at him; he pointed across the street to the other store. “Run on over there. Go on ta the back, pick up da trail an’ get gone. I’s goin’ to tell ’em you went up da road here.”
I reached down and picked up my stick and took off across the road. He may be setting me up, but I knew I had to go and right damn now. Running wasn’t exactly an option; the pack was so damn heavy that anything resembling a run was out of the question. I was moving at a good double-time. I hit the trail; it fairly well paralleled 19. The path cut between houses and through yards; it looked like it was the neighborhood shortcut to the store. I kept going; the cleared areas gave way to a tree line. It was thin enough that I could see through it to the other side. I got through that little stretch, open field again. In front of me was another tree line; this one looked more substantial and looked like a planted pine. It was not an ideal place to hole up, but it was better than being out in the open.
I crossed the field without incident and got into the pines. I took a knee to catch my breath and to do a quick security check of my six. Looking into the pines, there was hardly any underbrush; it was wide open. About a hundred yards into the timber, it appeared to be thicker. I took off in that direction between the rows of pines. There was a bay head out there; I could clearly see the cypresses. Pausing at the edge of the swamp, I took a look around, searching for anywhere I could hole up. About forty yards into the swamp was a small island; it had two sable palms and a couple of large cypress trees growing on it. The remnants of a grape vine were clinging to the palms and creeping up the cypress. It would be a good place to hole up. I had decided to find somewhere and go to ground and wait for dark before trying to get out of the area. I didn’t know what kind of friends ole Gol’ Dolla’ had.
The weather had been dry; there wasn’t really any standing water, but a poke with my walking stick told me it was soft mud. I didn’t want to walk straight to my hideout; a blind man would be able to follow my trail. I circled to the south a bit, looking for a way to get in, and finally managed to pick my way through to the island, stepping on downed logs, high clumps of pine-needle-covered earth, and the occasional properly placed cypress knee. Once on the island, I started to rearrange the vines a bit to provide better cover. Laying my sleeping mat on the damp ground, I sat down, and the weight of what had occurred landed on me. I didn’t want to hurt anyone; all I wanted to do was get home. If things were this bad only two days in, we were in for a world of shit.
I pulled the can of Cope out of my pocket and took a dip; my hands were shaking so hard I could barely manage to get a pinch from the can. With the adrenaline wearing off I was suddenly not feeling so well. Holding the pinch of Cope up, my hand shook. After a moment I managed to get most of the dip into my mouth. Damn, that’s good. I’ve carried a gun for many years and shot many a hole in paper, but until today never pulled the trigger on a person. I’ve read stories of men in combat and how they feel after their first engagement or the first time they know they’ve killed someone, now I can relate to it. After taking a long drink of water, it was obvious that the water situation needed some attention. The two-quart canteen was empty as well as the one quart. The Platypus bag was almost full, and the water bottle was half full. Tomorrow, I needed to keep an eye out for decent water.
It’s about two thirty; it’ll be dark in a few hours. I need to grab some sleep and get ready to move tonight. I laid the poncho liner out on the sleep pad. While rooting around in the pack, I found a little bag with my radio. It was a GP-L4 from County Comm. It was not the greatest radio, but it had AM, FM, and shortwave. It was in an antistatic foil bubble wrap bag, the same thing the NVGs were in. Since I worked for an electronics manufacturer, I had access to all sizes of these. I could only guess that this was what protected them.
I hoped the radio worked too. Taking it and the external reel antenna out of the bag, I put a set of AAs in and flipped the switch to the “light” position. There’s an LED on the radio as well, and it came on. I took the earpiece and plugged it into the radio and turned it to FM. Scanning the entire band revealed nothing but static; AM was the same. The shortwave bands had something on them, but wi
thout putting up the antenna, the reception was weak. Even as weak as the signal was, I could tell it wasn’t English.
After putting the radio away, I pulled the sleeping bag out to use as a pillow. I took the Taurus out; it was a stainless steel model PT92 9 mm. Dropping the mag and pulling the slide back and locking it, the chambered round was ejected. It and the eight others in the mag were ball—nine rounds, that guy was going to take on the world with nine rounds. Hell, I had three thirteen-round mags for the XD with Hydra Shocks, another box of fifty and a box of fifty Winchester White Box balls. Putting the loose round in the mag and pressing the slide release, I put the mag back in. I put the pistol in the sleeping bag compartment of the pack. I took the XD and dropped the mag and found the box of Hydra Shocks and replaced the three rounds and put the mag back in. I needed to get some sleep, so I wrapped up in the woobie and lay down on the pad with my boots still on and the XD in my hand. I hoped I didn’t wake up too late.
I slept later than I intended; it was twenty after eight. Not that it really mattered; now was as good as any other time. Before setting out, I decided to get something to eat. Looked like it was going to be cheese tortellini. After adding water to the MRE heater and putting the pouch in, I set it aside to let the chemical reaction heat it up. My mouth tasted like crap; I dragged out my hygiene kit and took the toothbrush and paste out and brushed my teeth. I used a little of my water to wash my hands and wet a bandana to wipe my face and neck. I packed everything up and got ready to go. I took the NVGs out and stowed the bag. Using one of the MRE spoons, I ate my warm dinner.