by A. American
With dinner done, it was time to head out. After stuffing my hat in a cargo pocket and shouldering the pack, I put the head gear for the NVGs on and turned them on. I gave them time to warm up and adjusted the intensity. I headed out of the swamp, trying to keep out of the muck. Back into the pines and moving toward the road, there was a screen of bush between the pines and road. Slipping into the line of brush, I took a look up and down the road, while keeping back in the brush line. I just stood there and watched and waited for a bit. Back toward the store, there was a little light coming from what I assumed were the houses on the opposite side of the road. It was dim like candles, but in the NVGs it looked like a damn flare. As I stood there looking, I saw a sudden flash and a glowing orb started to cross the street; that cigarette looked like a road flare stuck in his mouth. I couldn’t see anyone else out and about, so I started walking south on 19 again, getting closer to home with each step.
Every ten or twelve steps, I did a security check on my back trail, just a short pause to look and listen. The road was light enough that I shut down the goggles and was walking by the moon and starlight. Without any man-made light, the stars really came through. The sky was beautiful; I paused for a moment, actually struck by the intensity of the stars. Every other security check, I would turn on the NVGs and check the road. With no one else on the road and nothing to stop me, I made really good time. After going about five miles, I came across a small pond. It was behind a field fence; I dropped the goggles down and did a security check. Everything looked okay, so I dropped my pack and took out all my canteens and water bottle. I found my SweetWater filter near the bottom of the pack and grabbed it.
Climbing the fence at a post, I was over quickly and checking the area again. Confident everything was okay, I walked over to the pond. In the NVGs, the water looked okay, but it was hard to tell. I dropped the intake tube in the pond and started filling everything up. It took about fifteen minutes to fill everything. Climbing back over the fence, I stowed everything, hefted the pack, and started down the road after another security check.
Around three thirty in the morning, I was approaching Lamont, a small town, just a speck on the map. I was easing up the southbound lane shoulder when the first house came into sight. Kneeling down, I flipped the goggles down and watched the house. There was no sign of activity, but there were many signs of life. A little car was in the driveway and a swing set was in the front yard. The little house had a front porch with two lawn chairs on it.
Florida is full of little towns; actually “town” makes them sound bigger than they are. This was a typical backcountry burg. The little house was an old cracker house, all-wood construction with a tin roof. On my side of the road was an area of brush. I decided to head into it and find a place to camp for the rest of the evening. My intention was to get some sleep and start off in the daylight again; hopefully, this little speed bump on the road wouldn’t be as bad as the first. I eased off into the brush, looking for another nest, something thick but that I could get into. There was little underbrush; tall pines blanketed the ground in pine needles. There wasn’t anything that looked like a good place to hide. I kept looking and finally found a huge pine that had fallen over. It was long dead, all the bark having fallen off.
The crown of the big tree was in a heap. I set my pack down and started to work my way into it. The trunk was being supported by the large primary branches in the top. Toward the top, it was off the ground about two and a half feet. There were enough limbs scattered around it that I could lay under the log and not be seen. I didn’t plan on being here all day anyway, just have a place to rest. I dragged the pack in behind me and pulled the woobie out and wrapped up in it once again. I had the NVGs lying at my side and the XD in my hand. My coat and boots on, this was sufficient to keep me warm to sleep. I drifted off pretty quickly.
My watch said it was eight thirty when I finally woke up. I had woken up once earlier but fell asleep again. This time, I crawled out from under the trunk and sat on the ground, leaning against it. I felt like crap. I wasn’t real sure where exactly I was and didn’t want to build a fire. In my little bag, I had an Esbit stove and six or seven trioxane tabs. I got it out and set up, took out my canteen cup, and poured some water into it. Seeing the water was clear was a relief. I put half a tab in the stove and lit it with a BIC and set the cup on. In the meantime, I fished out an accessory pack and pulled the coffee, sugar, and creamer out. While the water was heating, I opened a pack of the jerky. I sat there thinking Sasquatch would come out of the woods any minute. I got a chuckle thinking about those commercials.
While chewing on some jerky, I unfolded the map and took a look. Once I got through Lamont, I’d be crossing the Aucilla River. I hoped this little town was quiet. When the tab burned out, I mixed in all the coffee goodies. Instant MRE coffee tastes like shit, but it was good. After I finished my coffee and looked at the map, I packed everything away. I kept a piece of jerky in my mouth as I hefted the pack again, pulled my hat out of the pocket, and put it on. I checked the XD in the bag and covered it with a bandana and left the bag unzipped. I started out through the bush toward the road, stopping a little short, and took a look around. All was quiet, so I stepped out onto the shoulder of the road and headed into town.
Lamont isn’t much of anything of a town; at the heart of it are three little stores clustered together and not much else. I saw a few people sitting on their porches, drinking coffee. You could smell wood smoke and charcoal in the air. I guess some folks had fired up the old barbie, using it to cook on. As I got close to the stores, I started to see more people; there were a number of folks around them. Two men were leaning against the wall on the side of one of the stores; as I approached, they nodded at me.
“Are any of these stores open?” I asked.
“This one here is, but it’s cash only,” one of them replied. “Where you comin’ from?”
“I was up near Tallahassee, and I’m headed home. How are things around here?”
“No power or anything. There’s a couple of old trucks that run, one car.” He nodded toward an old rust bucket of a truck sitting in the parking lot.
“Good luck to you, fellas. I’m gonna check out the store.” I gave the two a nod and headed for the door.
Walking into the store, it was like the millions of other independent little stores around the country. There was an Indian couple behind the counter, and a strong smell of spices filled the air.
“Cash only,” he said as soon as I came through the door. “And leave your bag outside.”
“Can I just set it by the counter? This is all I have, and I ain’t about to leave it outside.” As I said this, I was pulling cash out of my pocket so he could see it.
“Okay, sure, set it over here.” He motioned to the front of the sales counter.
I gladly set the bag down and looked at what he had. I had almost a hundred dollars on me. I went over to the grocery section and started to grab cans. There were two cans of Dinty Moore beef stew, a can of corned beef hash, four cans of sardines in oil, and two cans of chili. I took all those. There were a few packs of ramen noodles; I took them. I went to the candy aisle and grabbed a couple of Snickers and a peanut butter cup. I piled all this on the counter. Thirty-eight bucks later, I was packing my bag. I was trying to cram the last of the cans into the pack when I heard an extremely loud engine. I looked and saw an old-ass truck coming into the parking lot of the store.
The truck, I assumed, was some variety of fifties-era pickup. There was no front bumper or glass in the rear window. There wasn’t even a hint of paint remaining on the relic. The best part was the huge sow in the bed. Her rear legs were hobbled, and she was just enjoying the ride. I had to stop and marvel at this. Apparently, there wasn’t even an exhaust pipe, as it sounded like the exhaust was coming right off the manifold; it was loud as hell. The truck lurched to a stop, and two guys that looked like characters out of some bad hil
lbilly movie climbed out. They were in their late twenties, or maybe early thirties.
The driver had on some sort of a felt hat, not a cowboy hat; but, well, I guess a hillbilly hat. There was a turkey feather sticking out of the band. He was wearing a pair of knee-high moccasins, black jeans, a Woodland BDU top, and a thin, sad attempt at a goatee. His partner was in a pair of jeans with logger boots and a Levi jacket with faux wool lining. The two that were outside obviously knew this dynamic duo and walked over to them.
“Damn, Lonnie, where’d you get the truck?” one of them asked.
Lonnie’s partner spoke up. “It was my granddaddy’s. Lonnie got it runnin’, so’s now we gots wheels.”
The other bystander spoke up. “Well, Thomas, why’s Lonnie drivin’ your truck?”
“Mind your own damn business, Walt. I fixed the damn thing, and it’s my gas that’s in it.” He obviously was a little pissed.
“Thomas, go see if that damn Hodji wants this fuckin’ pig.” He was pointing at the store and instructing his underling. It was obvious who the brains was here.
One of the bystanders laughed out loud. “Lonnie, you dumb fuck, he’s a damn Muslim.” He stood there looking at Lonnie.
“So the fuck what?” Lonnie fired back.
“He don’t eat pork, you fuckin’ retard!” He was leaning over on his knees, laughing his ass off at Lonnie’s stupidity. Lonnie didn’t take well to that. He reached under his BDU top and pulled out a ten-inch Bowie knife from a sheath with an attempt at Indian beadwork on it.
“Fuck you, Walt! You need to watch how you talk to me, you dumb son of a bitch!” Lonnie was holding the knife horizontally at eye level, looking down the length of the blade with a squinted eye.
Walt just guffawed at him. “Whadda ya gonna do, Lonnie, scalp me?”
“I’m warnin’ you, Walt, don’t start with the Indian shit today. I ain’t in no mood for it. You know damn well I’m part Indian.”
This had all the earmarks of ending badly, really badly. I shouldered my pack and was making for the road. I didn’t want to get into whatever shitstorm was about to break loose here. Some stupid-ass squabble between the local yokels was nothing I wanted any part of.
“Yeah, you’re Indian all right, part of the Skin Flute tribe. Indian my fuckin’ ass,” Walt fired back.
Old Walt and his partner got a chuckle out this last one; it must have been what they were waiting for. This must have been going on for years. Thomas was still standing by the door; after the Muslim comment he stopped, probably waiting for further instructions from Lonnie. Lonnie, however, had tunnel vision. He was on the warpath, pun intended.
“That’s it, you motherfucker, you’re gettin’ yours today!” He started to move toward Walt, who just stood there and let him take about two steps, and then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a chrome 1911 and rocked the hammer back and leveled it at Lonnie’s face. Lonnie stopped in his tracks and glared at Walt.
“Lonnie, you always have been a stupid motherfucker, and I’m about tired of your shit. Matter of fact, I’m about tired of seeing your fuckin’ face. Take one more gawd damn step and I’m gonna shoot you in your ugly fuckin’ head.” He delivered this little diatribe in a calm and even voice. I didn’t know these two men, but even I could tell Walt was ready to do just what he said.
Lonnie stood there for a minute, I assume weighing his options. Not wanting to be shown up in front of his underling, he said, “You ain’t worth the fuckin’ effort, Walt. You can kiss my ass. Thomas, let’s take the hawg down to that ole nigger thet’s got the still. He’ll damn sure take it.” Lonnie and Walt got into the truck and started it up. “You better not be here when I get back, Walt.”
“Just when I thought you were startin’ to smartin’ up, you go and say some dumb shit again. I’ll be right here, Lonnie, and the next time I hear that piece of shit, I’m fillin’ it full of holes.” Walt let the hammer down on the pistol and dropped it to his side.
“Yeah, well at least this piece of shit runs, motherfucker!” And with that, he was tearing out of the driveway while letting out a really shameful attempt at a rebel yell.
While the dust was settling, I looked over to Walt. “Friend of yours?” I asked.
He just laughed. “Hardly. He’s jist our village idiot. He been an asshole his whole life. No one likes him ’cept fer Thomas there, and that’s only ’cause he’s too damn dumb to know any better.”
“Well, good luck dealing with him.” With that, I turned and started toward the road.
Walking down the highway, I was gobbling down a Snickers and drinking my other Coke. The air was about fifty degrees; it had warmed just a bit, and the Coke was just right. About one click out of Lamont, I crossed the Aucilla River. The weather was clear and beautiful; it made for a nice walk. I passed the occasional car on the side of the road; sometimes they were still in the travel lanes, but I never saw anyone. Plodding along, my mind started to wander a bit. I was thinking of home, Mel, and the girls. I really missed them but took comfort in the fact that every step took me closer to them. My muscles ached from the weight of the pack, and with my mind in neutral for a minute, I could really feel it. My mind changed directions, and I started to wonder why I wasn’t seeing anyone. Nineteen was a substantial highway with four lanes but was kind of off the main route. Most people going north or south would use I-75.
I was jerked back to reality by the thundering sound of an engine, a really loud engine. I stopped and looked back. In the northbound lane was Lonnie’s truck heading south. I guess he was doing that just because he could, with no authority and no rules. He let off the gas as he passed by. The median was between us, and Thomas threw a mason jar out the window; it shattered on the road. Looked like they managed to trade for some ’shine. That was all I needed, those two drunken idiots messing with me. But Lonnie got back on the gas and kept on down the highway. I walked for about another two hours; it was after two, and I stopped for a break. I slipped off the road into the woods a bit and dropped the pack and sat down.
I wasn’t hungry, but I drank some water and just sat there stretched out in the sun. I took the opportunity to change my socks; I’d been wearing the same ones for three days, and they were getting crusty. I let my feet air out for a while; the sun felt good on the tops of my feet. While sitting there, not really thinking about anything or looking at anything in particular, I realized I was looking at a piece of survey ribbon, the kind a hunter would use to mark a trail. I looked back toward the road and realized I had actually walked down a very dim trail, unknowingly taking the path of least resistance as I entered the bush.
After putting the fresh socks on and my boots, I walked over to the ribbon and looked into the woods. From there, I could see another. I walked over to it and repeated the process. Eventually I came to a nice ladder stand chained to a tree. I climbed up into the stand and sat down. It was a great location; there was a nice group of oaks out front with acorns all over the ground. Those and the giant salt block guaranteed a kill. I was sitting there looking around when I noticed some dried palmetto fronds. They just looked out of place. I climbed down and went over to them; pulling them aside, I found a green Rubbermaid tub underneath. I popped the top on it; inside was an assortment of items.
On top of everything in the box was something I just had to have. I didn’t really need it now, but I might later. It was a rather nice homemade gillie suit. It wasn’t like the military ones made for crawling; this was a stalking suit. It had camo on the front as well. Going through the box didn’t reveal anything else I thought I really needed. There were latex gloves—I already had some—and a bottle of water that might be water or a trucker bomb. There was a drag rope and a foam seat pad. Taking the suit, I headed back to my pack. This thing was too bulky to put in the pack. I cut some 550 cord and made some compression straps and compressed it as tight as I could and then tied it to the MOLLE webbing
on the back of the pack.
Adding this weight was enough for me to reevaluate what I had that I could get rid of. Going through the pack, the only things I had that I couldn’t justify were the lineman’s pliers and the screwdriver. I took them out and set them aside. Strapping up the pack, I hefted it back on, hung the binos around my neck, and started out again. I had walked about an hour and a half when I heard the truck in the distance again. I stepped off the road, under the shade of the trees, and glassed the road. I could see the truck about a mile up; it turned off the road on the northbound side and disappeared. I really had to watch for those two idiots.
Approaching the area, I saw the truck turn. I went off the road; a screen of brush was growing along an old fence line. The fence was down, so I just went into the field behind it so as to have some cover between me and where the truck went. As I got closer, I could see it was a house. It was another little stick-built cracker house. It sat on old brick piers about three feet high. Getting closer, I heard some loud voices. Frick and Frack were standing out in front of the house. There was a woman on the porch with two children, one of whom was just a toddler, and an old man off to the side in the yard. I paused for a minute to observe what was going on.
I heard the woman telling them to leave; she obviously knew them and didn’t want them around.
“Lonnie, you need to leave. Ryan wouldn’t like you being here, and you know it.” She was standing on the porch, leaning against a post, with her arms crossed.
“Ah, come on, Mandy, that’s why I’m here, jus’ ta check up on ya.” Lonnie’s speech was thick and slurred; he had obviously been into the ’shine pretty hard.
“I don’t need you to check up on me. I’m fine. Mr. James is here, and Ryan will be back soon. You need to go,” the woman replied.
“Mandy, I’m tryun’ ta be nass, and yer treatin’ me like shit. You ortta be nasser ta me. I kin hep ya till Ryan gits back.” He was leaning over the hood of the truck as he spoke, a mason jar on the hood. Thomas had one foot up on the rear bumper and his hands hanging over the bed.