by A. American
“I will, Jess; take care of your mom and dad. They need it right now,” I replied to her.
I stood there for another moment before I shouldered my pack and slung the carbine again. Jess stood there and watched as I got myself together. I took one more look at her; she had tears running down her cheeks.
Chapter 7
I took one more look at the little hammock; people were still moving around, evidenced by lights moving around the camp. I gave Jess a last wave; she returned it. Turning around, I headed off into the woods. I finally found a place that suited me; these were some of the tallest palmettos I had ever seen. The stalks were a good four feet tall, the fans blooming out of the top. Looking back, I couldn’t see any sign of lights. I guess I was at least 150 or 200 yards into the woods.
I set up a ridgeline for the tarp between two large stalks, about three feet off the ground, then stretched the tarp out and staked it out. After putting the pad and sleeping bag in, I dragged the pack in under the tarp with me. I quickly shucked my coat and boots and got into the bag. I laid the carbine down just under the edge of the bag and had the XD inside it with me. I was asleep before the sun ever breached the horizon.
Inside the bag, I was as warm as I could want. I slept well, although I woke up a few times, each time falling back into a restful sleep. The sun rose over a cloudy sky; it was very overcast, with a stiff breeze blowing, the sound of the tarp popping in the occasional gust that found its way through the trees. I stuck my head out of the bag and looked out the end of the shelter. Hmm, it’s gonna get cold. Checking my watch, it was three thirty in the afternoon.
Before the rain that I felt was inevitable started, I climbed out and stuck my feet in the boots, taking the antenna and slick line with me to get it put up. I knew I was supposed to move, but the weather was going to be shit, and I wasn’t moving; I just didn’t give a damn. It took several tries to get the slick line through the top of a large pine, but I finally got the wire pulled up and strung back to the shelter. Once inside, I pulled the radio out of the bag and turned it on. Putting the headset on, I started to scan the frequencies, just to see what I could find.
The traffic on the radio was picking up, or maybe I just had a better set for the antenna—I don’t know. I heard a transmission from a guy near Dallas. He was talking with another ham in Phoenix. They were comparing their situations. From the sounds of it, both cities were absolute hellholes.
The operator in Phoenix said the Mexican gangs were running wild. The local authorities tried to maintain order for a while, but they finally gave up. A group of MS13 attacked a food distribution site with automatic weapons. There were many deaths on both sides. Civilians caught in the cross fire died from rounds fired by both the gang members and LEOs on site.
In Dallas, some parts of the city were burning. There were areas where no one could go without being attacked and robbed of everything they had, including their clothes and shoes—left unconscious in the street, many times, or dead. Every store that had anything of any value, including absolutely useless electronics, was looted. In the beginning, it was just that sort of useless shit that people took, jewelry, trendy clothes, and shoes. He said he saw a group of guys pushing a new Cadillac CTS down the road, even though it would never run again.
Changing frequencies, I found a ham in the Bitterroot Mountains of Montana talking with a ham in San Francisco. From what I gathered, the guy in Montana was weathering things nicely. He had an old International Scout that still ran; he was so far off in the mountains that his house was off the grid. He had enough hay and grain for his livestock, and his tractor still ran. He was set for the winter and would take a look in the spring.
The guy in San Fran was in an entirely different situation. For the first few days, everyone dealt with it. The little farmers’ markets still operated, with folks bringing things in on handcarts and bikes. One guy near him was doing a booming business building trailers from parts he scavenged from his mountain of scrapped bikes. Water was their biggest problem; that and the junkies. Water could be dealt with, but the drug addicts were accustomed to a city that handed out free needles and acted as a codependent spouse; the city was now no longer supporting them. With no way to transport the drugs into the city, fighting soon broke out for what was left. When the drug wars started, others joined in for their own reasons, fighting over food, fuel, and clean water.
All the talk of food and water made me hungry and thirsty. I pulled a “chicken with noodles” MRE out and stuck it in a heater with some water. Setting it down to heat, I switched the radio to Howard’s frequency. I was calling home. I needed to talk to them.
I keyed the mic, “Long Howard, you out there Long Howard?” After about a minute without a reply, I made the call again. This time, after a couple of minutes, he came back over the radio.
“That you, Morgan?”
“Hey, Howard, it’s me. How’s things there?” I asked.
“They’re fine. We thought you were gonna call yesterday.”
“Yeah, things got a little hectic. Is there any way you can get Mel over so I can talk to her?” I asked.
“Sure, give me a bit to go find her. Hang on.”
“I’ll be right here,” I replied.
While I waited, I had some water and opened a pack of crackers and pouch of cheese spread, my favorite part of an MRE. I was spreading cheese on the second cracker when the radio crackled.
“You there, Morgan?”
Keying up the mic, I replied, “Yeah, I’m here.”
Mel’s voice came through the headset, “Hey, babe, how are you?”
“I’m good. How are you guys?” I was really starting to feel the strain of being away, what with everything that had happened.
“We’re okay. The girls are down at Danny’s. I was at home putting some beans in to soak,” she said.
“Gonna soak the farts out of ’em.” That brought a smile to my face.
She came back with a little laugh. “Yeah, how much longer till you get home? Where are you?”
“I’m closer, near Gainesville. I don’t know how much longer. I just wanted to talk to you. I miss you guys a lot,” I said.
“We miss you too. The girls ask me a hundred times a day if I talked to you,” she replied into the radio.
“Well, now you can tell them you have. If you are at Howard’s around seven every evening, we can talk a minute. I need to go. The batteries for this thing don’t last long, so let’s try and talk tomorrow. I love you. Give the girls a kiss for me.” I released the PTT button, feeling worse than I did before I called her. It was nice to talk to her, but it really brought her and the kids into the forefront of my mind. I had managed to keep them in that special place that I can lock away, but speaking with Mel unlocked that door, and now they filled my head.
“Okay, be safe. We all love you. You have to get home; you promised. I’ll be here tomorrow.” With that, we were done. I pulled the headset off and dropped them beside the radio. Turning the radio off, I lay back on the bag with my hands behind my head, staring up at the tarp.
Knowing it was close to the end of the twenty-four-hour break in comms with Sarge, I went ahead and finished my cracker and cheese, and then my chicken and noodles. While spooning noodles in my mouth, the rain started. It was light rain that became a steady hard drizzle, the sort of thing that you just knew was going to be here for a while. I finished my food without much enthusiasm. I still had about an hour to wait, so I lay back on the bag and listened to the rain.
At twenty minutes after six, I turned the radio back on; checking my little codebook, I found today’s frequency and tuned the radio. At twenty-five after I keyed the mic; I started, “Walker calling Foxtrot Sierra Mike.” Repeating the call, I waited for the reply. After a five-minute wait, I made the call again. A few seconds after this attempt, Sarge’s gravelly voice came back over the radio.
“
Foxtrot Sierra Mike, Walker, we are Bingo, repeat we are Bingo. Switch to Romeo in one four. SITREP.” The station cleared, and I proceeded with my quick report.
“Copy, you are Bingo, execute Romeo in one four. My count is one. Annie’s on the farm and Driver is in motion. Currently half click south of Delta, proceeding to Hotel.”
“Copy, Foxtrot Sierra Mike out.” Sarge signed off, and I picked up my codebook to see what he was telling me. Sarge and his boys had put an amazing effort into this thing; it was written on a Rite in the Rain four-by-six notebook. At the time, I thought they were going overboard, but now I was starting to think it was a good idea.
On a page with a header labeled “Situation” was the code Bingo. I was surprised by what it said. Bingo was the code for “Breaking contact with OPFOR and relocating to alternate hide, location TBD.” Breaking contact? With whom? Someone was actively after them to the point that they had to bug out of Sarge’s place.
I found Romeo on a page labeled “Actions.” And I did not like what it said. Romeo indicated I needed to move immediately from my current location, ninety degrees from my original direction of travel, no less than ten miles. One four indicated I was to make contact again in twenty-one hours, as we added half of the number back to achieve the count. So I had twenty-one hours to move ten miles, or as far as I can, and call him back. Laying the pad down, I looked out the end of the shelter; it was still raining. Five minutes in this rain, and I would be soaked.
I pulled the poncho out of my pack and started packing everything up. I keep two of the big black drum liner–type bags in my pack. Using one of them, I wrapped up the radio and batteries and stowed them away. Very reluctantly, I pulled the poncho over my head and climbed out of the hooch. I took the shelter down along with the ridgeline and packed it all away. With everything ready, I hefted the pack again and got everything comfortable and started out due east.
I was able to cross 441 without being seen as far as I know. I was sure the rain helped. My map showed this area as mostly forest. There were very few marked roads; this would keep me from running into anyone but could also put me into some serious trouble as far as terrain. I had to stop to get my NVGs out shortly after crossing the road and also hung my compass around my neck. It was getting too dark to see under the trees; what with the cloud cover and rain, it was very dark. There was so little ambient light that the goggles could hardly magnify it; I had to switch the IR light on to be able to see. With that, it was like looking around with a flashlight. Wherever I turned my head, it was lit up. The raindrops slashed through my view, illuminated by the IR source.
Walking was pretty easy; the underbrush, while thick in places, wasn’t a bunch of palmettos. This made walking a hell of a lot easier. I was making pretty good time, knowing the rain would keep most two-legged critters away. By my watch, I had walked for about three hours through the woods. Lochloosa Lake was due east of me about ten miles, according to the map; it was a natural barrier and should be easy to find.
Every ten or twelve paces, I would check my compass to verify direction. I was holding a good easterly track and making good progress. It was during one of these little stops that I thought I heard something. I had the goggles lifted and was using the red LED of my headlamp to read the map. The bad thing about a red light is you can’t see any red marks on what you’re looking at. I flipped the light off and looked around, listening. There it was again; it was certainly a helo, but it wasn’t a Blackhawk, from the sound of it. It was much faster sounding, not the heavy thuds of the big bird. This bird was to my west and sounded like it was orbiting somewhere, making a pretty wide loop.
Knowing there wasn’t anything I could find out about it, good or bad, I dropped the goggles down and started walking. My biggest worry appeared before me, to my regret—a swamp, a huge damn swamp. I had to detour south to get around it. There was no way I was getting any wetter. My feet were already a little wet from the water running off the poncho; thank God for Merino wool socks. They were wet, but they were still warm. My southerly detour eventually brought me to a road that ran east-northeast. Standing in the brush on the side of the road, I listened for any sound of people.
Tired of walking through the woods for so long, I really wanted to walk on the road. There wasn’t any sound or light, so I walked out onto the pavement and continued in a roughly east direction. This was so much nicer—easy, hard, and flat. Funny how your perception of things changes. I was happy to be walking on a paved road. A couple of weeks ago, I’d have been pissed that I was walking on anything!
Not long after starting out on the road, I found that my decision to take it was the right one. I crossed a bridge over a small river. If I had tried to walk through that swamp, I would have had to swim, and that just wasn’t going to happen. Being on the road, I was making great time. After another couple of hours, the road I was on dead-ended into another. The sign said SE CR 325. Stepping off the road into a small clump of trees, I checked my map. Cross Creek was just south of me; it sat between two large lakes. The only way to turn south was to go through it. Otherwise, I would have to hump around the lakes. Both were big and would add miles to the walk. I decided to try to make it through town. It was late and still raining, so there shouldn’t be anyone about, I hoped.
Cross Creek was a small town made famous by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings’s book The Yearling. It wasn’t much of a town, and I hoped to get through it without any trouble. It was about a three-and-a-half mile walk down 325 to town. For about a third of the way, it was desolate country, no houses. I stayed on the shoulder of the road, walking in the open. It was almost one in the morning by the time I reached the outskirts. The only sign of life was the smoke coming from a few of the houses with chimneys, and there weren’t many of them. It was cold, real cold. The front had moved through, and the rain had slacked. I stopped in a spot between houses and slipped off into a small patch of trees to take off the poncho. I had been walking with my hands in my pockets but used this break to put my gloves on.
I stood in the shadows for a couple of minutes, watching the road leading into town. There was no movement. More interestingly, there was no roadblock. I pulled the goggles down and turned them on, without the IR source, to scan the street for light, nothing. Satisfied there wasn’t anyone around, I hefted the pack and stepped back out onto the road. Coming into this little village, there was a bridge over a small branch of the creek. The water was so low that it was actually just a series of puddles. Just after the bridge was the heart of this little place. There was a bar/diner/package store combination that sat on the edge of the main creek. It was as deserted as everything else. Continuing on through town, I never saw a soul.
It wasn’t until I was almost through town that I saw the first sign of real activity. My goggles picked up the light as a glow over the trees. I was coming around a bend in the road, and the light was illuminating the low-hanging clouds. Whatever it was, it was damn bright. I paused in the road and lifted the goggles. Looking over the trees, I saw the orange color bouncing off the bottom of the gray blanket overhead. I took my time edging around the bend. The light was coming from a huge bonfire burning in the parking lot of a small Baptist church. At least two dozen people were there.
Stopping at the edge of the parking lot, using the trees to cover me, I watched them as they prayed and sang hymns. An old, bent-over preacher was leading them as they sang out into the night, asking the Lord to forgive man for his wickedness. Everyone deals with adversity in different ways. If this was how these folks were dealing with it, that was fine by me—more power to them. I went to the other side of the road, putting as much distance between me and them as I could. I didn’t want to disturb them, and, frankly, I didn’t want them to disturb me.
There was no real cover on this side; there were yards but no trees. I was walking in the grass on the shoulder to prevent my boots from scraping on the road. As I came abreast of their fire, the old preacher was
consumed in prayer, with his arms outstretched and his face to the heavens. He was bringing fire and brimstone down on the sinners who had brought down the Lord’s vengeance. There were shouts of “Amen!” and “Tell it, brother!” He lowered his arms and faced the crowd before him. He looked directly at me and called out, “Brother! Come join us and beg the Lord’s forgiveness of your sinning ways! Armageddon is upon us! Repent your sins and save your soul!”
For an old, bent-over man, he had a hell of voice on him. The entire assemblage turned as one toward me. They stood there for a moment, facing me, the light of the fire dancing on their faces. Then the calls started from the crowd, “Come, brother, join us! Come repent! Join us!” I turned to keep heading down the road.
The old preacher called out, “Brothers and sisters, we have a nonbeliever among us! Let’s show him the light! Bring him into the fold!”
Shouting “Amen!” and “Praise the Lord!” some in the crowd started to move out toward me. I unslung the carbine, holding it at the ready. As the crowd drew near, they called out, “Fear not, brother, we only want to save your soul!”
“Children of the Corn,” that’s what this feels like, “Children of the Corn,” standing here with this group in a semicircle around me. All their faces were dark, as they had walked out to the road where I was, and the light from the flames was behind them. These folks were doing their best to get me to join them in their prayer circle. The group began to part from the rear, and then the old preacher appeared in front of me. He didn’t really look like what you would expect. He was wearing a blue gingham shirt with blue work pants; his shoes were the type of black work shoes you would expect to see on a fifties-era warehouse worker. In his youth, he would have been a tall man; his long arms belied his short stature.
The light from the fire behind him lit the silver crown of his head in an almost pink light. Standing in front of me, he went into his pitch, “Son, the hour is upon us. Repent your sins and save your eternal soul!”