by J. L. Bourne
Not happening.
It’s not that I’m afraid of predator cats; it’s that if I get hurt out here, I’m a few days from anyone that can help me, probably even farther from anyone that would help me. Pound for pound, I’m just not genetically suited to fight something with claws, fangs, and natural night vision.
If it’s out there, and if happens to get the meat, fuck it. You earned it, kitty.
But if it keeps pissing me off, I’ll build a blind and sit up in the trees tomorrow night, out of its reach with my own night vision. See how it likes a .300 BLK round between the eyes.
Death from above.
Yeah, it helps to think I can take it out.
Little less scary now.
When the wind blows especially hard, it makes it through the primitive mud seal and causes the candle to flicker a bit. The temperature is starting to drop down well below hard freeze at night, and I might need to start up the fireplace as well as the woodstove to keep things cozy in here. More stacking fucking firewood, and worse, more exposure to the mountain lion.
My 12 gauge is above the fireplace, Glock under my pillow, chambered bolt gun is propped up against the bed, and my M4 carbine is hidden securely under the cabin floorboards. Can’t risk losing it.
Bolt gun for four-legged predators.
M4 for two.
HOUSE ARREST
I awoke at 0600 to snow flurries and gray skies. It was just under 50 degrees inside the cabin according to the small digital thermometer, so I stoked the embers and tossed a log on the fire before gearing up to go to the outhouse. I regretted the trip because of the cat noises I’d heard last night, but doing my business inside the cabin wasn’t going to happen. Can’t risk disease or infection.
I could feel the draft coming through the sides of the door as I pulled the two-by-four drop boards from the door security brackets. Hell, it worked with castles for hundreds of years; it’s good enough for my little cabin.
I opened the door and quickly exited as to not lose the precious warm air being built back up from the fresh log. I saw no tracks on the porch or ground in front of the cabin, so I drew my pistol and moved to the outhouse as fast as I could.
Rounding the front of the cabin, I could see the outhouse fifty feet away, with its moon-shaped door cutout, or what my dad would refer to as one of those luxury features, allowing ambient light to accent your sitting experience. As I moved swiftly to the structure, I glanced over at the cooler full of deer meat.
It was not as I’d left it. Small branches and dead leaves covered the now muddy ground in a circle below the meat. Something large had attempted to use the cooler like a rope swing.
My pace quickened as I moved to the tiny outhouse, slamming the door shut. I twisted the small wood privacy mechanism and thought again how Dad would talk it up as yet another luxury feature, inherent to life in Newton County, Arkansas. As I handled my necessaries, I could hear timber crack somewhere out there, probably from the weight of snow and ice. This unnerving sound made me envision impossibly large beasts crashing through the forest, looking for someone to eat. I pulled my pants back up, disinfected my hands, and drew my gun again for the transit back to the cabin.
I worked up the courage and twisted the wooden cog lock and jumped out into the snow, yelling, just in case the cat was out there waiting for me.
It wasn’t. Nothing at all in the vicinity.
With some newfound courage, I investigated the cooler full of meat. Claw marks were evident on the outside and some of the cordage was frayed from the beast’s sharp claws. The muddy ground below the cooler was clear of snow, as the cat’s activities here last night must have melted it off. It had been right outside while I slept.
I took the day’s meat from the cooler and hoisted it a few feet higher off the ground before going back into the cabin to prepare some powdered eggs and venison.
We’re done, kitty. I refuse to be a prisoner here.
Going hunting tonight.
—————
As the sun neared the western horizon, I laced up my boots and checked my bolt gun, pistol, and NVD batteries. It was going to be another cold night, so I ripped open a two-pack of hand warmers from my dwindling supply to keep in my pockets. The thermometer outside said 12 degrees and the one inside said 55. Still painfully obvious that this will eventually force me to build a second fire in the fireplace in addition to the stove, but this comfort would come at a painful premium. I’ll be chopping firewood as soon as better weather blows in. That activity will triple my caloric intake needs. The cooler will empty faster, pushing me back out there where the predators prowl.
—————
After checking the perimeter around Shady Rest, I pulled the broken wooden ladder out of the shed and climbed up on the cabin roof. It was still bone chilling, but the roof provided some reprieve from the ground; the fire I’d built in the stove was keeping the wood shingles a few degrees warmer than the outside temp.
It had stopped snowing and I could see the waning moon as it slowly cut across the sky like a great scythe. My breath clouded the moon’s glow as I watched, wondering what Jim and Rich might be up to this evening. Earlier, I checked the RF spectrum for intel but could hear nothing. I was in the middle of nowhere and the surrounding hills probably blocked any communications coming in from the outside.
I pulled my NVD down over my eye and switched it on. The green glow of technologically enhanced vision filled my right side, reassuring me that man still owned the night.
I pulled the bolt back on my Remington 700, checking for the glint of brass in the moonlight, and was comforted to see a round attached to the bolt. Driving it back home, I snugged up against the stone fireplace and waited.
The cooler remained suspended on the bough, now just a little more out of reach than last night. It swung slowly with the cadence of the night wind. The branch holding the cooler was higher than the roof of the cabin. It extended nearly to the edge of the roof where I sat, leafless until spring.
The silver scythe continued to harvest the night as I froze, waiting for the Ozark demon to show itself.
It never came.
—————
I climbed down and hit the rack at about two in the morning, waking at 0600 when my watch alarm began to beep. I rose out of bed wearing only my yellowed long johns and placed my war belt around my waist in preparation for my trip to Newton County’s finest toilet facility. I pulled the barricade from the door and went outside just like I did the day before and began to make my left turn.
Tracks. Again, without claw marks.
Lion.
My pace quickened as I rounded the corner.
The goddamn cooler was gone.
I took care of my necessaries and made way back to the cabin to gear up and find out what happened to my calories.
Fuck.
—————
I followed the cat tracks and skid marks up the mountain a few hundred meters until I found the cooler. The plastic was shredded in several places on the outside, but the whole thing remained secured by three frayed circumferences of paracord. The thermometer said 20 degrees when I stepped off the porch, so the meat was still good inside.
As I dragged the cooler halfway down the mountain, I heard the scream coming from behind.
I turned and caught sight of the creature about fifty meters up the trail. It looked to be about a hundred and fifty pounds. Its teeth were the most visible part, sabers of white stretching its light brown lips.
It was clearly pissed about my repossessing the cooler.
“Fuck you, cat!” I shouted up the mountain, raising my pistol to shoot.
The cat came at me full sprint and didn’t stop until I pulled the trigger. The ground in front of the cat exploded as the round hit, sending rocks and snow into its face. It growled and shot off to the right, perpendicular to the mountain trail. I wasted no time in opening the cooler, grabbing as much meat as I could fit in my thick canvas coat, and tying the container back up. Lea
ving the cooler, I ran back to the cabin loaded with venison, hoping the mountain lion wouldn’t chew through the cordage and eat the rest of what I’d left behind.
Venison stew is now cooking in the pot on top of the woodstove, and the smell is no doubt wafting up the mountain and into the big cat’s nostrils, taunting it as I write this.
War.
—————
I dragged my fingers across a small ash pile near the warm fireplace and painted my face with streaks of black and gray; then I unbarred the door once more, stepping out into the wild of the Ozarks.
I scurried up the ladder to the cabin roof, putting my back once more against the river-stone chimney, which felt warm to the touch from the fire that burned beneath me. Before nightfall I went back up the mountain and, checking that there was no immediate danger, brought the cooler down the trail, putting it in a good location to snipe the cat from the cabin roof. The white lid reflected brightly through my NVD and the stars shone with diamond intensity in the background, beaming easily through the bare but thick tree branches.
I lay prone on the roof at an odd angle. The cabin was an A-frame, so there were no real flat spots except over the front door. I waited for the predator to show itself, to claim the food from the cooler.
In concentrating on the kill box, I allowed myself to relax and drifted off. Not sure how long.
I awoke to the loud crack of broken branches and got that camera flash effect in my eyes, the one you feel when jolted awake by a loud noise at night. I focused on the cooler again but saw nothing.
I was nearly asleep again when I heard felt it.
Something caused the cabin to, I don’t know, bump?
I flipped over onto my back and crept back up against the chimney. My NVD wasn’t mounted to my rifle at the moment so I pulled my Glock and raised it up.
Goddamn tritium sights were blowing out my NVD.
I lowered the Glock and waited. I was on the front side of the A-frame. Whatever caused the bump was somewhere on the other side.
Looking up at the crest of the roof, I finally saw it. Its eyes glowed eerily bright through the NVD, and the outline of its ears could be seen against the backdrop of the cosmos.
The big cat was on the roof with me.
It growled, and I brought my Glock up and pulled the trigger, sending splinters of wood through the air. At least one round hit the mountain lion, which was now screaming and roaring as it came down my side of the A-frame towards me. I tried to hit it again, but the cat was rolling down the roof at me. I attempted to back up and let it fall off the edge, but it hooked me with one of its paws, its murderous claws piercing right through my pants and into my calf muscle. I shrieked in agony and nearly shot my own leg as the creature continued to tumble, pulling me off the cabin roof with it.
I fell with the mountain lion, trying to maintain control of my weapon as I hit the ground hard, knocking the wind clean out of me. The pain of my leg and in my stomach briefly stunned me, but I knew that the big cat wouldn’t care about that. It wouldn’t give me a moment to compose myself before ripping my face off.
I shot into the thing twice before my magazine locked back. Funny, I didn’t remember shooting that many rounds. It still had a hold of my calf and wasn’t letting go.
I reached behind me and pulled out my trusty pig sticker as the injured animal lunged at my neck for the kill. In a rare moment of luck, the animal drove itself forcefully into the blade. The razor-sharp steel Bowie penetrated the cat’s throat all the way to its spinal column. In its final moments of life, it latched onto my other wrist through my canvas coat, nearly breaking it. I pulled the blade and stabbed at it until I couldn’t move my arm.
The beast went limp on top of me.
The fight was over.
JIGSAW
There’s not even a goddamned aspirin in this cabin.
My calf hurts like hell. My med kit isn’t exactly something a doctor would be proud of, but at least there was a suture kit, a useless snake bite suction cup, and some alcohol wipes inside, so I guess that’s better than bad.
The first thing I did after dragging myself inside off the icy ground was boil some water to clean out the cat scratch. I poured near scalding water slowly over the three puncture wounds, wincing in agony and screaming loud enough to be heard all the way to Little Rock.
After I was sure the wound was cleansed, I scoured my hands and ripped open an alcohol wipe. Ready for pain round two of many, I began to wipe the wound. I screamed again, causing myself to bleed even more, so I took a hot rag and applied pressure for a few minutes. The blood didn’t stop, so I had to go to my sutures. Craving a bottle of whiskey to chug, I didn’t waste any more time starting on the largest of the three cruel holes.
I nearly passed out as the needle passed through the divide of the small wound channel. Blood continued to trickle down my leg and onto my white sock. I gave each hole three loops and cut and tied everything off as best I could remember from my medical training. I again gave my wound a warm sponge sock bath and sucked air through my teeth when the cold alcohol hit. The thread was crisscrossed asymmetrically, but hey, I didn’t go to med school.
After I made sure my leg was as good as it was going to get for now, I pulled my left sleeve up to check the damage there. Thank God for tough old Carhartt jackets. My wrist was adorned with blood bruises, but I still had full movement and it didn’t hurt as bad as my calf.
So that’s a win.
I hadn’t noticed it before, but it looks like one of my 9mm rounds grazed my boot. Could have been a helluva lot worse. I mean, the fight could have gone the other way and I’d be the one with the 25-degree body temp right now instead of the big cat. If I’d shot myself in the foot with my nine, I’d probably have died, or at the very least lost my foot out here and then died. The fact that I’m writing this as the morning sun beams through the cabin windows is something to appreciate. Although I felt like Leroy Brown at the end of the song, it’s truly not every day you go to fisticuffs with an apex predator and survive.
I can’t afford to stay in bed. I need to get up and move around, even if only to hit the outhouse.
—————
It’s mid-afternoon. I have a pot of stew boiling in the cabin. My leg is wrapped up in a bandage, but it’s burning like hell. That either means my body is doing its job or I’m about to come down with a nasty infection.
My search for crutches is over; I spent some time today looking for trees with the right natural angles so I didn’t have to sit on the porch with my pocket knife playing backwoods carpenter. What I was able to cobble together wasn’t comfortable, but I could move around with the makeshift crutches without overstraining my calf muscle, like I probably did when I was out looking for them in the first place.
FML.
—————
My whole body is aching now. I think it’s sort of like the day after a car accident type of thing. With all the adrenaline, you feel fine on the first day, but like hammered dog shit the day after. It’s night outside and I didn’t feel like hobbling down to the river for water.
Mistake.
You’d be surprised how much snow you have to melt to get a gallon of water. I think I spent more calories going back and forth gathering snow than if I’d just bucked up and went down to the river. Lazy man load and all.
It hurts when I squeeze my calf, but that’s to be expected. My wrist is sore, but it should heal fine. Right now, my main worry is infection. I’m nearly out of alcohol wipes and I only have enough sutures to fix two of the three punctures if I were to somehow rip them open.
I’ve got to be careful, as I might as well be on the surface of Mars. No one is coming to help me out here.
I’ll check the trotline in the morning.
—————
Woke up this morning early, bundled up in a pair of waders, and limped down to the river on the crutches. The cat’s corpse was still frozen stiff on the ground. I didn’t have the patience or
energy to skin it and tan the hide. Would be pretty badass to wear a mountain lion pelt around up here, though. Anyone I ran across would know I was the real deal wearing something like that. I’ll get around at some point to dragging the thing away and let nature take care of it.
The trip down the draw to the river took me about ten minutes with my improvised crutches. I was sure not to put too much weight on my calf; all I needed was to have that muscle contract and rip open the wounds. I toted an empty, blue five-gallon water jug on my back and dreaded the trip back up the hill.
Down at the riverbank I broke some ice and walked down into the icy waters, thankful again for the waders I’d found inside the cabin when I arrived.
Thanks, Dad.
The line had no fish. I placed a few small chunks of deer meat on the empty hooks because I had nothing else and waded back to the shore, shoving floating ice out of my way as I went. The cold felt good on my calf but not so good everywhere else. I filled up my water container and strapped it back onto the ALICE frame on my back for the trip up.
Twenty minutes.
I was sweating and exhausted when I got back to the cabin. I quickly stripped down to my underwear in front of the roaring fire to avoid hypothermia. I boiled some water and lightly washed out my wounds, using the heat to bring the trapped fluids out. Once the rest of the boiled water cooled, I gulped it down. I was down to about four gallons and would need to go again tomorrow to build up my water reserves, in case I fell ill from infection and did not have the energy to make another thirty-minute round trip.
DIRECT ACTION
November 14
OPERATION HAYSTACK
DIRECTOR’S EYES ONLY
Our intelligence regarding the train’s location on November 13 was accurate. We were able to demolish a section of track, delaying its transit north, and giving us enough time to meet our objective. Our direct action team boarded the train just after midnight. Based on small drone reconnaissance, Rich —————————————’s boxcar was previously identified by its prominent antenna array and solar panels.