Drone Wars 1: The Beginning

by Mike Whitworth

  I chose a good spot under the trees and made a large pile of the abundant small dead twigs and branches. Then I shredded some of the tinder fungus with the sharp chert flake and piled the tiny, dust-like shreds in a hollow in a large piece of tinder fungus.

  To strike sparks to start a fire, I needed not only the chert, but also a piece of steel, or marcasite as the Indians had used. My chances of finding any steel or marcasite in the next half hour were approximately zero. I needed another way to start a fire and I didn't have the hour or two it would take me to make a bow-drill fire starting set, especially since I had never made one before. I just knew about them from watching online videos.

  Then I thought, why not make a magnifying glass from some of the three-inch thick clear ice on the small creek? I broke a piece of clear ice free and, using the chert flake started shaving it into the shape of a large bi-convex lens about eight inches in diameter. I was greatly hampered by intense shivering and freezing fingers, but, under threat of death, persevered. When I was done, the surface of the ice lens was too cloudy to pass light effectively. I needed something to polish the surface. I tried rubbing the surface with my hands, but my body was shutting down the blood flow to my extremities and they were cold. I knew I didn't have long left now, so I held the ice against my stomach and used what little remaining body heat I had to melt the surface ice. In about ten minutes I had a passably clear ice lens.

  I carefully held the lens, bracing my shaking arms against a stick, and focused the light beam on a small pile of shredded and powdered tinder fungus. In about 90 seconds, a small tendril of smoke rewarded me. By blowing carefully and adding larger shreds of tinder fungus, I soon had a small fire going. I huddled over it as I slowly added larger twigs and then small sticks. Soon, I was warmer, but by no means warm. At least though, as long as I had the fire, I was in no danger of freezing.

  As I sat naked by the warmth of the fire, my butt on a pile of bark and my back almost against my small lean-to made from dead branches, weaving strips of bark into crude boots and a robe, another fire in my belly hardened my determination.

  It might take me a while, maybe a year, maybe even three, but I promised myself that I would one day kill the president, with my bare hands if possible; if not, then maybe with a drone. The president was a man who lived by the drone and I thought it fitting that he might die by the drone as well.

  Also on Amazon

  Flaming Cows, Watermelon Love, and Blackbird Stew

  by

  Mike Whitworth

  This is a rip-roaring, coming of age tale that spans the years from about 1955 through 1974. It is a wild, and sometimes irreverent, ride that includes flaming cows (really), shooting rats with a tommy gun, a swimming cat, a pet mocking bird, blowguns and spear throwers, saxophones (have you ever stopped a tugboat with a saxophone?), a watch mule, turkey dogs, Vietnam, and many other stories; mostly funny, but some that will deeply touch your soul—all woven tightly together to tell the story of an unusual boy growing up in the Deep South. Available here