William Weber - Patriots

While he was gathering wood and tinder, a whoosh nearby followed by rustling told John that his trap had sprung. Hopping to his feet, he rushed to find a possum hanging off the ground with the picture wire cinched around its neck. He put the creature out of its misery quickly with the BK9 and then skinned and gutted it on the stump of a fallen tree. He took care to do this a few meters away from his camp to avoid attracting scavengers. While most people tossed the entrails into the bush, John kept them to use as bait for fishing and future traps.

A stagnant pond sixty meters to the west of his camp would provide his drinking water. Usually that would be arduous work, building a filtering system and then something to boil the water in. This was where his Lifesaver water bottle would come in handy. John normally liked to keep things as natural as possible—relying on gizmos in a survival situation was all too often a recipe for disaster—but after watching murky, undrinkable water at the Patriot camp go in and clean, safe water come out, he’d been convinced. The other advantage was the ultra-fine fifteen-nanometer filter that kept out all waterborne pathogens. So far as he could tell, the major drawback to the thing was the inability to tell when the water filter was nearly done. Given that it could treat over a thousand gallons and he’d only just started using it, he was confident he had all the water he would need.

After building a small fire and cooking the possum over a spit, John removed the duct tape from the heels of his feet to let them breathe. He was listening to the sounds of the forest, his AR by his side and his shotgun waiting for him in the A-frame shelter.

There was something about the trees here that reminded him of the lush hilly forests in Rwanda. The vast majority of folks might have had difficulty placing the tiny country on a map before the genocide of 1994. That was when the whole world saw horrifying images of gangs of machete-wielding men hacking at anyone they could find. The war had started as a tribal conflict between the majority Hutus and the minority Tutsis. But it wasn’t long before the lust for blood on all sides had turned into a killing free-for-all.

At the end of ’94, John had entered the ravaged country as part of the humanitarian mission, Operation Support Hope, and the sights he’d seen there were nearly beyond description. That was when he’d fully understood how sheltered they were here in the West. For John, however, this wasn’t a reason for condescension. Rather, it was a hallmark of how safe life was in America. At least, the way it used to be.

John recalled searching in the village of Gahini for a local doctor named Mutsinzi. There was a young girl with gallstones who needed treatment and the doctor there was reputed to be the best in the area. When he’d arrived, John had discovered the man had been killed in the final days of the genocide. In the hospital where he worked, he’d treated both tribes without discretion and so in retaliation he was taken one morning by a gang of Hutu extremists, sat in a chair and disemboweled, his guts dragged across the road to form a macabre checkpoint.

The story itself had been shocking enough to John that he’d never forgotten it. These sorts of acts were beyond Western understanding. It wasn’t since the Indian wars in the eighteenth century that Americans had witnessed such barbaric atrocities. But with local warlords springing up, laying claim to first neighborhoods and now entire cities, it was anyone’s guess how long it would be before the nastiest side of human nature would rear its ugly head.

John came awake, wondering for a moment if he was still in the mountains of Rwanda. The sound of a woodpecker knocking away at the trunk of a dying tree told him otherwise.

He stretched, feeling the stiff muscles in his back ache with pain. The shelter he’d built yesterday had kept him warm, although it certainly hadn’t done wonders for his spine. The mattress he and Diane shared at the cabin had been harder than their king-sized pillowtop back home. That was a transition he’d been fine with. Even dozing off in the front seat of his Blazer, while not ideal, had also been better than his current bed of pine needles and dead leaves. To make matters worse, by the time he woke up, the mound he’d collected had been pushed to the side so that John’s back was digging into the hard forest floor.

Some of the possum was still left over from last night and he ate half of it, washing the tough meat down with a drink of water. He was eager to get a move on. If he kept up the pace, there was a chance he might just reach the Patriot camp by dusk.

After reapplying duct tape to his blisters, John slung the AR and the shotgun over his shoulder and headed out.

Within an hour, he hit Cleamon Strunk Road and crossed to the other side after making sure no one was in sight. Once on the other side and back into the forest, it wasn’t long before moving through the thick brush brought on some serious hunger pangs.

John still had some possum meat left over and intended to keep that for that night’s supper in case he didn’t reach his objective. Reluctance to draw any attention by shooting his rifle or by stopping to build a fire meant that meat was out of the question right now. But there were other options.

Most people spent years trekking through the woods without realizing how many plants were edible. Of course, it was always important to be careful when eating anything that grew in the wild, but with enough practice at differentiating species, living off the land in an emergency situation became so much easier.

Wood sorrel was the first plant he found. It looked a lot like clover and was tough to chew with a slightly sour taste to it. Not too far from that was a patch of wild lettuce. They were easily identified by their long spindly branches. John shoved it in his mouth, wincing from the bitterness. As he walked, he collected what he could. Lambsquarter, chickweed, and whenever he came to an open field, dandelion.

Not long after, he came to another field. This one was larger than the last, but different in one important way. While the open terrain where he’d collected dandelions had been flat, this field had a crop about the height of a man and with thin, pointy leaves. It didn’t take a genius to realize he’d stumbled upon a marijuana farm. Except this one wasn’t a legal operation, like the ones springing up in a handful of other states. Neither Kentucky nor Tennessee had legalized medical marijuana.

On the heels of that realization came another. If this land wasn’t run by a gutsy entrepreneur eager to exploit lax drug laws, then it meant he was likely on land worked by criminals.

John planted one knee in the ground and readied his AR.

So far he hadn’t seen a soul or heard so much as a whisper, but caution wouldn’t take any chances until he saw good reason to lower his guard.

He weaved between rows of the tall marijuana stalks which smelled like something between lawn grass and skunk. From John’s limited knowledge of horticulture, he believed this indicated the crop was flowering.

Up ahead was a small shack. If anyone was around, they would likely be near that structure. As much as John wasn’t interested in a confrontation, the last thing on his mind was moving past an unsecured area only to get a bullet in the back. He would do a quick sweep and then decide whether to back out the way he came and circle around or proceed straight ahead.

Approaching the shack, John paused, his finger next to the trigger. He steadied his breathing, listening for voices, movement or even the telltale sounds of someone snoring.

The first sign that something wasn’t entirely right came when he saw the legs sticking out of the doorway. Drawing nearer, he caught the buzzing of flies around what was obviously a dead body. Then the odor came and he pulled his shirt up over his nose. That was a smell you never got used to, no matter how many battles you’d lived through. It was more than the psychological impact that came with knowing that someone’s life was over. The stench was just plain bad.