"After our talk yesterday, I stopped at the Dollar General, I had the cash in hand and the clerk was willing to ring it up, so I figured to go for it, buy everything that could help these people. Probably a 'God Thing'." We both chuckle a bit, knowing that most people don’t know that a "God Thing" happens to us all every day.
"Well, that was a heck of a 'God Thing' my friend!" the reverend responds.
"I guess you and Chief Wills have talked? He knows to send stragglers and other needy people here?"
"Yep. He was a little pissed at first, you buyin' up all that food for strangers, but then he figured out that movin' the stragglers along was best. But I'm a little worried about where they will end up."
"Same here, friend. We are sending these people down the road to who knows what? But can we offer them refuge here? What will that turn out to be? And I am sure that most of them still have no idea what has happened, and even if they do, they would still want to get home to their own families. At least try to.
"I keep thinking, God first, family second. But God first…treat others as you would have others treat you. That's a tough one. Some arrogant bastard already has demanded that we treat him as some noble figure. I basically told him to stand in line. But even with his boastfulness, I think we have to try and help him, help all of them."
"I feel your pain Brother Mark, I feel your pain. But most of these people, they want to move on, to get home. Let's help them to move on, like you said yesterday. Let's help to provide them with a means to move on. Your inspiration to do that is not against God's will. If they want to move on, let's help them to move on."
"You're right, Reverend. Let's help as we can. So we ought to see if some of these boys out there with the old trucks that still run, see if they can run some of these stragglers in towards Windber. I got no problem if the guys want to charge something to run them in, free rides lead to no good."
The reverend laughs, "No free rides! Mark! That’s a good one, still got a sense of humor I see."
I laugh, too "Didn’t mean it that way, but I guess you're right, or I'm right, no free rides!"
We both sit quietly reflecting on the joke that wasn't meant to be a joke, and how free rides have been such a bane on our society.
Bringing us back to the moment, I let the reverend know I need to head back into Johnstown to get my step-daughter, her husband and their kids. I let him know that Becca knows my route and plans, not to worry about me. I also suggest that the community leaders need to meet within the next few days, the sooner the better, to figure out how we can make sure that our mountain community stays safe. He tells me he has no more information from our radio enthusiast. We talk a little more about the grave situation that the country faces. We agree that our best contribution will be to make sure that our small part of the country takes care of itself.
When we walk out to the church parking lot, we see even more people in line for the food and water, mainly stragglers, but a few local residents, too. There are also two more older farm trucks in the lot.
The reverend hollers over to the two boys with the farm trucks and starts talking with them about riding the stragglers into Windber. I hope that works out. But I need to get to the other side of Johnstown to get Britt, Kenny and the boys.
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"Yo, Jerry," I holler. "You up for a little ride? Want to see how the city folk handled the grid being down?"
He is here to help the pastor, but with a nod from Reverend Wysinger, he agrees to go with me.
I holler over the small crowd that I am going to Roxbury, near the hospitals and I will take anyone going that way. A younger woman approaches and says that she wants to get her mom to the hospital, that her mom isn't doing well. We load them into the van. Two other couples ask for rides if it will take them closer to town.
We all head out of the church parking lot in my old van, past the stragglers and towards Johnstown, Jerry, riding shotgun, literally, with our passengers in the back. I ask Jerry if he is packing heat. He nods and pats his left side. I ask about spare clips, he indicates two. I'm liking Jerry, he is my kind of guy, concealed carry with spare clips.
I explain to Jerry my round-about, back country route to get to Johnstown. We both agree that avoiding the thousands of people at the Flight 93 Memorial is the best idea. So we skirt past Hooversville, and come in the back way to Davidsville. This puts us only a couple of miles from where my crew was working yesterday. It wasn't in my plans, but I have to go see if any of them are still there, if they left word as to where they were going. I explain to my passengers what's going on. They stare back blankly, still in shock. I make a left and a right, then a few hundreds yards later turn on the road where we are finishing up a large deck project.
I see my work van and Willis's truck. We pull up to the house, no signs of anyone home. I knock on the door and holler a few times. I look around back for a note, something. Willis, my lead carpenter has left a note scribbled on a piece of scrap wood. "Power out, nothing works. Waited for two hours, nothing works, van won’t start, sent John home. We are both walking, call me. Willis." John, who is known as Herc, lives in Moxham. He is probably already home. Willis lives near Flight 93 Memorial, he will be walking into the crowds heading toward Johnstown. I have Jerry help me load some tools and supplies into the trailer from the jobsite that may be helpful later. I leave thousands of dollars in materials and dead equipment behind.
We head back the same way we came and end up coming in on the south end of Johnstown without significant incident. We do see a few trucks and older cars, some farm tractors and bicyclers. Many of the stalled cars have been pushed to the side of the road, some have people still with them, most have been left behind as their owners are now walking to their destinations. There are a lot of people walking. By the looks of them, the way they are dressed, most are Flight 93 stragglers, making their way to Johnstown.
Chapter 13Hunting, November 2008
The shoosh, shoosh, shoosh of something walking through the fall leaves that lay heavy on the ground perks me up. My senses heighten once again. That is more than a squirrel scurrying from tree to tree. That is not a titmouse flitting about. That is a larger animal walking these woods.
I slowly turn towards the sound of the rustling leaves. I peer intently at the farthest sightlines I have; about two hundred yards to the fence line on the far side of the woods in front of me. I see movement! Three or more deer snooping along the fence line, just at the edge of my view. They are not moving fast, not being pushed. I bring my scoped 30.06 to bear on the area, adrenaline pumping. There are four or five deer. I move my scope from deer to deer. It is hard to keep track of which ones I have scoped and which ones may be a new deer as they mosey along, browsing. There is one stubborn deer trailing the rest that refuses to raise its head. 'That is the buck!' I think. But the deer refuses to raise his head as he skirts along the outer fringe of my safe shooting range. I jump my scope from deer to deer, looking for antlers: nothing. The group edges along, without revealing a target. I never got a good scope on all of them. The last one, he snuck by, staying low like a buck would. Well, I never had a good shot, never could identify him as a good target. I start to look elsewhere, maybe something walked up on my rear while I was watching the front! I settle back onto the stool in my tree stand and continue my vigilant watch.
Minutes later, the loud crack of a rifle shot echoes off the mountainsides. That was close! That was one of my brothers, or maybe Dad! My adrenaline spikes a bit again. My senses are at a peak as I strain my eyes to scan the woods in the direction that the shot came from; the same direction that the last group of deer headed towards. No second shot. That could be good, maybe the buck was taken on the first shot. Seconds pass and no second shot. Either a clean hit or clean miss. I wait in my tree stand, peering intently towards the area the shot came from, glancing around, trying to make sure that the buck, if missed, doesn't get past me.
Minut
es pass. No sound or sight of any movement. I take one last minute to look all around for any sign of deer; no movement anywhere. Still keeping a wary eye out, I sling my rifle and make sure I have my knife, rope, water bottle, and spare rags in my game pouch. Whoever’s shot was close, time to go see who it was and help out, especially if it was Dad. Can't have him hauling a dear a half-mile back to camp by himself.
I start heading up the slight rise to my Dad's deer stand, which is about a quarter mile away. I turn a slight bend in the path through the saplings that grow thick in this area. I see my dad bent over what is obviously a good buck.
"Got him, huh!" I holler out as I pick up my pace.
"Oh yeah, and he's a good one," my dad says as he looks towards me smiling. "Ten point, came trotting up the far fence line trailing four does. Stopped about a hundred yards from me and gave me the perfect shot, full broad side. He was sniffing for those does. Dropped him right here. He had to have come right past you. You didn't see him?"
Deer hunters love to talk about deer hunting; about the deer they saw, the deer they didn't see, the deer they shot, and the deer they didn't shoot. We can talk for fifteen minutes about all the deer we didn’t see! So I tell Dad all about the deer I saw and the deer I didn't see, he tells me about all the deer he didn't see but the one he saw and shot! It's good camaraderie, the times you remember, the times you miss.
Meanwhile we get to gutting the deer. It is a good one, a ten point, twenty-four inch spread with a thick main beam and nine inch tines. The best deer Dad has ever shot. The best deer we have taken on the farm. "I knew this one was out here," Dad says. "I saw him at the feeder a few times last winter, a big eight point then. And he showed up on John's trail cams too. When I saw him come trotting in, Wow! He was dead set on following those does. He stopped not eighty yards from me, broadside. Look at that rack, Mark, look at those tines. We're going to get this one mounted. This is the one that goes over the fireplace."
"You gotta get that past Mom, ya know. She's pretty adamant about no dead animals on the wall."
"We'll get this buck mounted and stick it up there until we can take it to Canada. She may change her mind." Dad is referring to our family vacation place, which has lots of dead animals on the wall, mostly trophy fish.
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The weekend had started with Thanksgiving dinner at Mom and Dad's. The kids and grandkids, those that are still in western PA, make the gathering about twenty strong. Lorrie, Becca, Jan and Eve take care of most of the cooking. My Mom wants to be a part of it all, but at eighty-two, she can't keep up with all that needs done, and is happy that her wisdom and traditions have been passed along. She supervises and smiles as the dinner is cooked and served. Before the large turkey is carved we all join hands and bow our heads as we say grace. Paul, the eldest, leads us, giving thanks to God for such a strong family, strong parents, and the blessings God has granted us all. He ends by saying the Lord’s Prayer, and we all join in.
Large family gatherings at the Mays house usually include conversations ranging from the Pittsburgh Steelers, to church happenings and events, to what the grandkids are doing, to national and world politics. The conversation is bright and brisk. Some espouse rather verbally, some break the passion with quiet words of wisdom. Smaller side conversations grow. The happy bantering of a loving family celebrating a holiday is music to my mother’s ears. She knows her mission here on earth has been completed.
I walk over to my mom, sitting in the large wing-backed chair, and sit beside her on the couch. Her eyes are glistening and her smile is joyful.
"You look very happy, Mom, almost glowing."
"I am very happy, Mark. My children know the Lord, and I will see them all in heaven. I cannot be happier!" She smiles and looks at me. "And you, Mark, you were a lost soul, so much talent that God blessed you with. But you figured it out. It took you twenty years, twenty years of praying for you. And look at you now, you are just beginning to grow. God has a plan for you, Mark. Follow his plan."
"I know, Mom. I know now you prayed for me, just as I pray daily for my kids and grandkids. I'm sorry I put you and Dad through such torment. But I guess that was the path I needed to follow. I know better now. My selfish days are over. My heart is with the Lord, and I am glad you know that." Mom and I reminisce a bit, glossing over the stupid things, of which there are many, and dwelling on the good things.
As the gathering is breaking up, I pull John aside. "You’re staying overnight, aren’t you?"
"Yeah. Dad wants us to check all the deerstands and walking trails. I want to take a few shots with my rifle and Jan and I are going to do some pistol practice."
"Okay, cool, Becca and I will be out before noon. We picked up a few cool new weapons, I want you and Jan to see them. Trust me, you are going to want to put some rounds down range!" John looks at me a little quizzically, but is quickly caught up in another conversation about the recent presidential election.
Becca and I show up the next morning just in time for the last round of blueberry pancakes and sausage. Dad wants to make sure that all the treestand repairs are done before we sight in our guns. The three men head out and take care of Dad's must do fixes. John inquires about why shooting will be so fun today. I just smile and keep silent, letting the suspense build.
John is the marksman of the family. He has the best target group every time we shoot. He brings a group from his church out to the farm every summer, ages eight to eighty-eight, to train them in handgun firing and safety. He is not just an NRA member, he is active in teaching responsible gun ownership. He is a gun enthusiast, despite Jan's pacifist nature.
We have a great range area set up, shooting into the embankment of the large pond. We have a pistol range that allows us to shoot from up to fifty feet away. There are five lanes set up that we can pin a basic target to. There is a long table sixty feet back from the targets for reloading and cleaning. We keep the area mowed between the bench and the targets so it is easy to walk from the firing area to the targets. We also have a one-hundred yard range for our deer rifles with two firing lanes and a smaller bench. Because of the lay of the land, with the slight rise toward the pond embankment, we could sight in from five hundred yards if we wanted to.
At the pistol range, we have Jan and Becca fire a couple clips at the targets, tin cans from twenty feet. They reluctantly fire the weapons, showing they know how, but complaining that they have to do this every year. John and I burn thru a few more clips, just to stay rehearsed with each handgun
We drive out to the hundred yard range and set up to fire our deer rifles, both Remington 30.06's. John shoots first and puts all three shots within two inches of the "10" mark. Good by him, good by me. I shoot three rounds. Basically good, but a little high. I make a few slight scope adjustments and fire three more times. Two shots close to the "10" ring, one four inches off center. I know my shooting, I am not a sniper, I shoot okay, so this grouping works for me.
"So, what's all the secrecy, Mark? You said you had something new to shoot, something cool. You got two new hard cases there, what's inside ‘em?"
I pull both cases out of the back of Dad's old farm truck and begin to open them up. "John, you and I have been talking for years about getting a few good self defense guns, but the time was never right, the price was never right. With this past presidential election and the economic downturn that is starting, this banking meltdown, I felt the time was right. I think our new president is an honest man. And when he says he's worried about those that cling to their Bibles and their guns, I believe him!"
I have both cases laying side by side on the tailgate of the truck, latches released but still unopened. I dramatically flip both cases open at the same time revealing two identical Colt AR15 M4-style semi-automatic rifles. I had cleaned and oiled both, so they look almost brand new.
"No," says John. "Sweet!" He actually gets a little flushed in the face. I nod towards the weapons as I pull out
the one nearest me. He gently picks up the other one.
Jan and Becca are silent as we check over the weapons. An AR15 is similar in action to the M16A1 I was trained on except it will only shoot semiautomatic, one shot every time you pull the trigger; no fully automatic mode. I show John the mechanics of the weapon, also having Jan and Becca go through all the drills of safety, firing, jams and reloading.
I was able to pick up both weapons, ten extra clips and a little under two thousand rounds of ammunition for a very good price. One of the guys who works for me, he got the lead that a guy was in trouble paying his mortgage, so I got both weapons and rounds at a fire sale price. I felt a bit conflicted after I bought the guns at such a bargain, but I am a free market capitalist; I paid him what he asked, after a bit of dickering. Hopefully he was able to right his own financial ship.
We all move up to the fifty-yard stake on the target lanes and John and I begin the systematic procedure of sighting in the guns. We find the standard iron sights are true. Quickly, we move on to setting up cans to see how fast we can knock them down. We bring both girls in on the fun, and after they get the hang of it, they find knocking down cans in quick succession to be more exhilarating than they thought. We back up to the hundred yard mark and do it all over again. John can consistently hit the target, the girls and I can too, sometimes!
After more than two hours since we left the house, we return; all of us smiling and talking about the good time we just spent together, learning each others strengths and weaknesses, overcoming misplaced phobias, growing as brothers and sisters, even as adults.
Chapter 14 Moxham Burning, September 12, 2018
As Jerry and I approach the little town known as Ben's Creek, I can see that a checkpoint has been set up. We pull off to the side of the road, a couple of hundred yards short of the roadblock.
Righteous Gathering: Book 1 of the Righteous Survival EMP Saga Page 9
