Joe inspected the wound, and cleaned out all of the debris he found with some wipes. Gritting his teeth in dread of expected pain, he poured some Everclear over the wound as it might have become infected during the hike. He viewed the Everclear in the kit as a multi-function disinfectant, as it could be used both externally or internally if the need arose, unlike most other disinfectant agents.
“Aaaaahhhhhh,” he whined through his tightly clenched teeth, as the alcohol sent an intense burning flash of pain throughout his entire leg and small beads of sweat popped from his brow.
Temporarily Joe lost ability to think due to the pain. After he regained his composure, he applied a coat of Neosporin and finished dressing the wound. His hands shook from reaction, and made a mess of the procedure, causing him to waste a dressing in the process.
“That will learn me..,” he groaned, determining not to wait so long the next time he was injured.
Alcohol was effective, but was even more effective as a learning tool, teaching the user to deal with an injury before it was actually needed. Pain was nothing new to Joe, but only a masochist desires it unnecessarily. He had decided long ago that he must be allergic to pain--it hurt too badly.
He repacked everything into his backpack and then carefully made sure he was not leaving anything behind. Warily, he crawled to a vantage point and carefully examined the countryside, making sure no vehicles were evident on the road. Not seeing any traffic, Joe ran across the road and headed into the wheat field on the other side. The golden wheat was an inviting hiding spot, starting at the ditch and running up and over a small hill. He was happy, as his Uncle’s farm was on the other side of the mile section.
Cresting the top of the hill, Joe was nervous. He knew that even crawling he could be clearly seen while on top of the ridge of the hill, and wanted to cross the hilltop without delay, yet not leave the 'motion trail' of a running body that would draw even more attention than his silhouette. He decided to belly walk the distance, with his rifle cradled in his arms to try to minimize both his profile and motion signature at the same time.
After making it over the hill without incident, he looked towards his Uncle's farm, and then sighed in relief. No pillar of smoke was coming from the homestead. The neighboring farm a quarter of a mile off down the road was apparently spared as well. These were the only two farms on this mile section of road. The nearest smoke column viewable from this new vantage point was another mile or two further west.
The road was quiet. The wheat field on the other side of the road rippled gracefully as a small gust of wind passed, not even a sign of life pervaded the still scene. He eased down the side of the hill, got to his feet, and then ran to the shelter belt.
Hearing nothing but dead silence as he approached the trees, an ominous foreboding overtook Joe.
“No... surely not,” He thought.
His thought was stopped in mid-stream by a very familiar sound, a deadly sound which sent chills racing up his spine. It was like wheat kernels being shaken rapidly in a small jar. Joe froze in place, trying not to move anything at all but his eyes. It had to be a small prairie rattler, and not a diamondback, as the sound was both too high pitched and too soft for the larger snake.
He knew the small prairie rattler was within three feet or so of him, and didn't want to startle it into striking at his leg. The only safe thing to do was wait and listen. Locating the snake by the periodic sound of the rattles as they shook, he backed carefully away. Since the intruder was leaving its territory, the snake decided to escape, slithering out of sight under a low slung evergreen bough.
Discretion is always the better part of valor when dealing with these little fanged friends. If given the chance they will generally either leave you alone or try to escape. Rattlesnakes are not really aggressive; their fangs are the only defense they possess to prevent themselves from being eaten or stepped on. Had he kept walking towards the snake, he would have been struck.
Joe worked his way around the belt, and looked over the farm, without getting any closer to the house in case of a trap. Nothing seemed out of place, and all of his Uncle's vehicles were still parked in their normal spots, which meant that he was home.
He silently walked over to the house, around the side, and then up to the front porch. Looking through the windows showed nothing amiss inside, so he crept slowly over to the door. He carefully tried the knob, which suddenly jerked out of his hand.
The glint of light off of metal was his only warning. Joe dove to the side as a mind numbing blast rang out above his head. Lying on the porch, he almost wet himself, morbidly unable to remove his focus from the side by side tunnels of doom located three inches in front of his eyes. Even a train tunnel does not look quite as big as the paired bores of a double barrel 12 gauge at that distance. The gun snapped up into the air away from his face, and he refocused his eyes on his Uncle John. John’ usually happy face was lined with a grimace.
“Durn it! Ya’ dumb fool boy! Trying to get yourself killed? What the heck are ya’ doing, sneaking up on me and breaking in like that?” His Uncle growled at him, brown eyes flashing in anger.
The codger was obviously not very pleased at his nephew's manner of visiting.
“I thought your momma taught you some manners kid. You almost got yer dang head blowed clean off!” John finished.
“Where's Mary and the kids?” he asked, noting that Joe was alone.
Joe was never alone when he visited his uncle, always having at least one child with him, if not the whole family which was the usual encounter.
4. (Spread the warning)
Joe looked across the dinner table at his uncle after describing what had happened at his farm. John's face was haggard. Time, troubles, and hard work combined to permanently line and crease his face, making him look rough and leathery at the best of times. At the thought of what befell his family, his face looked like rawhide bound granite, every muscle and bone in sharp relief in the yellowish light. Joe could see that John was holding his emotions back as much as possible, yet a tear still managed to roll down the old man’s aged cheek as he ran his hand through his graying black hair.
John excused himself, and went to the bathroom. Joe jumped in alarm when the wall to the kitchen rattled, and wondered whether he should check on his uncle. As he started towards the bathroom, John came out, the knuckles on his right hand bleeding profusely.
Calmly, he walked over to the kitchen sink, opened a cabinet door, and grabbed a clean white towel which he then wrapped over his injured hand. There were no tears left in the old man's now cold brown eyes, just a frigid anger evident to anyone looking.
"So, Joe… What are we going to do about it?" John asked, the pause in his question pregnant with meaning.
"We?" Joe asked
"John, I am already involved, there's no need for you to get mixed up in this mess.”
"She was my niece before she was your wife. I bounced her on my knee, and changed some of her diapers. I am already involved!" John yelled back, startling in his ferocity.
"I'm sorry John, I didn't think," Joe said, feeling terrible.
"I didn't mean to offend. This is just so personal, you know? I can’t help feeling alone.”
John was angry at first, but the look of pain radiating from his nephew's eyes hit a nerve. He got up, walked around the table, and hugged his nephew.
"As long as breath is in me... you are not alone. Never forget that. Others share in your pain, son. We are family," the old man whispered.
He felt a deeper connection with John than he ever had known before. He realized that family is more than just blood or relation. At family outings and gatherings he had always felt somewhat an outsider, not sharing blood with Mary's relatives. Her family had never shown any real animosity towards him, as they all liked each other.
Joe just suffered an ephemeral feeling of estrangement, somehow not belonging to the group. He was an outsider who did not have history or stories to share from within the family
. That nagging feeling was now gone, as if it had never existed. John was as much Joe's Uncle now, as if he had been his Uncle from birth. Joe was family in John’s eyes, and he knew it.
"Now, I ask you again. What are we going to do about it?" asked John.
"For a start, I think we need to warn our neighbors. I wouldn't feel right about just letting it happen to any of them without trying to help. I mean, how many times have the Johnson's provided some seed when we were a little short on our planting. How about two springs ago when Dave and his kids dropped everything to help drive your new well, you laid up with a sprained ankle an all? It just feels right,” Joe stated.
“Then I wouldn't mind going hunting.”
"Son, I agree. We need to quit talkin', and start movin', 'cause flapping lips don't get no work done," John stated.
“Huntin'll have to wait a spell. I do catch your drift on that boy, just the time ain't right,”
Both felt a little better now with a tangible purpose and something to do. John poured the remains of his coffee pot into a thermos, and grabbed two clean cups from the cabinet.
"Who shall we warn first?" Joe asked.
"Well, the Littleton's are next door. I suppose let’s start with them,” John replied
"Truth be told, I wouldn't be surprised if they already know. They always keep yappin' at me about what is happening in the news. Their boys are always checking the net on that fancy new laptop of theirs. I am plumb sick and tired of hearing about the 'Infowars', whatever the heck that is.”
"I can’t blame them,” Joe said, "I like to hang out at various forums myself. A lot of good stuff to learn and talk about there,”
"That is why your place always looked so shabby. Enough money for the internet, but not enough for new shingles. You kids and your electronic junk," John replied with a smirk.
"Let's go," Joe said with a small groan.
"Sometimes you act like an old fart," He ribbed John back.
"I'd rather be an old fart, than still be a young stink like you," John quipped.
“I quit being a young stink twenty years back John. It just tells you how old of a fart you are,” Joe replied innocently.
With the reply still hanging in the air, John grabbed his double barrel shotgun and a full box of buckshot. He reconsidered and walked to the hall closet, taking out a quick draw holster on its belt. In the holster hung a forty-four magnum Super Redhawk. To consider the massive handgun as a pistol was similar to comparing a cannon to a BB gun.
"Might need this," John stated, strapping the rig on his waist and tying the leather thong on the bottom of the holster to his thigh.
Joe felt some apprehension with John’s choice. He couldn't believe the first time he had seen John shoot the monster. It had reminded him of an old western cowboy flick. John had been able to draw, shoot, and then hit a twenty ounce pop bottle sitting on a fence post forty feet away. To Joe, it had all happened in the blink of an eye, the motion of John’s draw almost too fast to follow.
He had shot the firearm once, and only once. Joe had held the firearm improperly. Due to the recoil, it had struck him in the forehead with almost enough force to knock him unconscious. He couldn't believe that John, as old as he was, seemingly wielded the massive piece of ordinance as easily as a toy.
They loaded up in John's beat up four by four Subaru station wagon, and then left John’s farm. The Subaru looked like it had been through World War II, as it had more dents, scrapes, and dings then you could shake a stick at. John had bought the car for two hundred dollars, and decided that it was not too special to be used hard. This included driving to remote fishing and hunting spots, where the vehicle’s four by four feature was the only reason they made it to their destination.
Many of the roads they traveled were better described as cow paths. More than one effort had led into a slide down a steep hill, stopped usually by a solid object such as a large tree. It amazed Joe that the thing still ran.
They drove to the Littleton's farm. Dave Littleton always put in a large garden, and this year was no exception, and his boys were hard at work in the garden hoeing weeds. It looked as if Dave would have plenty of vegetables to put up this year, as the garden was flourishing under their care. Beans, onions, garlic, tomatoes, squash and melons of various descriptions were laid in neat rows. John exited the Subaru, and Dave tilted his head and looked at him, a small smirk starting to form on his lips.
"It isn't October, so why are you dressed for Halloween?" Dave asked laughingly.
"Ya'll huntin' a little bar?" he asked after switching to a terrible John Wayne accent.
"No-sir… Dave, I have got some bad news," John replied with a no nonsense tone of voice, his lined face grave.
John had Joe explain the events of the day to Dave. With every passing sentence Dave’s face tightened, and his eyes took on a thoughtful stare.
"Boys! Get over here!” Dave roared. "Kyle! Get aunt Alice on the phone for me, I'll be right in,”
"You aren't pulling my leg John? I won't be happy if this is some sick joke," Dave replied.
The dark clouds to the north were lightening in color, and the day looked as if it might clear up. However, Dave now noticed the pillars of smoke. They were dimly visible above the hilltops from within the valley where his house was located. The dark cloud background had masked the presence of the black smoke.
"I am serious as a heart attack. Look at all those streams of smoke over there. Those are houses... mothers, fathers, kids," Joe replied, the thought of something like this being taken as a possible prank making him angry.
"In fact, look behind me Dave. That smoke is my house, my wife, and my kids," Joe started spoke softly but ended with a yell, all the while looking Dave squarely in the eyes.
"Cool your jets there Joe, I just meant it is a little hard to believe is all," Dave enjoined.
"Dad! The phone is dead. No dial tone. Net's down, and so are the cellphones!" Kyle shouted from the front porch.
"Lock-down kids! Everyone get armed now!” Dave roared in response to this information.
The sound of several engines could be heard in the far distance, but approaching quickly.
"Joe... John... You guys go into the belt and hide. Use the deer blinds. If you hear any gunfire, shoot whatever doesn't look like a deer coming your way," Dave ordered.
"We'll let them know they aren't welcome here.”
The two grabbed their weapons from the Subaru, headed behind the house, and ran through the big shelter belt to the deer blinds. Dave had made the blinds a permanent feature in the belt, built to last. Not flimsy netting on poles, but trenches dug into the earth and hidden by tree limbs. They looked like ordinary brush piles, excepting only a close examination.
John loaded his double shotty while Joe racked a round into his powerful Mosin.
They listened as the engines approached, and then turned into the driveway.
“Time to do some hunting after all,” Joe muttered under his breath.
“Shut your trap, you fool boy!” John angrily whispered in reply.
5. (Hunting)
Hidden in the deer blind, they heard the engines shut off on the other side of the house. The sound faded into a dead empty silence. Nothing. It was if nature had shut off its sound system. Not even the lonely sound of a solitary cricket could be heard.
Joe was a long way from the front yard and had an interlaced row of evergreens between himself and the house. It was quite difficult to hear anything from the front of the house. The heavy tree cover also made it completely impossible to view anything.
All he could see was the empty space between the two lines of evergreen trees, running like a road down the center of the shelter belt. To either side of the wide grassy space were the evergreens, a dense and impenetrable dark green wall.
“Dave must have a brush-hog,” he thought to himself with a little envy.
Joe had no choice but to make do on his own farm, never quite having the extra money to buy a
brush-hog for his little Ford 9n tractor. He had found it necessary in the past to mow his own five acres with a couple of old second-hand riding mowers, which he was constantly fixing.
“Must be nice having full grown boys to help,” he thought.
The thought stopped in midsentence and Joe choked up, repressed rage boiling up seemingly from the center of his chest and fogging his brain. After a few moments, they heard a voice, distantly from the front of the house.
“You think no-one's home?” a man said.
The voice was unfamiliar to Joe, and he heard a second new voice speaking with command.
“Go check the door... Bergson, Niles, Anders, cover him.... Johnson, Red, scout the belt.”
“Huah!” replied a chorus of voices.
Surviving in America: Under Siege 2nd Edition Page 3
