by Joe Russell
He could no longer hear the truck or anything else beyond the natural sounds of the forest, but kept running faster and faster, until rounding a bend in the trail and stopping dead in his tracks. Just ahead on the side of the trail, was Sandra’s shirt that she had been wearing, caught and hanging on a low branch. Dave approached slowly, looking all around him for any other signs of the girls’ presence. He yelled loudly for Sandra and then listened, but there was no answer. He looked around where the shirt was and saw that the dry leaves that covered the ground were more disturbed than they should have been and he followed the trail to the creek. On the other side of a large boulder was the creek with one of the girl’s towels on the bank, but no signs of people. He got closer, studying the sandy bank. Lots of footprints, and not just the small hiking boot prints they had seen a few minutes earlier up the trail. Here, there were larger ones, too.
It appeared that there had been a scuffle near or in the creek. Parts of the bank were wet with water half filling some of the prints, as if someone in the creek had splashed water into them. The prints themselves were jumbled together, as if people were pushing, pulling, or carrying other people. Some prints were quite deep or pressed into the sand at odd angles. Most disturbingly, some of the prints belonged to small bare feet and some to larger boots. Boots he didn’t recognize.
“Oh, shit,” he heard Mike murmur. Lost in concentration and getting tunnel-vision by the intensity of the situation and the effect it was having on his mind and emotions, Dave hadn’t even noticed him there. Clearly, Mike was beginning to comprehend what they were looking at. “We need to call the cops!” he exclaimed, his voice shaking a bit.
Dave shook his head. “How do you suppose we do that?” he spat. “The phones we have are dead, and even if they weren’t, there would be no service here.”
“Then, what do we do?!” Mike was practically shouting at this point and Dave was getting irritated with him. He knew that Mike was scared and stressed, but he was too and didn’t appreciate the slightly accusing tone that Mike was using, even if it wasn’t intentional.
“I don’t know.” Dave replied, trying to stay calm and appear level-headed, although his voice did raise noticeably. “But I do know, we need to stay calm if we’re going to find them. We’re all they have right now and we need to stay cool.”
Mike turned away from Dave, cursing loudly. At least, he’s finally getting it, Dave thought grimly.
“C’mon, let’s follow the trail a little and see if we can find anything. Then we’ll go back for our stuff, or at least some of it, so we can search longer.” He left the creek bank and began back toward the trail, not caring if Mike was following. He knew that they needed to work together on this, but didn’t feel like dealing with Mike. He couldn’t blame him for the emotion that Mike was feeling, but there was no room for it now if it interfered with the action they needed to be taking. Out here, miles from civilization and no way to make contact with it, Dave wasn’t counting on any outside help. He was going to have to find and rescue the girls himself, at all costs. Mike was going to have to shut up, buck up, and keep up, or get left behind.
Mike, still sharing his true feelings regarding the situation with all the creatures of the forest, did follow. The two continued down the path just as the girls had, and found the road. “Shit,” Dave muttered to himself. “I bet they ran across someone passing through.”
“Who do you think it was?” Mike asked, a little calmer now.
“Well, I can’t say for sure, but I might have an idea.” Dave paused and took a deep breath, then continued in a calmer tone. “Yesterday on the way from the trail to the diner, we came across a girl with her car stuck in the ditch a few miles up the road from here. There was an old truck with a couple of locals there harassing her. I talked to them. They didn’t do anything, but gave me a weird feeling like they would have, if the circumstances had been a little different.” Dave stopped, staring straight ahead in concentration as if to study the memory for any useful information.
“So, you think that they were the ones who did this? Was that the truck we heard earlier?” Mike asked.
“It’s very possible,” Dave said. “Of course, there’s no way to know and even if we did, we don’t really know where to find them. But it’s the only hunch we have, and between the fact that we know that they hang around here and the impression I got of their character yesterday, I’d say it’s worth a shot. It’s our only shot”
Chapter 9
Wardensville, West Virginia. Present Day.
Paul, or Pop, as most of his family now called him, woke up to another beautiful day in the mountains of northeastern West Virginia. He and his wife, Marie, usually woke up early, despite being retired and rarely having any rigid constraints in their schedules that they didn’t place there willingly. They usually started the day by getting coffee together and spending time in prayer, usually in their bright and cozy living room for an hour or two, sometimes out loud, sometimes reading the Word, but often times in serene silence.
This morning was no different. It was Saturday and the only reason that had any significance to him was his son and daughter in-law were coming out to visit for the afternoon. He was looking forward to it. At seventy-five years old, he had learned that there isn’t much more for one to be thankful for in this world than healthy, successful (whatever one considers that to mean) children and grandchildren, and having good relationships with them. As simple as that sounded, Paul knew most people didn’t truly have it and he was beyond grateful that he did.
After their morning time with the Lord, Marie began planning and preparing the meal for later that day, which came as no surprise to Paul. He knew she wouldn’t want any help. In fact, like she had told their children fifty years earlier, if he were to ask, she would tell him that he could help her by watching or doing something else, as long as it was in a different part of the house. He smiled to himself and climbed down the basement stairs to find something to pass the time.
Their basement, at least this part of it, was what many would consider a textbook Man Cave. With its concrete floor, cinderblock walls, and exposed joist on the ceiling, the closest thing to a decoration that could be found was the wood stove and a poster showing different Hornady brand bullets and their respective specifications. He had his computer and office desk, a workbench with tools and reloading equipment, a large gun safe, and a single bed that usually acted as a staging area when he was reorganizing the safe. Instead of taking a seat in this room, however, he turned and continued to the next room. More precisely, through the door that separated his room from the rest of the basement. It was a large space that ran the rest of the length and width of the house and was mostly filled with stuff. There was a couch and a couple of beds set up around the room with stacked boxes and other furniture selfishly occupying the spaces in between. There was, however, one corner of the basement that was more organized, although it didn’t appear so at first glance.
At the opposite end of the room was where he and his grandson Dave kept their stored food. Dave usually did the main grocery shopping in the household and when he did, he usually picked up some extra items on each trip. These were typically staples that had a shelf life of at least a few years and longer, if they were stored correctly. Paul gazed over the contents of the shelves containing oats, rice, beans, flour, canned fruits and vegetables, sardines, Vienna sausages, tuna, honey, olive oil, instant and real coffee, tea, sugar, and an assortment of spices. There was also a significant amount of MRE cases and Mountain House freeze-dried items, although they were not the majority. Although he and Marie were usually able to see Dave and Sandra more frequently at other events and places, Dave came over once every month or two to drop off groceries and other items. Since Paul had his own collection of weapons, Dave didn’t store any at his house, but did have his own little cache of ammo and magazines that he contributed to when he brought food over.
As Paul was both Dave’s early role model in this area of int
erest, and the person that he shared it most with now, the two had similar taste in their choice of guns. They had duplicates of many of the same models, such as the North American Arms mini revolvers. And although there were many differences in their respective collections, their weapons did share chambering for the most part. Therefore, it made sense for Dave to store a portion of his ammunition reserves at Paul’s house. They mostly focused on 5.56 NATO, 7.62 x 39, .308 Winchester, 9mm Luger, .38 Special, 12-gauge shotgun shells of various types (but especially 00 Buck), .22 Magnum, and .22 Long Rifle. Although the .22 Long Rifle round and the weapons that used it were generally the least desirable among these calibers for personal defense based on firepower alone, their stock of it just about outnumbered all the other calibers combined. Dave’s justification for this was that it was the most valuable to stockpile in the grand scheme of things because of its broad range of uses. Although they wouldn’t be a first choice in a fight to defend the homestead, the 10/22 rifles they each had could be used in a pinch because of their high-capacity magazines and ability to be fired quickly with their crisp action and virtually no recoil. More useful, however, was the fact that a .22 rifle was the most suitable for economic small game hunting which would be required, should they ever have to be self-reliant off the grid. Finally, Dave figured that because of the versatility of the .22, and the fact that almost everyone that lived in the country had one, .22 ammunition could likely become a predominant, if not the most predominant, form of currency in a barter economy should the U.S. dollar ever collapse. Everyone could use it, and their family wouldn’t be trading away more lethal calibers that could potentially fall into the hands of enemies who might use it against them. Therefore, stocking up on all types of .22 ammunition was a relatively easy way of making themselves essentially rich, and therefore prepared to take care of their family, should the world around them ever deteriorate into a state where such concerns would be necessary.
As Paul gandered at the physical preparations he and his grandson had made, he was filled with mixed emotions. Part of him was happy, even empowered, knowing that they were doing what they could to prepare for uncertain times in an uncertain world. Not unlike the peace of mind that advertisements guaranteed with a good insurance policy. Paul knew that they couldn’t control the future, but in taking the steps they had, they were more prepared than most and that alone could make the difference between making it and not making it.
Still, part of him was saddened by the thought of the necessity in all this. He lamented having to feel like things were only getting worse in the country and in the world, and the sense of security that most Americans derived from the fact that they were Americans was mostly false and fleeting fast. He didn’t want things to get bad, not at all. He just didn’t believe that hiding his head in the sand from the problems around him would make anything better. If anything, it would just put himself and his family more at risk. He did recognize that in some ways things were getting better, like advances in medicine and other ways that technology was in fact, helping people. Even that, however, was a double-edged sword in his opinion. The more advanced technology became, the more people relied on it. The more society relied on it. The farther the distance, between the urban populations and the food it took to sustain them. Two hundred years earlier, people might have had problems that we didn’t have today, but they were also more able to deal with those problems themselves. If they had to grow food and hunt to survive, they would. If they had to defend themselves, they could. No going to the supermarket, no calling the police. Survival was about a family’s own competence and diligence, and communal support was generally restricted to the homestead and maybe a few neighbors, maybe a town or village. But it was there and it was dependable, because there was no surviving without it. Not that supermarkets and police protection were a bad thing, not at all, but if society was ever set back and these modern conveniences ceased, most people would be helpless because they didn’t actually possess any practical skills. The farmer, the hunter, and the soldier would be the new lawyer, business executive, and insurance salesmen. Although Paul hated the increasingly shallow culture that was plaguing American society, he didn’t want to see things change - at least in the form of a collapse - because the devastation would be even worse than the societal filth that currently needed to be sterilized. But again, it all came back to the fact that it wasn’t about what he wanted, but what may happen. Like Dave said from time to time, you don’t wear your seatbelt because you plan on crashing. And although Paul couldn’t tell the future, what he saw on the news each day didn’t make him feel very optimistic toward it.
He was brought back from his thoughts by the faint sound of Marie’s footsteps through the ceiling above him. He smiled, picturing her in her zone. Stereotypical as it may be, the kitchen truly was her zone and she didn’t mind that stereotype at all. Not only did she love cooking in general, but she loved entertaining and taking care of her friends and family. These qualities worked wonders together, and Paul and the rest of the family loved it.
He moved back into his room at the other end of the basement and took a seat at the workbench. His Ruger Mini Thirty rifle was already laid out, partially disassembled from yesterday’s tinkering. He liked the rifle a lot, considering it a great weapon for his particular use. He had an AR and an assortment of other rifles, shotguns, and pistols, but this was his go-to most of the time. He knew that the ARs were lighter and arguably just as reliable and a tad more accurate, but he preferred the rugged feel and construction of the Garand style rifle. The way he saw it, the Mini was a good compromise between the size of an AR, the rugged piston design of the M-14, and the effective 7.62 x 39 round of the AK. Between the limited sight distance in the mountains of West Virginia where he lived and the fact that he wasn’t as steady as he’d once been, he didn’t feel he had to shoot far enough to benefit from the range advantage of the 5.56, much less the .308, and the AK round hit harder within its range than the 5.56 did. Plus, the added weight of the all-steel construction didn’t bother him because he was too old to lug it around the woods on foot anyway. It mostly stayed inside or rode with him on his Honda UTV. Plus, he had both a .308 bolt action and a .280 semi-auto rifle for longer shots, and a few shotguns for around the house. There was always one he wanted, of course, but knew that in a practical sense, he pretty much had the bases covered.
He mindlessly worked on cleaning his Mini, then moved on to disassemble and clean his Glock 23 next. When he was finished with that, he continued to tinker with other various components of his collection of hardware. And so, he spent the remaining morning hours, like so many that had already come to pass in his pleasantly simplified life, looking forward to seeing his son and daughter-in-law and maybe his grandson, whenever they were done with their camping trip and passing back through the area.
Chapter 10
Spruce Knob, West Virginia. Present Day.
Dave and Mike had booked it back to the campsite and were packing the remaining items they had used the night before. “We don’t want to waste time and energy lugging around stuff we don’t need for the day.” Dave told Mike as he packed certain items in his pack. “We may need to return here tonight, I don’t know, but I have a feeling that time is not on our side. We need to find the girls and fast.”
“So, what do we take?” Mike asked. Dave could sense a little fear in his voice, though he’d tried to hide it. “My pack is huge.”
Dave considered this. Fortunately for him, his Rush 72 was a large pack when fully stuffed, but could easily be compressed and used as a decent day pack when needed. Mike’s pack, on the other hand, was a more traditional internal frame overnight backpack and was large and awkwardly cumbersome, even when empty. Then, he noticed the girls’ packs laying on the ground nearby. Although it wasn’t as fabulous as many women’s backpacks out there, Sandra’s was definitely feminine and more importantly, not as camouflaged as he would like. However, Jen’s pack was one of his own that he had handed down to
her when she’d needed one and he had never asked for it back. It was a level 3 assault pack, a large daypack by his standards, and a not ideal but decent overnight pack for a smaller person like Jen. And it was all black, not the best for blending into the forest, but better than most colors. It would have to do.
“There, use Jen’s,” he said to Mike, beckoning to the pack on the ground. He looked at it stupidly, as if unsure of whether or not it would work. Dave supposed he was having a temporary mental block about using a woman’s pack but a moment later, he picked it up and examined it, apparently satisfied. “If it makes you feel any better, that’s my old pack,” Dave ventured, trying to keep the mood as light as he could. He knew that stress, anger, and fear were perfectly appropriate in this circumstance, but none of those feelings would help them now, short of motivating them to pursue their captured companions with a healthy sense of urgency. And, Dave thought, maintaining that sense of urgency wouldn’t be a problem. Sandra might have something to say about his motivation or promptness when it came to crossing off items on her honey-do list, but as much as he didn’t want them to be in this kind of situation, it was right down his alley, in the sense that he didn’t need anyone telling him it needed to be done. Some people considered him intense, even paranoid about self-defense and defense of his people but right now, that’s exactly what the situation called for. As much as he didn’t want all this to be happening, he knew that short of a NAVY SEAL, he was just the man for the job. The thought made his stomach turn. Sure, he was in better physical shape and more skilled and prepared for this kind of thing than most, and he had a mind and a mindset that could handle this if he tried. He was prepared, at least as prepared as a normal guy could be, but was it enough? He feared that any inadequacy on his part could cost the girls their lives, and it scared the hell out of him. All he could do was give it his best, and that’s exactly what he would do. God, you do the rest, he prayed silently.
