by Joe Nobody
The tone of his voice left no room for question or protest, not that she would’ve voiced any objection. His bride of 29 years simply nodded and then mouthed the words, “I love you.”
Ledbetter strode purposefully toward the mailbox, keeping on the grassy edge of the driveway. After arriving at the rally point, he turned to survey his spread.
Everyone called it the Alamo to his face. He also was aware they called it Ledbetter’s Boondoggle behind his back – at least they did until the world went to hell. Now, he doubted anyone used that term anymore.
With four years of shop class at William Jefferson Clinton High School under his belt, C. J. had taken a brand new set of tools, loaded them in the trunk of his old, but well-tuned Chevy, and gone looking for work as a mechanic in Little Rock.
Three years later, he was the shop foreman at a large auto dealership. Five years after graduation, he opened his own business. Ten years to the day after leaving high school, he opened his fifth auto repair store.
Life was good for C. J. and his hometown sweetheart. Their first baby came less than two years after leaving school. The stork delivered the fourth child seven years later.
As he waited at the end of the driveway, he grunted at an old memory. “I found a girl who doesn’t mind a man who can fix things and has a little dirt under his fingernails when he gets home.” He hoped he could fix this thing tonight without any of his family getting killed.
After the second shop had opened, the only dirt under the proprietor’s fingernails was from counting money. A nagging recession meant people kept their cars longer. Older transportation meant more repairs, and his business boomed.
Seeming to ride above the economic agony plaguing the rest of the country, C. J. traveled through life with few concerns, enjoying the fruits of his hard labor and wise management. Even the Second Great Depression didn’t impact his livelihood – at least not at first.
As the hard times continued, he began to develop a nagging feeling that something just wasn’t right. A storm was building, just over the horizon… a troublesome sense that something bad was coming down the road.
He began to research on the internet, finding other like-minded people who felt the same way. He learned an entirely new vocabulary and acronyms, terms like bug-out, prepper, and SHTF.
The purchase of 30 acres two hours north of Little Rock met with raised eyebrows from his wife, Judy eventually agreeing with the investment despite not believing his excuse for one second. “Go ahead and buy that country place if you want C. J., but I don’t buy this story of yours. Why would a man your age all of a sudden want to take up hunting?”
He justified the solar power system since it was a remote area, using the logic that, “It takes the utility company forever to restore power after a thunderstorm out here.” She didn’t even comment on the 300 pounds of freeze-dried food she found stored in the cupboard one weekend. The two sealed boxes of seeds remained unnoticed, artfully hidden under some junk in the barn.
It was the purchase of the AR15 that caused a domestic disturbance. “Why do you need that?” she had tested. “What is going on? You’re scaring me.”
“Look, hun, I’m concerned, not crazy. There’s just so much going on that’s bad right now. It makes me feel better to do these things. You know me, I’ve always provided for our family. This is the same thing – I’m just providing for what I think the future may hold, the worst case scenario.”
Judy and the kids had accepted his activities, only the occasional joke accidently reaching his ears. He didn’t care. It just felt better to prepare, to be self-reliant.
His redemption came after the terrorist attacks pushed the already crippled nation over the edge. When the power went out in their suburban Little Rock home, C. J. started gathering up their belongings. When the first food riot broke out downtown, he started packing the car. He barely managed to get through calls to his family members before the cell towers went down. No one laughed at him anymore.
The sound of footfalls pulled C. J.’s attention back to the present, his two sons approaching. “Dad, why would anybody be out in the middle of the night like this?”
“I don’t know, Junior, but it can’t be good. Maybe somebody got word about what we’ve got here… the food and fuel and stuff. Maybe these men are only passing through. After what happened the last time, we can’t take any chances.”
Two years ago, the nineteen-year-old boy would have argued with him. Not now. He’s grown up. Dad’s not so crazy dumb anymore, C. J. thought. I guess it helps that dad ended up not being such a nut job. Both boys were strong and proud – just the way he wanted them - independent, not uppity.
Movement at the edge of his vision distracted the father, but it was only Judy herding the girls into the safety of the main house, the females moving calmly and silently. Good.
His brother arrived a few moments later, a rifle slung across his chest. “What’s the plan?”
“They’re coming in past the big deer hide. If we hurry, we can cut them off there – before they catch sight of the house. The pond on one side and that heavy thicket on the other will force them to walk right through the gap, just like the deer. You and Junior will use the hide; we’ll go over where you got that deer last week. We’ll be there waiting on them.”
Rubbing his chin, the older Ledbetter asked, “And what? Are you just going to open fire? Are we going to try and talk? Fire warning shots? I gotta ask again, what’s the plan?”
The dilemma had been discussed a hundred times, the conversations always ending with C. J. believing he would know what to do when the time came, if it ever did. “It will be just like any business deal or encounter with an angry customer; we’ll know what to do,” he had always concluded. “We’ll play it by ear.”
Now, in the middle of the night with a real threat approaching, he wasn’t so sure.
“Just follow my lead,” he told his brother. “If I start shooting, you guys join in. If I talk, then hold your fire. I can’t be sure until I see them with my own eyes.”
C. J. could tell his sibling didn’t like the answer, but there wasn’t time to argue. They headed out, moving at a brisk pace.
Deke pushed aside the bush and froze, surprised by the open space he encountered. The pond wasn’t large, not even a small lake. He judged it to be half an acre at most, but still a surprise.
The rustle of pine needles told him Bishop was beside him, evaluating the same obstacle. “Guess we go around, unless you’re wanting a swim.” the Texan whispered.
“Guess so. You could use a bath though. But I didn’t bring any soap.”
“Men perspire, women glisten,” came the retort.
Deke waited on Bishop to scan right and left. His light amplification device provided a slightly better picture than his own thermal, when heat wasn’t involved.
“Looks like the woods are a little thinner to the west. Let’s go around that way.”
“Gotcha.”
Waiting on Deke to move out, Bishop pushed the button to light his watch dial, curious how much longer it would be before his partner took a turn pulling the golf cart. While still better than humping the 90 pounds on his back, pulling the little bastard cross-country was exhausting. He still had another 30 minutes before he could hand it off and walk like a normal man.
Not only was the cart heavy, it was noisy. Despite stopping and readjusting the load several times, the gasoline occasionally sloshed while the box and battery creaked. It was just a little more than annoying, especially to men who took such pain to move silently. Deke had taken to calling the wheeled device, “Bishop’s little red wagon.”
The pause allowed Deke to achieve a 15-foot head start, a reasonable separation by Bishop’s way of thinking. He turned the buggy’s wheels in the soft soil and began his best imitation of a draft mule.
It had quickly become evident that pulling the wagon with one hand didn’t bode well for Bishop’s spine. Besides making it difficult to keep his balance, w
alking while half-twisted at the waist was a prescription for pain in his lumbar region. After the first few miles, he’d arrived at a solution – cutting a small length of paracord from his kit and making a quick harness around his middle and over his shoulders. He could unhook his load with the flick of the wrist if need be, and other than trekking slightly hunched over, his movements were otherwise less restricted.
Still, the cart occasionally tipped over on uneven ground. That fact, combined with constant entanglement in low vegetation had put Bishop in a foul humor. Deke showed no sympathy for his buddy’s oxen-like plight, never deviating to travel a smoother path or avoid undulations.
Bishop amused himself by toying with ideas of revenge when Deke took his turn.
So it was a relief when they arrived at the edge of the pond and found the game trail. Taking a knee, Deke waited until Bishop caught up. “I’ve pulled you through some nasty shit, brother. I’ll take my turn early,” the contractor whispered.
Grunting, Bishop said, “Ohhh… now you’re willing to take a turn… right when the going gets easy. What a buddy.”
“Take the offer or wait, Slick. Your call,” Deke replied, his smile showing in the dim light.
“I’ll take it.”
Bishop began unhooking his apparatus, intending to show mercy by letting the other man use the makeshift harness. The process was a little problematic in such low light.
“You okay with a little light? I can get you into this thing easier that way.”
Deke scanned the perimeter with the thermal, seeing nothing that resembled human temperature. “Sure.”
Bishop made sure his torch was set to red, and then flicked on the light. He quickly set about draping the harness around Deke’s shoulders, when something shiny on the ground caught his eye.
Holding up a finger, Bishop took a step and bent, lifting a rifle cartridge for his partner to see. It was a 30-06, a popular hunting round – and it was fresh, only a thin veneer of tarnish on the brass case.
In a blur of movement, the light was extinguished, both operators facing outward in a low crouch – both sweeping the area with their monocles.
Deke whispered, “I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all. Somebody took a deer or hog here. Could have been last week, could have been a couple of hours ago. With that pond on one side and that dense growth on the other, this is where I’d set up to hunt animals… with four legs, or two.”
Bishop wanted to groan at the concept of reversing course, the thought of doubling back with the cart making his legs hurt. Still, Deke was right. Someone was clearly in the area – someone with a rifle.
While the Texan covered, Deke cautiously reached for the cart and began backing out of the gap. Bishop gave him a few minutes, enough of a lead to reach good cover, and then he slowly withdrew, sweeping left and right with both eye and barrel.
Fifty yards away, C. J. lowered his night vision and grunted. Turning to his son, he pulled the boy close and announced, “They’re backing out. They must have seen us, or some sign of us. I saw one guy pick something up off the ground just before they opted to retreat.”
The lad only nodded, not daring to make any noise.
“You go tell the others to stay put. I’m going to follow the two out, make sure they don’t circle back on us.”
Again, a quick nod acknowledged the order. C. J. stayed put behind the mound that had hidden them from Deke’s thermal scans, watching as his son moved toward the deer hide.
After allowing for what he considered enough time, C. J. slowly rose and began moving toward the deer trail, careful with his footfalls and trying desperately not to give off a warning to the men he intended to pursue.
He believed the intruders also had night vision, but couldn’t be sure. At one point, he thought for sure they were sweeping the area with something, but it was difficult to tell.
He also knew that whatever was on the cart being pulled by the two men was heavy. When he reached the spot where they’d paused, he could see the tracks left behind by the wheels. That would make them easier to follow.
He’d trail them to the border of his property and if they continued away, he’d leave them alone.
Their sign was easy to follow, even without the light-amplifying device. Weeds were flattened, and the trough created by their cart obvious in the patches of bare earth. He stopped suddenly, listening intently, sure he heard a noise ahead… a sound foreign to the woods.
He didn’t want to get too close. Now outnumbered, his only intent was to make sure they weren’t headed for his homestead and family. Other than that, he could care less about the strangers’ intent.
The trail took him into a clearing, a space where some combination of sun, soil and moisture prohibited the foliage from growing thick. He stopped again, studying the open area with intensity, hoping to get a glimpse of the men he was following.
There! Almost to the point where the woods grew dark again. There was the man pulling the cart, clearly visible as he bent over to adjust the cargo.
C. J. felt something cold on his ear, at first believing some liquid had dripped from the canopy above. A voice, harsh and low commanded from behind, “On your knees… nice and slow.” The cold barrel pressed harder into the cartilage, an obvious signal meant to communicate the seriousness of the demand.
The ex-mechanic had never felt anything like the terror that now surged through his body. He couldn’t command his legs to kneel, couldn’t make his lungs breathe or his voice function. He just stood there – frozen like a statue.
“Don’t be stupid,” the voice hissed again. “You’re not that good, and I am. On your knees or die.”
Finally nodding, C. J. managed to fold his joints and drop down. He had just settled his weight when a hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back on his haunches, his knees screaming in pain. Before he could even inhale to moan, his rifle sling was sliced, and then the AR gone.
Another hard shove, and his face was in the leaves on the forest floor, a heavy weight on his back. Hands began roaming his person. He felt the magazines pulled from his back pockets. They’re going to kill me, raced through the prisoner’s mind. They’re going to shoot me right here on my own land. Oh, Judy. What will become of my Judy?
Again the same voice, softer, “Go check to make sure no one is following him,” and then the slightest of footfalls fading into the distance.
“What’s your name?” began the whisperer.
When he didn’t answer, a boot nudged his leg. “What’s your name?”
“C. J. Ledbetter,” he managed, his voice sounding weak and distant.
“Well, Mr. Ledbetter, why are you following us?”
For some reason, the question seemed odd… difficult to answer. “I… I… you’re on my land. We had trouble… I wanted to protect…” and then he gave up, embarrassed at the fear that controlled his throat.
“We?” the voice sounded. “There are more than one of you?”
Damn it! Thought the man on the ground. I can’t believe I just told him about my sons.
Again a slight rustle and then a low voice, “I don’t see anybody else.”
C. J. saw a knee next to his head, felt a presence close to his ear, the man’s breath hot against his skin. “Start talking right now, Mr. Ledbetter. My partner and I are only trying to pass through. We didn’t even know you were here. Start working those vocal cords before I lose my temper.”
There was something about the voice in his ear – something in the tone that allowed hope to flow through his veins. “They’re not following you. Only me. I’m alone. I told them to stay put until I made sure you were headed off my land,” sputtered C. J.
“How many?”
“My sons and brother… uh… four of us altogether.”
“Stand up.”
The command was so unexpected, he wasn’t sure he’d heard it right. “Go on, stand up.”
He was shaky, his limbs tingling as if they were asleep from lack of circula
tion. Somehow, he managed to rise. He looked up to see the outline of the man who had taken him so easily – turned him into a helpless blob of boneless flesh.
“Now I’m only going to say this once, so clear your ears. You go back and tell your kin to stay put. Don’t follow us, and we’ll leave you alone. Come after us, and blood will flow... Ledbetter blood. How far east do we have to travel to get off your property?”
“A half mile… maybe a bit more.”
“Okay. We’ll stay off your place, if you don’t stalk us. Do we have a deal?”
“Yes,” C. J. answered, a glimmer of hope clear in his voice.
“Good.”
The stranger held up the captured weapon, ejected the magazine and cleared the round in the chamber, catching the errant shell with a deft motion of his hand. “I’ll leave this ammo and the two mags I took from your pockets about a hundred yards up this trail. You can find them in the daylight. Your night vision will be there, too. Don’t be stupid, Mr. Ledbetter. Go home to your family, and don’t let your ego get the best of you. Don’t start thinking about the son of a bitch who got lucky and bested you out in the woods.”
The man stepped closer then, his presence forcing C. J. to look up into his eyes. They were dark, reptilian-like and unblinking. The voice dripped with violence, despite the hushed volume. “Listen carefully, my friend. I will kill you and your clan without remorse. I’m going to spare you just this once. Now go back and tell the others any story you want, and then go home. Pray you never see me again.”
And with that, the stranger shoved the empty rifle into C. J.’s chest, and then the two intruders were moving, walking briskly back to their cart. The landowner stood in shock, watching the interlopers disappear into the tree line, like two ghosts passing through a wall.
Waves of relief and joy swept through his soul. He felt a sudden urge to hug the nearest tree, kiss the ground and bless the forest. “Thank you, God,” he kept repeating to himself.
Eventually the euphoria wore off, resulting in a hard crash from the emotional high he’d been riding. In a short time, he went from boundless energy and goodwill to bone-weary exhaustion. Turning, he headed back to his sons and brother, not embarrassed at all to tell the truth of what had happened. Besides, he realized, I would be violating God’s law if I were dishonest about this wonderful gift, this prayer he has answered.
