by Ron Foster
Our End Of The Line
Ron Foster
Alabama, USA
© 2018 by Ron Foster
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1727741018
ISBN-10: 1727741013
Printed in the United States of America
Acknowledgements
Henry Repeating Arms
Brass Stacker (TGR Enterprises Inc.)
My Patriot Supply
Gamo U.S.A.
Woods Stalkers
Walt studied the little pond in back of the small country hotel and wondered if he had what he called “The sense God Gave a Goat” in his southern vernacular to even be here today. Times were tough ever since the grid went down and it was either go out foraging and scavenging or try to extend the trap line that wasn’t producing like it should. He was a lonely and unhappy anomaly in this grid down world, a man who was known by a neighbor or two to have predicted this mess they were in and prepared for it somewhat, but all that meant was that they knew where to come ask for a handout after it actually happened. He was what was known as one of those survivalist types, conspiracy theorist or something.
He had warned them all many times that he didn’t have much to share and that they should have prepared for themselves when he had advised them to do so previously but that concept hadn’t stuck on this poor end of the road and folks basically had done nothing to prepare for this calamity. The only blessings he had gotten back from of all his carefully worded admonishments and preparedness advisements that they should do something for themselves before this crap happened was for them to know to come knock on his door and ask what should they do now and did he have any extra food to spare. Well, that wasn’t his only blessing: nobody had tried to rob him yet, they respected him too much, probably because they were scared he would shoot them but somehow his continued helpful nature had kept their desperation at bay for now because they had guns too.
He shared a lot of what he had in his food preps initially and he told them a bit about what “he would try to do” to help them further if they helped him some and for a time it sufficed before the local game thinned to nothing and folks started looking like they would kill him for a biscuit they thought he might have had hidden out. Walt had spent many a sleepless tossing and turning night pondering what was next in this apocalyptic world and had dug into his bag of half remembered woodsman and prepper tricks but the community was dying. Wasn’t much of a community, wasn’t a tribe or anything, only three households on the end of a road that seem to depend on him entirely too much.
At the beginning of this disaster, he had the juice, both figuratively and literally to apply his knowledge and preps to the tasks of survival at hand but these were dying days and he was giving out more than he received in support to do the task. Being alone and on your own sucked during the apocalypse, Walt didn’t have a mate or a family. Oh, everyone was friendly towards him and committed enough at first to let the old prepper homesteader guide them along in this transition from grid up to long-term grid down but when his pantry was empty and his traps didn’t produce, his usefulness suffered as well as his security and popularity in this small seemingly getting more selfish community as times got harder.
He had remembered an old odd red brick rural motel from passing it a bazillion times and he was always wondering how it stayed open and wondering what kind of guests it attracted as just part of the real estate he passed coming and going to town. That it had a landscaped rectangular fish pond visible from the highway set in back of it behind a rusted old barb wire fence had always intrigued him and made the fisherman in him wonder what was in those still seemingly forgotten farmland waters. On more than one occasion he had noted the white feathers evidencing a duck or two hanging out on the lawn beyond the fence of this probable illicit rendezvous for broke married lovers but that speculation made no sense because you could see the entire parking lot from the road if you got out this far. Still and all it was an old farm pond that might have fish still in it and if nobody had thought about collecting the occasional passing or domesticated duck out of it for dinner then it warranted his attention to investigate and use some of his precious gas up today.
He had gotten up this morning as a man focused on a mission, he had told his neighbor who had a wife and three kids of his intentions in hopes of having some more intel on this place but he got no answers and only questions on what should they do if he didn’t return.
The idea was, Walt explained, for him to string his trotline across what appeared to be a disused pond using some dough bait made from a bit of salt, water and flour and see if any catfish or bream were present. Food was short and this was the only new short term solution he could think of.
He and his friend Thomas had speculated on the chances of any fish remaining in it and the hazards of such a journey and it went something like this.
Walt started the conversation up by inquiring who had owned that run down place which neither one could answer, other than agree the nonpolitically correct statement that it was probably India Indians who had taken over most of the formerly white southern generationally owned service stations and country stores dotting this stretch of highway.
Walt didn’t have anything personal against the new inclusion of foreign owners other than him reminiscing about missing the old country boy and girl familiarity of old times and good people and for that matter neither did Thomas except for the newcomers upping prices as soon as they took over and us residents of the old south saying “hold on now” or we will boycott until they acquiesced to a more gentile understanding of poor folks and the ways of southern living around here.
The reason race or ownership of the hotel came up at all was the question of if either one of them thought the owners would still be there. That hotel was right directly on the highway and for the life of both of them they pretty much considered that surely those folks had to have moved on or been starved out of there by now.
“What about that Dim Sum Asian restaurant up the road? That thing has to be picked cleaner than a road kill with a flock of buzzards watching over it by now.” Walt offered in regard to what might be left to pilfer these days.
“I wouldn’t waste my time on it at all, a few leftover packs of soy sauce ain’t worth the risk or gas to go poking about there.” Thomas advised.
“You going to stay home here and help watch my house for me?” Walt asked.
“I would rather go out and run your trap line if I can locate all your sets but I can stay around here and send the boy out to do that. You sure you really want to waste your gas on that old pond Walt?” Thomas said studying the smirking wily man.
“It’s not a case of I want to but I have to, bud, the trapping sets are yours if I don’t make it back in one piece but I still got crap that I would miss if them thieving neighbors up the road see me leaving out today and leaving my house unguarded. I am going to put my trust in you to keep them out of my shit until I return ok?” Walt said extending his hand.
“Good luck to you, brother.” Thomas said and clasped old Walt’s hand in agreement and farewell.
Now it was all on him, no excuses, no worries. Time for him to go shout at the devil and greet what may make it back home, Walt figured, as he pulled into the empty hotels parking lot. He cautiously eyed every window for signs of life and did a brief slow tour of both sides of the building with his van. Not satisfied with that, he pulled back out on the highway and reconned the area further from that vantage point before deciding to park on the side of the road and walk up on it from a distance.
Seemed all clear to his eyes and senses but he was being extra careful. He had a light daypack he brought with his burglar and foraging tools in it and his beloved trusty Henry .22 calib
er carbine. A lot of folks would say that wasn’t gun enough to be toting around in the apocalypse but Walt was confidant and competent with using it. He trusted the rifles finely American made turned rifle barrel steel accuracy enough to take aim and bust an aspirin to dust at 25 yards if need be, Yea I said an aspirin, his daddy had said to him as a young boy when he had practiced with his first Daisy 880 bb/pellet gun that accomplishing that kind of feat was what a true marksman was. He had spent countless hours practicing to achieve such a high pinnacle of performance with an air gun and this had made him confident that there were not too many things that moved on earth that couldn’t be taken down by his unerring eye when he had put the same practice in with the beautiful walnut stocked lever action .22.
He crept through the brush line on the side of the road and watched impatiently the seemingly abandoned building. Sitting and waiting was not his long suit but it had paid off in aces for him many times when stalk hunting deer was the wrong thing to do. He saw the squirrels that had noticed his approach and had hid themselves only to come out later and he carefully noted which trees they were in for later dinner pot additions if the trotline didn’t work. He debated checking the hotel for scraps of anything but had discarded the notion as probably futile as the sun shifted to show the broken in glass on the office front door.
Apparently, this place was abandoned and he gathered his gear to make his way surreptitiously to the small pond to lay out his fishing trotline and try his luck. He got a Gerber baby food jar out to bait his hooks with his flour mixture it contained and enjoyed the stillness of the woods as he contemplated how best to lay out his line.
“What the hell! There was still a duck left here happily paddling on the far side of the pond! Duck dinner? Yum!!!” Walt said to himself getting ready for the hunting stalk but that booger was pretty far off and he paused to think about it.
“I wonder how tame that fool duck is? Probably it is most likely scared of its own shadow by now.” Walt said to himself considering that as far as he could see no other birds were present and had probably been taken long ago by other hunters and starving survivors.
“Damn duck, he had quit following the shoreline and instead was now venturing out towards the middle of the pond ostensibly going to the other side. Well, I will wait for him to get all the way over there. I got to retrieve him once I shoot him and I am not sure at all what else lives in that pond!” Walt thought thinking there might be a Florida gator lurking just under the water in there somewhere with a shudder.
Walt took this time to hurriedly run for the shore while the duck appeared to be distracted. He knew that he was going to be seen anyway by this feathered fiend he wanted for dinner but if he acted like he didn’t acknowledge the ducks’ presence directly it should remain in the water and feel safe.
Paddle, paddle, the duck nonchalantly headed towards the reeds on the far shore.
“Come on now, I ain’t getting in that snaky looking shit to retrieve your fat carcass.” Walt thought as the duck momentarily disappeared from sight in some aquatic weeds.
The duck then poked its head out of the reeds and paddled furiously, evidently chasing a minnow as Walt took a bead on it closing in on the muddy shore. BANG! The sound of his shot rang out and he was off running as fast he could towards the opposite bank to collect his bounty. Walt had no sooner waded out to his knees to secure the no longer flapping duck than a voice from the woods hollered for him to drop the duck.
Walt crouched down and made himself small on the ponds bank and hollered back, “It’s my duck! Get your own!” when a shot rang out clipping the reeds a foot above his head
With nothing more to do than save his own ass, Walt grabbed the oversized leather covered lever on his Henry rifle and sent a beehive of .22 rounds in the general direction of where he thought that the shot had come from and then lit out like blue streak of lightning, duck in hand for the safety of a majestic oak next to a picnic table not far from his vantage point.
“Check Fire! Nobody shoot!” A voice hollered out from the woods in front of him before he started scrambling on his knees and crabbing his way quickly to seek better cover to his left.
“What are you shooting at, Mike?” the voice hollered out.
“Guy has got my duck!!” his original nemesis hollered back angrily.
Walt low crawled further on and studied where his aggressor’s voices had come from.
“Hey stranger, leave the duck and I will leave you alone.” a voice called out gruffly.
“Don’t say nothing, reload and rethink this situation and I should be able to crawl my way out of here. Who the hell are these people anyway?” Walt muttered to himself as he cussed his luck and the mosquito swarm that was intent on making him give up his position.
Walt would have made a lizard proud as he wriggled for cover at light speed and then remained still waiting and listening for sounds from his pursuers.
All was quiet until a voice rang out saying it was all a mistake and that they wouldn’t bother him anymore.
Like hell, Walt wasn’t studying relying on that and caught sight of a boonie hat brim moving some weeds next to a big pine in the distance.
Time for him to play back in Saigon, the old Vietnam vet thought, having been in a tangle or two like this before and wishing one of his old brothers in arms was with him to take on this group. What to do? What to do? My damn duck! You all want to learn to duck bullets? Walt thought as he took a bead on that boonie hat and contemplated pulling the trigger.
“Just leave friend! Go about your business. My men won’t shoot no more!” a voice sounding like an old Army sergeant hollered out
“In a pig’s eye I believe you, buddy but maybe I got lucky this time and they have decided it ain’t worth a fight!” Walt considered.
“Ain’t no way I can sky out of here with that group of apaches eying my rear end and maybe sending some hot lead my way. Maybe he means it but I prefer taking my chances right here. Sounded like an AR rifle was shooting at me, who has got AR’s roaming the woods these days? Friggin’ preppers most likely or country boys with a gun collection and a feud going on, either way the idea is for me to get out of here alive and with this dang duck firmly in my possession if I can. Why isn’t there anything to throw near you when you need it?” Walt pondered trying to think of a way to test their resolve against not shooting at him or distracting them some way by flinging a rock or something in the bushes away from his position.
“The way I see it, everyone is out after everybody else’s hide and I kind of like mine without holes in it. Mr. Boonie hat I am not going to try to get you or scare you with a close shot this time, I am just going to slither on out of here and haul ass once I get me a few more trees between us!” Walt decided before taking off like a banshee wanted his liver.
Walt rounded the corner of the old hotel his boots just a flying and took cover in the cement block enclosures for the facility’s dumpster to look back warily at his would be murderers.
“You no shoot me!” An Asian voice squawked fearfully from behind him.
“You no shoot me either!” Walt said flinching and seeing what looked like a big Colt Python .357 revolver pointing around the far side of the dumpster in his direction. That’s all Walt saw just the gun and the hand holding it.
“You go find another hiding place cowboy! This place mine!” A smallish Japanese man said, poking his head out from behind that huge gun.
“I would be glad to leave but those people chasing me ought to be coming out of that wood line soon and I don’t fancy running out in the open with all that firepower they got pointed in my direction. Hey, you mind pointing that hand cannon of yours somewhere else, you’re affecting my bladder.” Walt said anxiously.
“Why you no let crazy men have duck?” The oriental man said lowering his weapon hesitantly.
“Because that duck is my dinner and I ain’t had anything that good to eat in a couple of months.” Walt said looking down at the bloody white feathers on
the carcass next to his feet.
“Duck not worth fighting over and getting shot. You holler at them you give them duck and maybe they leave us alone, cowboy.” The disheveled little man said with a thick accent.
“I ain’t no dang cowboy, I am from Alabama and how did this turn into a we situation?” Walt said angrily scanning the woods to his right thinking that was where that war party was holed up at.
“You got hat like cowboy and apron pants with shoulder straps on, so I call you cowboy!” The man remarked still peering at him from the other side of the dumpster.
“These are overalls I got on, BIB OVERALLS!” Walt spluttered indignantly.
“And this is a straw hat with Indian beads and turquoise on the brim.” Walt added.
“I sorry, you Indian, no wonder you no like to be called cowboy.” The man whispered back.
“No, I ain’t no Indian either! You just stay over on your side of the garbage can and hush, China man!” Walt said disgustedly and went back to watching the wood line for possible pursuers.
“You Wrong! I no Chinese, I am Japanese! Why rednecks always want to call everyone with slanted eyes Chinese? My name Yoshi!” The man offered.
“My names Walt and I don’t like being called redneck either. What are you doing hiding back here anyway?” Walt said exasperated with this little inscrutable character and that giant pistol of his.
“I hiding same as you! First I hide from you and now I hide from them. Why don’t you give them duck and we all go home?” Yoshi asked once again.
“They ain’t getting that dang duck! I told you that already! I worked too hard for it and besides who is to say they would actually leave us alone and let us go anyway if I did?” Walt said angrily.
