Going Home (29 page)
The old preacher called out, “Brothers and sisters, we have a nonbeliever among us! Let’s show him the light! Bring him into the fold!”
Shouting “Amen!” and “Praise the Lord!” some in the crowd started to move out toward me. I unslung the carbine, holding it at the ready. As the crowd drew near, they called out, “Fear not, brother, we only want to save your soul!”
“Children of the Corn,” that’s what this feels like, “Children of the Corn,” standing here with this group in a semicircle around me. All their faces were dark, as they had walked out to the road where I was, and the light from the flames was behind them. These folks were doing their best to get me to join them in their prayer circle. The group began to part from the rear, and then the old preacher appeared in front of me. He didn’t really look like what you would expect. He was wearing a blue gingham shirt with blue work pants; his shoes were the type of black work shoes you would expect to see on a fifties era warehouse worker. In his youth, he would have been a tall man; his long arms belied his short stature.
The light from the fire behind him lit the silver crown of his head in an almost pink light. Standing in front of me, he went into his pitch, “Son, the hour is upon us. Repent your sins and save your eternal soul!”
This was followed by a chorus of “Hallelujah!” and “Amen!”
“I appreciate that, mister, but I’m just trying to get home,” I replied.
The old man wasn’t swayed from his goal. “The Lord has judged man and found him wanting!”
“Yeah, and left him wanting even more,” I replied. Apparently that little statement had an effect on the old sooth. He just stood there looking at me. His eyes were nothing more than black sunken pits in his face, from where I stood. After a brief moment in his creepy gaze, I simply turned and began to walk away, down the road. I don’t have any feeling of fear of these folks. I walked away from them without ever looking back. I never heard them leave the road, never heard another word spoken. The road out of Cross Creek curves gently as you leave town; when I finally did look back, I couldn’t see the church, only the orange glow cast by the flames around the bend and on the low clouds.
Walking along in the dark for a bit, I started to think about those folks back there. Did they really expect some sort of miracle or salvation to be delivered unto them? Or were they simply so overwhelmed, so impotent to do anything about their current situation that this was the only thing they could do in the face of it? It didn’t really matter to me; they were no threat to me and, therefore, no concern. I dismissed the thought with a shake of my head.
Trudging along, I flipped the goggles down to check out the road—nothing ahead. Turning them off, I flipped them back up and started thinking of home and how I didn’t call today. I hoped that they weren’t worried and that they were all okay. This, in turn, made me start to think about the last call to Sarge and his cryptic message, the reason I didn’t call home. Why in the hell was he leaving his place? What would cause that? I guess the possibilities for that scenario were unlimited at the moment. I guess I would find out a little more later today, and I would call home today no matter what.
Passing a small road, the sign on the corner indicated I was on CR 325. A small house was on the corner. It was dark, but I moved to the far side of the road, just in case. Getting past the house by a hundred yards or so, I stopped to check my map. Dropping the pack, I stretched my back and dug the map out of my cargo pocket, using the red LED on the headlamp to find my location. This small road intersects with 301 just east of here. Highway 301 was a major road that I didn’t particularly want to travel on. This section of it runs almost due north from there; ideally I needed to head south-southeast. There were no roads leading that direction, so it would be overland.
Coming to the intersection of 301, I checked my watch through the goggles, 3:47 a.m. Within the next two hours, I needed to find a hide for the day. One of those little green DOT signs read Island Grove—didn’t look like much. Turning south on 301 and moving as stealthily as I could, I got back into an uninhabited area. Seeing no houses, I checked the compass and turned off the road to my planned overland route. Almost immediately, I crossed a small paved road. Damn, thought this would get me out into the woods. Pushing past the road, it wasn’t a hundred yards before I crossed another larger paved road. Damn! Past this, I entered the bush again, thankfully.
Walking on, the trees started to thin dramatically. Before long, I found myself on a prairie. Looking through the goggles, I couldn’t see the other side. There was no cover on this thing. It was really early; there shouldn’t be anyone around, so I started out across the plain. Being out in the open like this made me feel naked, completely exposed. That’s an odd feeling for the modern world, being afraid to be seen.
Shortly after entering the prairie, I had to cross a fence. Starting to cut it with my Leatherman, I paused and decided to climb it. There could be cattle out here, and I don’t want to let some poor rancher’s cows out. Climbing fences with this pack was a pain in the ass. I had to take it off, put it over first, climb my big ass over, and then shoulder the pack again. I hated climbing fences.
The front that passed through yesterday was carried in on some pretty stiff winds. Now that the front was south of me, the winds were gone. Shouldering my pack, I thought I heard voices out in the dark. I froze, my pack half on, and listened—nothing. After struggling back into the pack, I grabbed up the carbine and took a look around the prairie, green gloom, nothing but green gloom. Moving as I was was taking me away from Island Grove, leaving the little hamlet over my left shoulder. It was over my left shoulder that the field suddenly lit up, the green view of the goggles blazing.
Dropping where I stood and pulling off the goggles, I rolled out of the pack, struggling with its weight on the ground, I felt like a damn turtle on its back. Finally freed from the pack, I rolled around to the direction the light came from; the field was dark again. Lying prone with the carbine across the pack, I continued to scan the pitch blackness. It didn’t take long for the light to cut across the field again; this time I locked on the location of the source.
The light, bright-ass light, swept back and forth across the field. Was someone looking for me? I chuckled to myself, remembering the words of a good friend of mine: “It isn’t always about you.” Asshole, I muttered under my breath. The light stopped its sweep; it was locked onto something in the field off to my right. Looking out there, I saw two does, maybe seventy-five yards from me.
Whoever took the shot made a damn good one. She dropped right where she was, without taking a step. The other one bounded off into the darkness. The light stayed locked onto her but began to jiggle around, drawing near. Shit, someone’s coming. A couple of minutes later, two figures appeared by the doe. One figure was tall, and the other was short. From the sound of the voices I could tell it was a kid—a girl—and a man. The girl held the light as the man knelt to work on the deer.
Being so close, I heard them talking. The little girl was excited about the prospect of food, something that had been in short supply, apparently. She was chastised by the man, from the tone he was clearly her father, a couple of times for shining the light around the field, putting the blade in his hands in the dark. It seemed that Amy was afraid of the dark. I felt a tug at my heart as I listened to him talk to her. He spoke softly and gently to the little girl, explaining to her that this was what was needed if they wanted to eat; she was a trooper and took the grisly scene before her in stride. It so reminded me of my little one, always ready to go fishing and help clean the fish. “Help” usually consisted of touching the fish’s eyes and washing the fillets with the hose on the cleaning station behind the shop.
He finished his field dressing quickly, an experienced hand, I would guess, and they were headed back the way they came. He dragged the doe by one of the ears, his rifle in the other hand. The light blinked out shortly after they started moving. I lay there listening to them go, the sound of the deer scuffing across the ground and the little girl’s voice fading. When I felt they were far enough away I jumped up and quickly shouldered the pack. I want out of this damn field.
I went toward the gut pile, curious more than anything else. I was very surprised to find that he left the heart and liver. With food in short supply, I couldn’t imagine leaving any cut behind. Steam still rose off the pile of offal; this mixed with the smell of the rain-soaked prairie. It created such an intense natural aroma—one that was nearly impossible to describe. Fog was already starting to rise off the rain-soaked grass. Not being a fan of deer liver, I picked up the heart; taking a quick minute to find a Ziploc bag in the pack, I dropped it in. I was having some fresh meat for breakfast or dinner or the next time I eat.
I finally came off the prairie though the Orange Creek Restoration Area, only having to climb two more fences. Taking the driveway out of the restoration area, I was at another road. On the other side was a small forestry sign indicating the boundary of a conservation area, meaning no houses, perfect. Crossing the road, I checked my watch again. It was almost five—time to find a camp.
A small dirt lane led out into the bush, heading off in the southeasterly direction I needed to go. Knowing that roads increased risk, I took it anyway. The benefit of moving farther, faster, and easier was worth it. The roadbed didn’t show any sign of travel, no tire tracks or footprints other than those of deer, coons, and other critters. There was no sign of people anywhere, so I started to look for a place to camp near the road, making it easier to start off in the evening.
A straight horizontal line in the trees caught my eye through the green haze of the goggles. It was unnatural and didn’t fit with everything else. I moved a little closer to see what it was and discovered a small metal shed. It was off the road a little and covered in old grapevines. Winter killed stems of dog fennel, and beauty berry plaited the sides and door. Stopping a couple of yards from it, I stood and listened for any sounds of people. Satisfied it was empty, I pulled the door open, stepping on the fennel stalks to swing the door out. Inside was a dirt floor, covered in litter in the form of cigarette packs and butts, empty beer cans, and condom wrappers. Fortunately, I didn’t see any condoms.
Going in, I dropped my pack in one corner and used my boot to sweep all the litter to one side. This little shed was about eight-by-eight and made a nice little hide for the night. From the look of the outside, no one had been around it in a long while. Satisfied that there wasn’t anyone’s DNA lying around in a latex sock, I laid out the sleeping mat and sat down on it. From the pack, I pulled my stove and fuel bottle, mess kit, and deer heart. Inside the top flap of the pack I keep a small cutting board; it’s one of those really thin ones and is only about ten by twelve inches. A board or something flat would be nice to lay it on. Looking around the little shed, I didn’t see anything, so I went out to walk around and see if there was something out there.
Behind the shed was a trash pile—full of old cans, pieces of junk, old hoses, and a bunch of little black plastic pots, the kind you use to start plants in a greenhouse. In the junk, I found a rather stiff metal sign that read, Beware of Dog, in fading red letters. It would make a good base for the cutting board. Carrying it back inside, I set it down and pulled the Glo-Toob out and turned it on. There weren’t any windows, so the likelihood of anyone seeing the light was slim. Setting the stove up, I dumped the contents of the pot out on the sleeping mat and poured a couple of inches of water in it. Digging through the pack, I found an accessory pack and took out the salt packet and poured it into the water and stirred it up.
With the cutting board on the sign and that on one end of the mat, I laid the heart out and started making half-inch-thick cuts across it, starting at the bottom and working my way up. I cut the valves out and trimmed some of the meat from around them, placing each piece into the salted water. Once I had cut everything I could from it, I lit the stove with my fire steel and set the pot on to boil. I buried the leftover parts of the heart in the corner of the shed, using my little trowel.
Since I was going to have fresh meat, I decided to splurge a bit. Pulling a pack of cocoa from the pack, I set a canteen cup of water on the Esbit stove and lit the tab with a BIC. Rooting around some more, I found a pouch of Mexican rice and stuffed it in an MRE heater with a little water. The water in the pot began to boil, so I turned the heat down a bit to maintain a low boil and put the lid on. I pulled the sleeping bag out and used it as a big pillow to rest an elbow on while my dinner heated up. The tab in the Esbit stove burned out. The water wasn’t boiling, but it was steaming, so I dumped the cocoa in and stirred it up. Checking the heart, it was already turning a dark brown—good enough.
Taking the pot from the stove with the lifter, I went outside and around to the junk pile, where I poured out the water, and then I came back inside. In my mess kit, I keep a small bottle of olive oil. I poured enough in to coat the bottom of the pan by rolling it around. Then I shook one of the small bottles of Tabasco into the pot and set it back on the stove, using the little folding spatula to stir the cut-up heart and sauté it in the oil. It smelled great and was making me seriously hungry.
Checking the pouch of rice, the heater was hot and swollen. Taking it out of the heater, I cut open the pouch and dumped the rice into the pot and mixed it with the heart. I sat there and ate, savoring every bite. It was so good—hot, fresh meat, and the sweet cocoa washing it all down. The meat was a little tough; it’s better to soak it in the salty water for a while. Nonetheless, this was the most satisfying meal I’d had in a long time.
With a full belly, I packed the stove up and poured a little more water into the pot. Using the little bottle of dish soap and scrubber, I cleaned the pot and used the soapy water to wash the cutting board, then rinsed them with a little more fresh water from the Platypus bag and dried them with a clean bandana. After putting everything back into the pot, I strapped the top back on and stowed it in the pack and put the cutting board back in the flap pocket. I cleaned my knife with the scrubber and dried it with the same bandana and then sheathed it on my belt.
