Going Home (43 page)

Everything was going fine; the area was very rural, hardly any houses and, best of all, no people. A subdivision was coming up on the left. Thad was looking at the houses coming up. He didn’t see anyone and was starting to speed up when his heart stopped. Thad was going about fifty-five. In the center of the road, crossing from the left side, was a little tot on a tricycle. She was right in front of him. Slamming the brake pedal to the floor, he watched in horror as the little bike and the blond pigtails disappeared under the hood with a sickening thunk.

The sound of metal grinding against the pavement added to the squealing from the tires to create a torturous sound. The truck finally lurched to a stop after what seemed like a hundred miles. He threw the driver’s door open and stepped out onto something soft that gave with his weight. His right foot was still in the truck when he looked down at the plastic doll leg under his boot. It took a moment for it to register what he was looking at and another moment for it to come together in his head what was happening.

The sound of several feet slapping the pavement brought him out of the cloud of confusion his mind was swimming in. He looked up in time to fall back into the truck as a golf club hit the rear post of the door, warping the club around it. Thad had a hold of the steering wheel with his right hand, holding himself from falling out onto the pavement. In the blink of an eye, he drew the big Bowie knife Morgan had given him. He had hung it on his belt, opposite the Glock, and never thought about it again. Still, he drew it in one fluid motion with his left hand.

Launching himself out of the cab with his right elbow, he buried the big blade into the man’s middle. He could feel the man’s sternum bump against the top knuckle of his thumb. The man collapsed forward, dropping the club and lying over Thad’s arm with a half groan, half scream mixed with a choke. Standing behind him was another man. This one had an aluminum baseball bat cocked for a swing. Seeing his cohort dropping, he was looking at him and not at Thad. Thad shoved the crumpled man forward, the second stepping back, with the bat still cocked. As the gut-stuck man fell to the ground, Thad drew the Glock. As he leveled it off at the man with the bat, the guy looked at him. His eyes were huge; his mouth fell open, and Thad pulled the trigger.

The shot sent the batter flailing to the ground. That was when Thad saw the third man. He was unarmed and had been behind the second. His hands were half raised, his eyes massive, and his mouth open in a silent scream. Thad looked at him; he didn’t look like someone you would need to be worried about. He was wearing Dockers and loafers with tassels. Tassels, for God’s sake! The guy had pissed his pants and was shaking like a cat shitting razor blades.

Thad’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of sick bastard does something like that?” he screamed, pointing to the doll leg lying under the driver’s door. The man couldn’t even try to speak; he just stood there shaking. Thad’s fury was growing. “Well! Who’s idea was this sick stunt?”

With his hands still raised, the man folded a finger over and pointed to golf club guy. Thad looked over at him, the Glock still trained on the piss stain. “You figured you’d just take my truck, huh?” He nodded his head. “Once you start down this path, robbin’ folks, you can’t come back. But I’m gonna give you a chance. If you die, it’s your fault.” The faintest look of relief washed over the guy’s face. Thad lowered the pistol and shot him in the upper thigh. The piss stain let out a scream, grabbed his leg, and fell over.

Thad didn’t even look at him. Walking back to the truck, he bent over at the doubled-up form by the door and used one of his village stomping boots to roll the body over. Without much thought about it, he reached down and grabbed the handle of the knife and quickly pulled it out. He took a moment to wipe most of the blood off on the button-down shirt the corpse wore. He sheathed the knife and climbed back into the truck and started it up. He backed the truck until the tricycle came out from under it. The doll was in pieces, and the bike was a hunk of scrap metal. Pulling around the bike, he took one last look out the window at the three bodies on the road. All three were still there. The one that still had a chance had done nothing to help himself yet. He still lay there clutching the leg. “Your choice,” Thad said as he headed south.

Checking my watch, it was only about eight thirty. Early enough that I should be able to put some miles behind me tonight. Looking at the map earlier, it looked like I had a little less than thirty miles to go, and all of it in the forest. Only a few paved roads passed through the forest. The two major ones were Highway 40, which ran east and west, and Highway 19, which ran north and south. I should only have to cross each of them once, as my plan would take me cross-country. Fishing into the little bag, I pulled out the Silva compass and put the cord around my neck. If I did this right, I should be able to hit the Juniper Run and get some good, clean water. By the time I got there, I’d need it.

The terrain between Lake Kerr and Juniper was upland pine forest. Much of it was managed forest and logged out when the timber was mature. What this process left behind was a patchwork of clear-cuts with brush, knee high to eight feet. Then there was a second growth with taller trees and underbrush and the older growth. I passed through these in the dark in random orders, always looking for lines of weakness through the underbrush. The underbrush consisted of palmettos, scrub oaks, small cedars, myrtles, and various bushes. At times, it could be impenetrable, and you really had to fight your way through.

In one of the thicker areas, I stopped for a water break and dropped the pack. I sat on the stub of a burned-out pine stump and took a long drink from one of the steel bottles. It was so cool and so good that I almost drank the entire thing. Sitting there, I was thinking of how I could speed this up a bit, and then I remembered the pruning shears in my pack. I groped around in the pack till I found them. Finishing off the water, I refilled it from the Platypus pouch and readied the pack. Shouldering the bag, I started back out, cutting some of the more troublesome limbs and branches in places to get by.

Using the shears, I made my way through the tougher areas, but I didn’t cut anything near any of the numerous dirt roads I crossed. I would cross the dirt roads and then walk on the scrub or grass or whatever I could for a ways and then turn into the bush. This wouldn’t fool an experienced tracker but would buy me some time if someone was after me. Again the thought popped into my head:
Why
would
anyone
be
after
me?
I
haven’t
done
anything
wrong.
All
I’m
doing
is
trying
to
get
home
.

It took over seven hours to cover the roughly twelve miles to Juniper. Walking through the dark, the thick bush slowed me down. The change in terrain told me I was close. It went from the upland pine to a lowland and then to a swamp. I knew the run was close. I smelled it long before I was close enough to see it. The Ocala Forest was a favorite overwintering area for the Rainbow people. They are a group of hippies that descend on the forest every year. They claim to be about peace and love, but all they really did was squat on property, both public and private, and sit around and stink. And it was that stink I was smelling, although after this long without running water, it could be anyone really. It was a little early for them to be here; they usually didn’t show up till February.

Stopping in the swamp, I tried to get a feel for where the campground was. I wasn’t sure, but if I headed east. I would certainly miss it and hit the run someplace. So that was what I did. I turned to the east a bit and continued through the swamp. After a little while, I came to the run and knelt down in the bush near the water’s edge. I dropped the pack and slipped up to it. Using the stalk of a palm frond I checked the depth; it was about four feet. Water that deep meant I was pretty far from the spring, so I started looking for a place to set up camp.

It didn’t take long to find a good spot. A huge old gum tree on the river’s edge had been undermined by the current and had fallen over, away from the run. The crown of the tree was a tangled mess, with limbs and dead leaves in a thick ball. Once again dropping the pack, I worked my way into it. Using the shears and the saw on my Leatherman, I cut a few selective branches that would give a big enough area to camp in but provide good cover from the outside. There was a nice thick limb coming out of the trunk that had broken off about two feet out. It was probably three inches in diameter and made a brilliant seat.

I hung my poncho from the branches to provide some overhead cover and then laid the mat and bag out. Taking off the boots and socks, I let my feet air out—and damn, did it feel good! My feet were resting on the Gortex bivy, and it felt like the softest thing I had ever stepped on. Since it wasn’t terribly cold tonight, I decided to take my pants off and sleep in my T-shirt and drawers. Undoing my belt and pulling the pants off, I scratched at an itch on my waist. My fingernail hung on something, so I used the red LED on the headlamp to look at it. To my horror, it was a tick the size of a kernel of corn! Daammmiittt! I grabbed it by its engorged body and pulled steadily on it until it popped out. The bad thing was, if there’s one, there’s probably more.

Using the red LED, I did a quick check, pulling off five more of the little bastards. The worst part was that now that I knew they were there, I itched like furry all over. Taking out the FAK, I used a disinfecting wipe to clean all the spots I pulled them from and decided to do a thorough check in the light of day. By now the eastern sky was starting to turn gray, so I climbed into the bag with the XD. I propped the AK against my limb seat and stuck the carbine under the trunk, just in case.

Drums. The sound of drums woke me. Fucking drums? Unzipping the bag, I sat up and started to scratch. I knew those little shits were all over me. Scraping my nails over my scalp, those damn drums started to get louder. I looked around for the source of the annoying sound. It sounded like it was coming from the campground. It was cool this morning, and my T-shirt wasn’t cutting it. I wanted to get dressed, but first I had to finish looking for hitchhikers.

Using my signal mirror, I did as thorough an inspection as I could, finding three more in various uncomfortable places. The one thing that really stuck out was how shitty I looked. I needed to shave. Before I did anything like that, though, I needed to do a little recon around the area to make sure no one was going to walk right up on me. After dressing and putting on my coat, I picked up the AK and tucked the XD in my pants. In a swamp, sounds can be confusing; they can easily fool you. I took a few minutes to figure out where the sound was coming from.

Determining the direction the damned racket was coming from, I started out. I went to great pains to be quiet, using as much stealth as I could. But in the end, it was a waste of time. I could have driven up to them on a damn bulldozer, and they wouldn’t have heard me. I came up from behind the old wheel house. There were probably thirty of them, all sitting around the edge of the swimming area. Several of them had drums and were steadily drumming away. They sat there swaying back and forth, some with their hands raised over their heads. From the looks of them, they weren’t any threat to me and seemed to be thoroughly stoned or otherwise fucked up.

Back at my camp, I decided to risk getting cleaned up. I was filthy, felt filthy, and needed to get a little clean. I pulled the hygiene kit from the pack and one of my bandanas from the bag. I fished the last pair of clean drawers I had out of the pack too. I still had the clothes I had dried after swimming the river in the drum liner. Pulling them out, they had a slight mildew smell but seemed cleaner than what I had on. After my recent encounter with ticks, I decided I needed to do something about keeping them off me.

Before heading down to the run to wash up real quick, I pulled a small plastic OD green pouch out of the pack. It’s a military clothing treatment system. I picked up a few of these at a surplus store; they seemed pretty handy. I should have used this thing long ago, but being in a hurry will make you forget things. In the little pouch, there were two big OD Ziploc bags, a couple of the thinnest plastic gloves in the world, two vials of Permethrin, and two pieces of green string. Taking one of the Ziplocs, I poured about half a canteen cup of water in it, per the instructions, and then poured in the Permethrin. I folded the pants long way and rolled them up and used a piece of the string to tie it off. After shaking the bag with the solution, I dropped the pants into the bag.

I used the second bag and repeated the process and dropped the other Columbia shirt and T-shirt in it and sealed the bag. I shook the bag real good to get the solution mixed around and set them aside to soak. The instructions said they had to soak for three hours, but I just didn’t have that kind of time. Leaving them to soak, I picked up the AK and the hygiene kit and went to the run. After looking around to make sure no one was about, I slipped out of my clothes for a quick wash. The water was cold but bearable. The one thing I really wished I had was a damn towel. I had a pack towel. I knew right where it was. It was lying on the camping supplies shelf in my shop—lot of damn good it was doing me there. At least a small pack cloth was in the hygiene kit, and I was able to dry off some. I got dressed in the dirty clothes I had been wearing, but at least with some clean drawers!