Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy (23 page)

The remainder of the week was spent in the
forest, dressed in army fatigues and carrying a lightweight
backpack and rifle. Clay remembered the first two days in
particular.

Early the first morning he and Joe had left
the compound in the Ford pick up and were deep in the forest before
seven o’clock. They left the truck and were following an animal
trail in a valley between two mountains. Leaving the trail the two
men began to climb up a hillside to their right. The slope was
steep and irregular, with varying degrees of difficulty in the
ascent. As they rose higher the climb became increasingly harder,
until Clay found himself lagging behind. The weight of the pack and
awkwardness of a rifle made climbing very difficult. Hurrying to
catch up he began to climb with all his strength and endurance,
taking changes on dubious footings, and grasping small trees and
bushes for leverage and support. Climbing like a man possessed he
gained ground steadily; he felt this was probably a test to see
what he was made of. Short of breaking a limb or sliding all the
way back down to where they had started, he intended to reach their
destination when his leader did. After ten minutes of climbing at a
furious pace, he felt he was gaining on Joe. In another fifteen
minutes they were close enough to touch, just as they breached a
flat rocky area near the top of the mountain.

The panoramic view before them was
spectacular. The sun, well above the horizon, had not burned off
the mist in the tree-covered valleys below them. It looked like
clouds had fallen from the sky and filled the valleys, clinging to
and obliterating the vegetation. When Clay glanced at his watch he
could hardly believe they had been climbing for thirty minutes, but
it fit and explained why he was tired and breathing heavily.

After removing several items from the
lightweight backpack he was carrying, Joe laid it at the edge of
the small clearing, and indicated for Clay to do the same.

Leading the way to a rock over hang at the
edge of the clearing, Joe settled in under the branches of a large
pine tree. Pointing to a mountain to the south he said “There’s
your target; remember what you’ve learned about shooting this
rifle.”

Clay thought to himself he could hardly miss
hitting the mountain, so there must be some smaller target he
couldn’t see. Lying down in a prone position, he began to scan the
mountain through the adjustable twenty power riflescope, looking
for his target.

Joe broke the silence “The slope we're facing
on the mountain is just under half a mile away. This is a long shot
for a beginner; but I want to see what you can do and learn if you
have what it takes to be a sniper. The scope has been adjusted for
this distance, but you’ll need to make some minor corrections to
make it fit you. I’ll coach you until you develop a feel for
it.”

Clay finally spotted a wide ledge two thirds
of the way up the mountain. He counted a dozen plastic milk jugs
placed on the ground, on boulders, and stuck into crevices in the
vertical rock face behind the ledge. Some were clear and others
were shades of red, green or blue; the coloring, along with shadows
cast by the early morning sunlight, made some harder to distinguish
than others. Clay loaded the rifle and concentrated on remembering
the instructions given during the past days of training.

Joe removed a spotting scope from a case and
prepared to watch Clay’s first target practice. “Remember,
compensate for wind, take a breath, let it out, and squeeze off a
shot smoothly. Which jug are you aiming for?”

On his first four shots Clay missed the
chosen target, but came increasingly closer. Joe appraised each
shot, coaching Clay and making suggestions on how to correct what
he was doing wrong. On the fifth shot the plastic jug tumbled
backward, as the force of the .30-06 caliber 150 grain bullet hit
the shale filled container. After rolling backward several yards,
what was left of the jug came to rest at the base of the vertical
cliff. After his initial hit, Clay missed the next two, and then
hit two in a row. After two hours he had taken twenty seven shots,
and all of the containers had been hit.

The two men ate a cold lunch sitting on the
rock ledge under the shade of pine trees, far above the floor of
the valley below.

Between bites Joe said, “Congratulations on
your marksmanship. You have a natural ability very few people can
develop even with extensive practice. Our next move will be to
descend the mountain on the opposite side we climbed, into some of
the most rugged terrain in this part of the forest. I’m afraid the
noise and the length of time elapsed during the shooting, might
have caused someone to alert the local authorities about the
gunfire; we’re not supposed to be in this section of the forest,
it’s a game preserve. The authorities in turn may relay the
complaint to federal law enforcement. We’ll move deeper into the
forest to evade any possible contact. Tomorrow morning we’ll be at
your target mountain to clean up all signs of your practice
session.”

Clay noted, “If the authorities do search for
us, the pickup will probably be found.”

Joe laughed and said, “Come on kid, you need
to have more faith in me. After we left this morning, Joan rode a
100 cc motorcycle out to where we parked the pick up, loaded the
bike in the bed, and took the truck back to the house.”

After descending the mountain the men spent
the remainder of the afternoon moving silently through the thick
forest, practicing the arts of natural camouflage and tracking. At
dusk they ate food from their backpacks; cold rations designed for
Army soldiers in combat zones where fires couldn't be built.

Overnight they slept out in the open in
sleeping bags, awaking the next morning before dawn under a heavy
layer of dew. The humidity was high, even though the air felt cool,
and their clothing was damp from the moisture in the air. Both men
stowed their gear, drank water from their canteens, relieved
themselves, and were on their way as soon as there was just barely
enough light to see. Joe took the lead through the dense shadows,
moving silently, taking care with each step to avoid breaking
fallen branches underfoot. Leaves on the ground had been softened
by the heavy dew and made scarcely any sound. Clay assumed this was
just another exercise in stealth techniques. He barely saw Joe’s
hand motion him to stop, but noted the man had frozen dead still in
his tracks. Joe’s hand slowly motioned for Clay to move ahead
cautiously and quietly. When he was so close to Joe they almost
touched, he saw shadowy forms in front of them. The shapes didn't
blend into the vertical tree lines of the forest and moved
occasionally. One of the six shapes he could define raised its
head, glanced around, and lowered its head again to continue
feeding on the meager plants growing in a small clearing.

Joe moved his right hand in extremely slow
motion to indicate what he and Clay would do, communicating without
making a sound or saying a word. Joe crouched down, removed his
backpack, and began to move to the left in slow, prolonged,
stealthy movements. Clay watched as the big man moved away quietly
and effortlessly through the shadows amid saplings and small
bushes. He removed his own backpack and laid the rifle with it,
crouched, withdrew his knife from its sheath, and began to move
ahead toward the small herd of grazing deer. He couldn’t believe he
was about to try what Joe had indicated to him; a month ago he
wouldn’t have thought it even possible. But, if Joe was confident
it could be done, then he would attempt it. The deer were still
about twenty five feet ahead and Clay moved as slowly and as
quietly as he could. Even so, he began to notice agitation among
them. They sense something is amiss he thought while managing to
move ten or twelve feet closer to the shadowy forms. He knew they
had to be hearing the occasional twig breaking under foot and the
rustle of bushes being parted. Still in a crouched position, he
stopped often as he continued to see heightened agitation in the
half dozen animals. From twelve feet away he could see the animals
were spread out over a distance of thirty feet, mostly to his left.
His heart was pounding so loud he was sure the deer could hear it;
an adrenaline rush had sharpened his senses, honed like a razors
edge. Everything else faded from his conciseness as he focused all
of his attention on a single target before him.

The stillness suddenly exploded with a loud
screaming sound and the noise of something crashing through the
sparse vegetation and debris on the forest floor. The startled deer
herd froze for an extended instant. At the same time Clay recovered
from his own momentary shock at the sudden but expected noise and
lunged forward. As the frightened deer reacted to the initial
source of attack they attempted to turn and run away. Clay reached
the nearest doe moving in front of him as it was turning from the
danger. On its outstretched rear legs, its body bent almost double,
the deer was attempting to make a desperate leap to safety. As he
sprang toward the animal it was already committed to its initial
evasive action. In three strides he hit the deer broadside, wrapped
his left arm around the base of the animal’s neck and hung on,
slowing its forward motion; at the same time he thrust the knife in
his right hand deep into the deer’s throat, forcing the knife away
from himself and the deer in a slicing motion. The deer faltered,
stumbled, and fell over on its left side, with Clay going down on
top of it. Instinctively he moved to position himself on top of the
doe’s warm body, away from the hooves flailing aimlessly and feebly
to his right as the deer bled to death. What remained of the small
herd had disappeared into the shadows and the only sounds he heard
was his heart beating loudly over the gasps of the animal dying
beneath him. Looking into the eye inches from his own head he
sensed the fear and utter helplessness of the dying doe as he
pinned it to the ground.

Joe had caught a small yearling, not many
months past being a fawn, and had broken its neck before it could
follow its mother in retreat.

Joe nodded his approval to Clay, saying “This
is a lesson in survival, in case you have a job go bad and need to
disappear in order to escape. Remember you can do this, or
something similar in a pinch. Now, we’re about to have a warm and
nutritious, though highly unorthodox breakfast.” Joe extracted a
length of light rope from his backpack, tied one end of the rope to
the doe’s hind legs and tossed the rope over a low tree branch
eight feet off the ground. After pulling on the rope and raising
the deer to the vertical position, he tied the rope off. Digging
around in his backpack he found a collapsible metal cup, extended
it in the open position and held it to catch blood draining from
the neck. He motioned for Clay to do the same, and drank down the
thick warm liquid. Taking his knife in hand, he rose and cut
through the deer’s hide to expose the tenderloin running along the
backbone. Clay watched as Joe sliced off a chunk of bloody meat,
placed it in his mouth and began chewing.

Clay had heard his brother-in-law, Tom, tell
stories of watching old farmers in Wisconsin catching the blood of
cows while butchering and drinking the blood, but never dreamed he
would be called upon to do the same. Putting his cup under the
deer, he caught the dark stream of draining blood until the cup was
two thirds full. Standing up, he felt the warmth of the crimson
liquid transferring through the metal cup to his hand, and said out
loud, but to himself more than to Joe, “Well, here goes.”
Swallowing a small amount of the thick fluid, Clay found he could
over ride the squeamishness he had learned from society by
concentrating on Joe's comment, “This is a lesson in survival.”

After emptying the cup, he stood by the deer
carcass and carved off a small chunk of meat. The meat was firm,
and chewier than he had anticipated, but not at all bad
tasting.

Joe stepped over to the deer and said “Eat
up; this is all you get for breakfast. The whole point of this
exercise is to show how you can live off the land for weeks; and
exist without building a fire or firing a shot. Chances are you
will never need to do it, but if the occasion should arise,
remember: you can live a long time on animal meat, raw fish, bugs
and some native plants. You don’t even need much water if you can
drink enough fluid from other animals. In this business you’ve
entered into you can quickly go from being the hunter to being the
hunted. Don’t ever forget how quickly your roles can change.”

After both men had eaten what they wanted,
Joe untied the rope suspending the deer, let it drop to the ground
and returned the rope to his backpack. Before moving on, they
carried the carcass about fifty feet and laid it behind a fallen
tree trunk, out of sight.

Having again donned their backpacks, the two
men continued following the animal trail. The darkness had given
away to lighter shadows cast by the rising sun, still hidden behind
the taller mountains. After a quarter mile walk they came upon a
small stream running through the valley. Joe dropped the young deer
he had been carrying and gutted it near the edge of the stream.
Clay washed both hands and his left sleeve up to the elbow to
remove the blood. The small deer was suspended from a tree to skin
the carcass, and then washed in the clear cold stream. Cutting
enough meat from the carcass for their supper, he wrapped it in
cheese cloth and butchers paper, before carrying all the waste over
to an area of dense weeds growing in an area open to dappled
sunlight. The scraps, bones, and hide were tossed into the middle
of the weeded area off the normal pathway. Joe spent the remainder
of the day teaching Clay more about the art of camouflage, how to
move silently thru the dense forest and discussing edible plants
and insects.