Daniel Palmer
Constant Fear
© 2015
For Clyde Terry and Susan Palmer Terry, who embody constant courage.
CHAPTER 1
“Death doesn’t schedule an appointment.”
Jake Dent had said this on many occasions, but wasn’t certain the mantra had stuck in his son’s teenage brain. Still, it was the truth. Death could show up at any hour, on any day, uninvited, unwelcomed.
Jake was dressed for the cool March weather; and much like a hunter, he wore three layers to protect him from the elements. The windproof fabric of his camouflage jacket was a four-color woodland pattern, designed to blend with the widest variety of western Massachusetts foliage.
It would help him evade the enemy.
At three o’clock in the morning, his son would be sound asleep. Sure enough, Jake could hear heavy breathing through the hollow-core door to Andy’s bedroom. Jake could have upgraded that door to a more substantial model, but it would have been an unnecessary expense. Jake opted to invest his limited resources in products that could help him and his son stay alive. Priorities. For this reason, Jake kept everything to only essentials in the double-wide trailer he and Andy called home.
To reach safety, Jake and Andy would have to traverse several miles of rugged woodland in complete darkness. If anything went wrong en route to their destination, they’d carry enough provisions to make the forest their new home until it was safe to move again. Everything Jake needed to survive was stored neatly inside his GOOD (Get Out of Dodge) pack. The nylon camouflage bags mounted to an ALICE frame, standard issue for the U.S. military for some years, offered plenty of storage. Two zippers on the front of the bag allowed rapid access to the contents within.
Inside the bags, Jake had packed three liters of water-one liter per day per person-as well as a four-liter water-filtration system. The other contents of his pack were equally vital. If they couldn’t reach their destination, the meals and energy bars would provide enough nutrition for several days. Jake prepared for the “ifs” as if they were certainties.
He had packed enough clothing for a weekend camping trip. Sturdy boots, long pants, long underwear, two shirts (good for layering), two socks (wool, not cotton), two hats, and a bandanna. Bandanas had multitudes of uses, Jake had discovered over the years. A tent and ground tarp would provide some protection from the elements, and his down-filled sleeping bag was long and wide, perfect to cocoon his broad-shouldered, six-two frame. Jake had also packed three different ways to make fire, cooking gear, hygiene products, a first aid kit, and, perhaps the most important item of all, a.357-caliber SIG SAUER P226, carried by police officers and the military. Jake’s SIG held fifteen 9mm rounds and was a durable weapon that could thrive in tough conditions.
Jake opened Andy’s bedroom and sidestepped several piles of clothes strewn about like mini moguls. Standing beside Andy’s bed, Jake gazed at his son and watched him sleep. They should be moving, and quickly, but he couldn’t resist the urge to stop and stare. Even though Andy was sixteen-Sixteen? How did that happen?-Jake could see the little boy lurking inside the young man. This was his son, the one person in life Jake most wanted to protect.
With his ruffled mop of curly, dark hair and penetrating chocolate eyes, Andy would one day grow into a truly handsome man. But according to him, the girls at Pepperell Academy-popular, preppy, and loaded with cash-focused on Andy’s braces, his nose (a bit too big for his face), a slight peppering of acne, and thin arms not yet muscular. While the awkward teenage years lingered, Andy would concentrate his energies on things other than dating.
Andy’s cluttered room was typical of any teen. Posters on the walls showed characters from the hit television shows Doctor Who, The Big Bang Theory, and some cartoon that was apparently an Internet thing Jake didn’t even pretend to understand. The most spectacular object in Andy’s cramped but cozy bedroom was a desk he and his friends had built to look like a large-scale model of a TIE Fighter from the Star Wars movies. Andy and his pals from Pepperell Academy were self-proclaimed geeks, and damn proud of it.
Atop the TIE Fighter desk was the largest computer Jake had ever seen. Andy had built it piece by piece, and it looked to Jake like a sentient robot, with all the blinking lights and wires jutting out from the back. While Andy was a computer code maestro, writing apps that he and his buddies sold via iTunes, Jake’s knowledge of the blasted machines was limited to e-mail, Google, and the occasional Microsoft Word document.
Jake shook Andy awake. The boy’s bony shoulder fit inside his palm like a baseball, and Jake’s thoughts flit back to days long gone. He closed his eyes and imagined the smell of fresh-cut grass, the feel, the texture of the pitcher’s mound, and the roar of the crowd. How times had changed.
Andy’s eyes fluttered open. He looked disoriented, but only for a moment.
“They’re coming,” Jake said, his voice calm and even. “We’ve got to go. Now. It’s go time.”
Andy swung his legs off the bed. A second later, he was on his feet, sturdy as if he’d been awake for hours. In the next instant, Andy had the accordion closet doors pulled open, grabbing the clothes he’d set aside for this very moment. They were the only clothes in his bedroom neatly folded and organized. His steel-toed hiking boots were intentionally unlaced, making them easy to slip on. Like his father, Andy dressed in layers, and wore a matching camouflage pattern.
Jake observed the rise and fall of Andy’s chest. A push of adrenaline had turned his son’s breathing visibly rapid. Adrenaline had its advantages. It would help Andy move faster through the woods, and might make him impervious to pain-should he fall or twist an ankle during the run. It had a downside, too. If stress and adrenaline induced insulin resistance, Andy could be in serious trouble, but his son knew best how to manage his diabetes.
Keeping Andy to a regular eating and sleeping schedule would have been ideal, but that was no longer an option. Andy must have shared his father’s concern, because he took out his OneTouch Ultra-Mini blood sugar monitor and a test strip. He held the lancing device against the side of his finger, pressed the release button, and didn’t flinch when the needle broke the skin. A small drop of blood materialized with a slight squeeze of the finger. Andy placed the blood drop perfectly on the test strip. Practice, thousands of repetitions.
Andy didn’t share the results with Jake. This was part of adolescence. Monitoring Andy’s condition had been Jake’s responsibility since his son was five. At some point, however, the baton had passed, and Andy took responsibility for his blood glucose levels without Jake’s intervention. Like setting a curfew, Jake trusted that Andy would follow the rules and be diligent with his health. It was all part of building Andy’s confidence and self-reliance.
When the levels weren’t ideal, Jake had learned to avoid making accusations. As much as he wanted to shout, “Why is your blood sugar so high? Did you eat something you weren’t supposed to?” he didn’t. Jake believed in giving roots and wings, and he needed to show Andy that he trusted his judgment. He encouraged his son to make decisions for himself, offering praise whenever Andy made the right ones. It was what any parent of a teenager would do.
The glucose reading must have been fine, because no insulin injection followed. Andy slipped on his own GOOD pack. Inside were the same provisions Jake had brought, minus the SIG SAUER, as well as everything he needed to manage his diabetes.