All four men to the east had AKs. Normally, the plan of attack called for targeting the man who had the best chance of killing you. Assault rifles were always first. When there wasn’t much of a choice, it came down to who looked like they had the most experience. The one on the far right was in full tactical gear, but the man next to him had a beard and carried himself as though he were ex-military, his weapon at the low ready as he advanced, his finger beside the trigger.
Laying the red dot between his eyes, John squeezed the trigger. The shot was an inch low and to the left, but it was fatal none the less. Seeing their comrade fall, the others scrambled for cover. Perhaps they thought John had been gravely wounded or knocked unconscious in the crash and they were simply coming to finish him off.
Sprinting through the spindly grass, John ran for the forest’s edge, hoping to make it to the relative safety of the treeline before he took a bullet in the back.
Chapter 23
By the time he reached the edge of the forest, hot lead was already pouring in, striking the ground and trees, filling the air with bits of dirt and bark. Laying down more fire would only get him killed, so John kept on running. No more than a few yards into the forest, he was already sucking in deep lungfuls of air. It wasn’t just his tactical vest and ammo that was tiring him out, it was double-timing it with his AR and Mossberg Chainsaw over uneven ground.
His Blackhawk Serpa drop-leg holster proved to be a real blessing. Most flopped around when running, which had the unbalancing effect of slowing one’s movement. The Blackhawk was solid and adjustable, which kept all twenty-six ounces of his S&W from getting in the way. Seemed like such a minor consideration, but any soldier who’d ever needed to dash for cover understood the importance.
Now that he was a hundred feet in, John swung around, rifle perched against a low-hanging branch, scanning the horizon. Movement in the distance caught his eye and he put his eye to the mouth of his scope. Not seeing anything, he decided to keep low and continue moving. With several of their own already dead, the men after him knew he was no pushover. Surely now they would approach with caution, an advantage which would buy him extra time to disappear.
Navigating by the position of the sun and the moss growing on the trunks of trees, John continued moving southeast. He was still a ways from the Patriot camp, although he knew the general direction he needed to head in. At some point he would cross back over the highway or else he would end up in Oneida.
To his mind, helping the Patriots gear up for an assault seemed to offer the greatest chance of success. Shortly before the attack, Rodriguez would send out a coded message to his contact in the city. His contact in turn would advise John’s family along with anyone else the Chairman’s men had imprisoned to keep low when the shooting started.
John stopped again and scanned the forest behind him. A squirrel perched on a nearby tree watched him intently while nibbling a nut. Otherwise, there was no sign of anyone or anything nearby.
They would be tracking him, that was certain, which was why circling back toward the highway would be important. He would be exposed, yes, but with a stretch of straight road, it would be difficult for any vehicle patrols to spot him before he spotted them.
John changed direction and cut east. Within a matter of minutes the edge of Route 27 came into view.
After reaching the treeline, he scanned for any sign of the enemy. Seeing none, he ran across the open ground as quickly as he could. The lactic acid in his muscles burned his already wobbly legs. With a burst of willpower, he ordered himself to push on.
Once safely across, John made some headway through the dense foliage before stopping briefly to drink some water and eat a power bar. As he took cover behind a birch tree, he became aware of the sting from early blisters forming on the heels of his feet. In a back pouch was a small roll of duct tape. When he’d purchased it all those months ago back at the Home Depot in Knoxville, it had come in a large spool, so John had wrapped some around an old credit card—might as well put the plastic to good use—enabling him to keep a discreet amount in his rear tactical pouch.
He removed his boots and socks and examined the young blisters. They were red and a little puffy, but that characteristic bubble hadn’t yet formed. John tore off strips of duct tape and stuck them anywhere he saw chafing. This wasn’t a permanent solution by any stretch. But with a long walk ahead of him, his feet were likely to be his only source of locomotion and it was important to keep them working properly.
The sun was low in the sky when John found a place to make camp for the night. There’d been no sign of the men who’d ambushed and chased him into the forest. Whether any of the Patriots in the convoy knew they were under attack he wasn’t sure, although it was hard to believe they hadn’t heard the gunfire coming from the rear of the column. If they didn’t know at the time, they would certainly have found out when they arrived back at camp. It was also more than likely they would send someone back to look for him and Sullivan. John had also weighed the chances that the Chairman, upon discovering his convoy had been taken, would send whatever men he could spare to retrieve it. The threat of roving bands of militia had encouraged John to avoid the roads.
Sure, the trek back would take longer, but his bushcraft was more than enough to keep him alive between now and then. All he needed was stay out of sight and if that proved impossible, he needed to be the one to shoot first.
Before starting his shelter, John searched the area for possum burrows. When building snares, he preferred using picture wire since it was cheap and reusable. With the BK9 he sharpened two sticks and drove them into the ground forming an X, then tied them together with a length of paracord. A young, bent-over sapling would act as the engine, snapping the possum into the air once the trigger was sprung. For the noose itself, he used a bowline knot, reciting the mantra he’d learned as a child in Boy Scouts to help him remember the sequence: the rabbit comes out of the hole, around the tree, and back in the hole. With the trap in place over the possum’s burrow, John could then begin building his shelter.
The spot he chose for the night was on elevated ground. This was important to reduce the chances of water saturating his camp site. There was also a tree nearby with a low, but thick branch. This would prove important for the A-frame debris shelter he would build. Most survivalists tended to teach themselves how to build a single shelter type, but more often than not this could get them into trouble. The shelter one chose often depended on the available resources. A lack of thick pine tree bows would make building a lean-to shelter difficult. If that was all someone knew, they’d likely be in a real jam, especially if storm clouds were brewing.
The process for the A-frame shelter wasn’t terribly difficult. John started by searching the forest floor for a five-to six-inch-thick piece to act as the main support. This would need to be taller than he was so John’s entire body would fit inside the shelter. The end of the main support beam would rest against the tree stump and be secured with a length of paracord. Shorter branches would form the sides, overlapping like fingers steepled in prayer. Next he piled up dead leaves against the frame, making sure to start at the bottom and work his way up. A final layer of thin branches on top helped to keep the dead leaves in place. Finally, John collected dead pine needles and more dead leaves to form the bedding inside. He wasn’t expecting the Taj Mahal, but this would do just fine.
Chapter 24
While he was gathering wood and tinder, a whoosh nearby followed by rustling told John that his trap had sprung. Hopping to his feet, he rushed to find a possum hanging off the ground with the picture wire cinched around its neck. He put the creature out of its misery quickly with the BK9 and then skinned and gutted it on the stump of a fallen tree. He took care to do this a few meters away from his camp to avoid attracting scavengers. While most people tossed the entrails into the bush, John kept them to use as bait for fishing and future traps.