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Writing a Story... Appalachia Rising

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fordguy_85:
Hey guys, it's been a good while since I've done more than just browse here occasions, and I apologize for that. I've just been busier than a one-legged man in a butt kicking contest pretty much all year. I'm still working on preps, skills, and gathering tools/equipment; plus working a swing shift job, raising three mini-me's, and on top of it all, the Lord led me to start a church in February. That alone has taken a large amount of my 'free' time, though it has been immensely rewarding.

So, what do I do? Naturally, I need more hobbies... I have started building electric guitars, having finished one already that I bought a custom body for. Then I built a body from scratch, which I'll try to get posted maybe later tonight.

Then the urge to write a book/novella/*insert proper term here*... Anyway, here are the first couple 'chapters'. If you guys like it, I will continue to add the chapters as I write them.

fordguy_85:
Chapter 1

The wind was cold as it moaned its way through the oak and maples as the man slowly made his way towards the ridge. Pausing at the edge of a now defunct gas line clearing he lowered his pack to the ground. Choosing a sheltered spot on the leeward side of a deadfall, he waited. Ahead in the clearing, the snow was deep; much deeper than he would have liked. Had it been as shallow as under the trees, he might’ve been able to leave no trace of his passing, but as it was there was no chance of leaving no trail across the gas line clearing.

He was cold clear through, dangerously cold, but inside him still burned a fire that would not let him quit. Not now. He had lost too much, given up too much to quit and give his enemy the victory. The man knew he needed to make it to the small cave and build a fire to warm himself before frostbite could set in.

After a few minutes, he was satisfied the coast was clear. He stood and stamped his feet in place to attempt to increase circulation, then struck out with long strides to cross the gas line and regain the relative security of the woods on the other side. With clear skies still a shimmering blue, slowly giving way to the purples and greys of twilight, there was no hope of hiding his trail in the snow should any choppers come by and chance a look down at the gas line. The man swore under his breath, and prayed the cold weather would keep the choppers and small airplanes typically used for scouting grounded another day or so. The man prayed the wind that had been slowly picking up as the sun casting its weak rays gave way to darkness would drift the dry, powdery snow into his tracks and hide them.

His feet had once again begun to lose their feeling by the time the small shelter he made by hanging his small tarp across the back of the cave had started to warm from a small, smokeless fire. The man began to get out the beginnings of what would have to pass for dinner. All he had left to eat were some dehydrated vegetables, a pound or so of jerky, a handful of rosehips he'd gathered along a creek bottom, and some crabapples that the deer had been unable to reach. Melting some snow from the mouth of the cave in his stainless bottle over the fire, he let it come to a boil and then added some of the jerky cut up into pieces, a few of the dehydrated carrots, and the rosehips to make a thin stew of sorts. While the stew was cooking, he went back to the mouth of the cave and made sure that there was little to no smoke making its way into the sky from his fire. Satisfied that the brush atop the face of the cave was dispersing what little there was, the man went back to settle in for the night and eat his meager dinner.

Sitting Indian style on his sleeping bag, the man began to check his weapons. Confident that he had not been followed, yet still wary, he did not do as he once might have and empty his sidearm and rifle at the same time to clean them. Clearing his rifle first, as the pistol would be of better use in the close confines of the cave should it come to it, he set about cleaning it. His rifle was nothing special, having only what accessories absolutely necessary. Not only did this reduce the weight, it also increased his effectiveness in a firefight should it come to that.

Then, hearing a noise from outside, the man took up his pistol and loosened the tie-down on his belt knife, a wicked blade ten inches long he had forged from a huge machinist's file, and eased past the tarp partition, into the cold crept silently toward the mouth of the cave. Had a patrol followed him to the cave, he would be in for a fight there was a very high chance he wouldn't survive. Reaching the cave mouth, he soon caught sight of the source of the noise, a whitetail doe and her yearling. He debated taking a shot at the yearling for the fresh meat, but decided the risk of discovery wasn't worth it. Turning into his sleeping bag an hour or so later, he decided to find a suitable stave and build a bow as soon as he could.

fordguy_85:
Chapter 2

The man woke with the coming of the dawn shivering, his breath condensing in the bitter cold. Rolling his sleeping bag tightly, he then gathered his things and prepared to head out.

At the cave's mouth, he paused briefly to check his surroundings. Confident he was alone and shouldering his pack, the man once again set out for his destination. Crossing the ridge, he was glad to see the far side sloping away more gently than the side he'd climbed.

By noon he was back to the outskirts of civilization, and his pace slowed. The mountain forest slowly began to give way for scattered farms, many of which were grown up and in general disarray. Stopping at one such, and ensuring the property was abandoned, he searched the house for anything of use worth carrying.

A thorough search of the house turned up only a few rusty cans of food long since expired and a few pairs of socks, which were promptly packed away. The barn held some assorted tools, but nothing of particular necessity.

He was rummaging through some shelving in the lean-to when he heard it. The unmistakable rumble of a diesel engine made his blood run cold. Quickly double checking his weapons and making sure they were to hand, he peered around the doorway of the lean-to. At the house a nondescript 3/4 ton pickup sat idling as a man stepped out. The driver then shut the truck off and joined his partner.

Thankfully it wasn't a Civil Freedom Corps vehicle, but both men appeared heavily armed. Whether these men were bandits, or only locals making the rounds made but little difference to the man. In either case, he was very unlikely to receive a warm welcome, unless you counted muzzle blasts as 'warm'.

Silently, the man watched as the newcomers stepped up on the porch and looked through the windows and door. While he had been careful, the possibility of having left tracks was still a threat. After just a few moments of looking, the men reentered their truck, turned around in the yard, and left.

Taking the appearance of the men as a sign, the man consulted his map, checked his bearings, and headed out once more.

Twice more the man efficiently searched run-down farms before settling down under some sycamore roots beside a dry creek bed. He used some dry grasses to supplement the insulation his sleeping bag and tarp provided, and as a tinder bundle to start a small fire.

After getting his fire started, and having built up a good bed of coals, the man then melted some snow and boiled a handful of pine needles to make some tea that he drank with his deer jerky.

fordguy_85:
Chapter 3

Heading farther down the valley, the man occasionally skirted back up onto the lower reaches of the long, winding ridges to avoid clusters of houses. While, for most of the local population, precious little love was lost to the now deeply repressive government, there were Loyalists scattered in nearly every community.

The problem was that, even with the locals being sympathetic, the government could increase patrols and impose draconian measures to restrict food and other necessities at any hint of 'anti-patriotic activity'. This could be anything from not showing the proper gratitude for your weekly ration of food up to speaking out against 'duly appointed' government officials.

For those not fortunate enough to have a network of family or friends and a way to grow or trade for food on the black market, that could mean the difference between life and death. Especially in the cold winter months. This was policy used across the length and breadth of what remained of the United States.

Continuing as the valley widened, less and less cover remained in which to hide. Crouching in the shade of some shrubs at the corner of an old church, the man watched and waited to make sure it was safe to cross the road and enter the brush on the other side. He had seen no CFC patrols in several days, but had passed several households which were almost certainly Loyalists. A single phone call to the CFC would net the caller a healthy reward for turning in 'subversive elements', and would have a full-scale manhunt on his back.

Hearing a vehicle coming, and assuming a prone position, the man looked to see the source. It was a panel van emblazoned with the crossed spears logo of the CFC. Worst of all they didn't continue up the road, slowing and turning into the church parking lot.

AlanS:

--- Quote from: fordguy_85 on July 25, 2017, 01:50:03 PM ---....and on top of it all, the Lord led me to start a church in February.

--- End quote ---

Congrats!!! Hope it's successful for you!

I'll have to read the story later when I get time. ::doh::

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