It's About Liberty: A Conservative Forum

Forum Business => Member Original Diaries => Topic started by: fordguy_85 on July 25, 2017, 01:50:03 PM

Title: Writing a Story... Appalachia Rising
Post by: fordguy_85 on July 25, 2017, 01:50:03 PM
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.
Title: Re: Writing a Story... Appalachia Rising
Post by: fordguy_85 on July 25, 2017, 01:50:50 PM
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.
Title: Re: Writing a Story... Appalachia Rising
Post by: fordguy_85 on July 25, 2017, 01:51:20 PM
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.
Title: Re: Writing a Story... Appalachia Rising
Post by: fordguy_85 on July 25, 2017, 01:52:13 PM
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.
Title: Re: Writing a Story... Appalachia Rising
Post by: AlanS on July 26, 2017, 04:06:20 PM
....and on top of it all, the Lord led me to start a church in February.

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

I'll have to read the story later when I get time. ::doh::
Title: Re: Writing a Story... Appalachia Rising
Post by: fordguy_85 on July 26, 2017, 04:48:33 PM
Thanks Alan! So far we've already seen success in getting some folks to come, and hope to continue.
Title: Re: Writing a Story... Appalachia Rising
Post by: Libertas on July 27, 2017, 11:53:13 AM
I like it, keep it coming!  ::thumbsup::
Title: Re: Writing a Story... Appalachia Rising
Post by: IronDioPriest on July 27, 2017, 03:19:07 PM
 ::thumbsup:: ::thumbsup:: ::thumbsup::
Title: Re: Writing a Story... Appalachia Rising
Post by: benb61 on July 27, 2017, 04:23:09 PM
Me too.  I already feel invested in the main character and am curious what happened to put him in the situation/predicament that he is in.
Title: Re: Writing a Story... Appalachia Rising
Post by: fordguy_85 on July 27, 2017, 08:25:22 PM
Chapter 4

As the van pulled into the church parking lot, the man made himself as small as possible under the evergreen shrubs to the side of what had been the handicap ramp to the entrance. Praying he would not be spotted, he continued to watch the van.

After parking, he could hear the sliding door open on the off side of the van, then the shutting of the drivers door as he disembarked. The man counted five sets of feet and his sidearm. Praying he could make it into the scrub across the road without getting hit, the man prepared to make a dash for it.

Just as he was about to roll out from under the bush and run he heard shouting from the van, then a gunshot rang out, echoing loudly in the cold air.

Knowing he couldn't have been seen, he raised up to investigate where the shot had come from. What he saw made his blood boil. For the van was a prisoner transport, and one of the prisoners had tried to make a run for it, nearly making it across the road before taking a round to the back.

Carefully, rifle at the ready, the man eased his way around to the van's rear. Just as he was about to come around the back of the van, he heard one of the CFC thugs speak. "I wish both of you were as 'brave' as your friend there... it'd save us quite a bit of trouble to put a bullet in your ignorant heads instead of shipping your sorry hides all the way to Roanoke."

He heard what he hoped was the guard re-bolstering his pistol and stepped around the van. The driver spotted him, but took two rounds before he could cry out or pull his weapon. Two quick steps had the man's rifle barrel scant inches from the other CFC guard's face. "Go ahead buddy. Nothing would make me happier than to leave you here to rot." He then reversed his rifle, and knocked him out.

Taking the keys from the guard, the man released one prisoner, then handed him the keys to release the other then went to the road and checked the fallen man, who had died practically immediately. Cursing, he pulled him back across the road to the church parking lot.

When he returned, the guard seemed to have picked up a couple broken ribs, had been gagged, and was glaring with an incontinent rage. One of the prisoners handed him his knife back, and said, "Shore am glad you showed up, hoss. We figured we were goners for sure when we pulled in here. My name's Marty, this is Rick. Our friend's name was Dwight."

"Sorry I wasn't in a position to do something sooner, but from where I was, y'alls feet all looked the same, and I wasn't about to take on five CFC's. My name is Preston, and I'm sorry about Dwight."
Title: Re: Writing a Story... Appalachia Rising
Post by: fordguy_85 on July 27, 2017, 08:27:01 PM
Chapter 5

The remaining CFC soldier, whose nametag read 'Wolford', was pressed into service to dig a shallow grave for Dwight behind the church. Having only an e-tool to use, it took some time in the frozen, rocky soil. Preston pulled the CFC van around behind the church, out of sight to casual passers by.

After the grave was dug, Marty and Rick said a few words over Dwight. Preston and the other talked amongst themselves over what to do with the CFC soldier as Wolford, once again trussed up and gagged, resumed his  scowling while trying to catch his breath in the cold.

All three agreed that Wolford was a major threat to the three of them, though Preston didn't want to just execute the now helpless prisoner. Rick said, "I understand where you're coming from, but you may not realize the things these guys have done to folks like us when we get caught. This piece of garbage shot Dwight in cold blood, and as far as I'm concerned an 'eye for an eye' is an acceptable way to settle this."

In the end, Preston gave in, allowing Rick to execute a no longer glaring Wolford with his Glock 22. After the deed was done, the three men hastily covered his body and the other guard, whose name tag read 'Fleeman' with stones and fallen limbs to discourage scavengers from scattering the remains.

Going through the van, the men took everything of value they could carry. Preston took only some rations, an extra magazine for his AR, and a few rounds of ammo. Marty and Rick ended up with the guards' rifles and sidearms, ammo and mags for each, and two Molle assault packs.

Preston asked the two men if they had somewhere they could head to, and that if they didn't, they could come with him so long as they could keep a low profile in the woods.

Marty had lost his wife in the raid that had seen him become a POW in his own country, while Rick was a bachelor so neither had anything much to return home for or to. Both men were from southern WV. Preston agreed that the men could accompany him back to his small compound deep in the mountains so long as they could pull their own weight in 'the bush'.

Knowing the van would attract attention pretty quickly, even behind the old church, the three men decided to try to get it as far away from there as possible. Spotting a place just down the road with an opening in the brush, they decided to put the four-wheel drive capabilities to the test. Spotting for Marty, Preston guided him across the berm and into the brush beyond it. Then Preston cut some small saplings and brush from beyond the road to disguise the opening they'd driven through. Finally, he took a limb from a small white pine to attempt to clear the tracks from the shoulder of the road.

After a short distance, the brush gave way to fairly open woods, but navigating the rocky terrain was difficult in the top heavy van. After about a half mile, it was clear the men would have to ditch the van.
Title: Re: Writing a Story... Appalachia Rising
Post by: AlanS on July 28, 2017, 02:29:17 PM
Chapter 1

The wind was cold as it moaned its way ....

I have no idea why, that reminded me of this. ::laughonfloor::


Great read so far, Eric! ::thumbsup::
Title: Re: Writing a Story... Appalachia Rising
Post by: fordguy_85 on July 29, 2017, 04:44:18 AM
Thanks guys. This is, thus far, the longest thing I've ever written, so bear with me on it.

Alan, I can perfectly understand.

Here's some more.

Chapter 6

After pushing the van as far as they could, Preston, Marty, and Rick double checked the van for usable items, finding a flashlight and some spare batteries. They also emptied the glovebox of official registration and interstate movement authorization papers to use in firemaking.

After an hour or so, the three men established a good pace to get some distance between them and the abandoned van. Pushing straight through without stopping, the men hiked speaking but little, leaving themselves just enough time to make camp before stopping.

Spotting a rock bluff, Preston led them to a spot with a natural chimney and they started gathering limbs to build a large lean-to. A bit later, the men huddled over the warm fire waiting on jerky stew to finish cooking while attempting to get to know one another. They each also took advantage of the calories in an MRE package.

After eating Preston spread the fire out between their beds, adding a small amount of fuel to keep it burning a bit. Drawing for watch duty, Rick drew the short pine needle and settled down at the low 'doorway' to the lean-to shelter. Preston would be second up and handed Rick his antique pocket watch to keep time by.

Just before 2:00AM, Rick heard a limb break at the bottom of the bench, somewhere around 150-200 yards away, he shook Preston awake. Preston, unaccustomed to being wakened, came to sidearm in hand. "Shhh..." Rick motioned for Preston to wake Marty.

As Marty was coming around, Preston and Rick sat outside the lean-to listening, rifles at the ready. After another *snap* and hearing some grunting, they decided a black bear posed a bit less of a threat than did a squad of CFC troops. Seeing it was nearly 2:30, Preston had Rick and Marty turn in, promising to wake them at 6:00.

 With nothing to do but occasionally feed the spread out fire and think to keep himself awake and listening, Preston's thoughts soon turned to happier, better times. He thought of many mornings spent waiting for dawn with his father, either squirrel or deer hunting. Thoughts of his father, though, did not stay pleasant for long.

No one knew what the straw was that had broken the camel's back, but Preston figured it didn't matter. The coup de grace had been carried out overnight in a well planned, surgical strike planned by corrupt politicians, a former president, and several prominent businessmen. Millions of Americans had wakened to only one program on television, a looping broadcast that sought to control public perception of the 'regrettable but unavoidable' deaths of so many public officials. The Vice President almost immediately declared martial law, and Congress pushed through legislation that declared the Constitution to be abolished effective directly. Men and women who had appropriately greased the correct palms were appointed to vacant as well as entirely new positions.

Overnight, patriot groups, militias, and similarly minded men and women took up arms to resist. Decades of purging the military brass of conservatives and those who took their oaths to defend the Constitution had led to a military that was indifferent to the rights that had been taken for granted for so long. This military then turned their full might against those who had once bought meals for them, thanked them for their service, and shared the bond of citizenship with.

One of Preston's grandfathers had served in the Marine Corps and seen some of the last combat action in Vietnam, and when Saddam's regime was ousted from Iraq was a full bird Colonel. His Father had been stationed in Japan when North Korea leveled Seoul with a nuclear weapon carried by their Nodong missile system. After his Humvee was hit by an RPG, he was medically discharged from the Corps. Only two years later, he was killed fighting; not in North Korea, Afghanistan, or some other third world hellhole. He shot on American soil by a CFC soldier outside of Knoxville, TN.
Title: Re: Writing a Story... Appalachia Rising
Post by: fordguy_85 on July 29, 2017, 04:44:57 AM
Chapter 7

As the night slowly began to give way to the dawn, Preston shivered as the wind began to shift. Waiting a few minutes longer, he woke Marty and Rick. Bleary eyed and stiff, the three men tore down their shelter and made an effort to hide the remains of their fire.

Checking his map, Preston verified their bearings, and the three of them headed out into the wilderness yet again. Finding a deep draw leading up to a low saddle, the men decided to try trekking out the ridge line. Pausing only as necessary, the men made good time. Consulting his map as they rested eating a cold lunch of jerky and crabapples, Preston calculated that they could make it to his homestead in about two.

As they headed out after lunch, Preston set his mind to figuring out how he wanted to approach the upcoming river crossing. Not wanting to risk a report of a missing boat, yet wanting a quick way across, he spoke with Marty and Rick as they walked and they agreed that a raft would likely be the most practical solution.

Crossing a deep valley to avoid two small towns, the trio once again made the arduous climb to the ridge top of the other side. Preston knew this particular ridge would bring them right to the river crossing. From there, they would have a steep scramble up the far side, but it was fairly secluded.

Marty was on point when he saw the men. Dropping to a knee and raising his hand in a 'stop' sign, Rick and Preston immediately took cover behind the roots of a fallen oak.  Crawling up to Marty's position, Preston caught sight of the four men ahead as well. Thinking he recognized one of them, but not entirely sure, Preston signaled Rick to ease out to the right to flank them in case he was mistaken. He also told Marty not to shoot unless something happened to him.

Slipping a bit closer, Preston became more sure of who the group of men was. Taking cover against the possibility of a reaction shot, Preston softly called out, "Jim, ain't you too old for sneaking around in the mountains?"

Even as the three others dropped to the ground at the sound of Preston's voice, Jim laughed a phlegmy laugh, responding, "I'm not too old to whoop your hind-end Preston Reynolds..." Standing, Preston waved Rick and Marty over to the group.

"What're you boys doing out here?" Asked Jim. "I'm on my way back to the homeplace, and picked up a couple hitchikers here." Preston introduced Rick and Marty to Jim, his son-in-law Dale, his nephew Alan, and their neighbor Gerald.

"How all y'all doing these days?" Rick asked a bit later as the introductions had been made. "Honestly, we've seen better days... Louise has been sick in her chest almost all winter, but we can't get medicine these days. Doctors won't see ya unless you have a promissory note from the magistrate's office. And I ain't gonna go groveling after permission to see no doctor." "Besides, Louise wouldn't go even if I did. Never did much care for doctors."

Digging deep into his pack, Preston produced a bundle of dried herbs. Looking through it, he pulled out a pouch of dried mullein leaves and a plastic bag of dried ground ivy. "Either have her breathe the smoke from the mullein, or actually let her smoke it. You can make a tea from the ivy. Between em it should at least help with the congestion and get her lungs cleared up some."

"I appreciate it son. Things have been tough around here this winter. Production tax on my farm barely left enough for us to eat, much less to sell, and I just don't know if we'll have enough for seed this next year."