every county road was troubling. He was in unfamiliar territory, and unlike Tennessee Williams, he couldn’t count on the kindness of strangers.
He knew to avoid the major roadways, as they would be the most likely points of congregation for any people in the area. Recalling Hugh’s comment about the airfield being part of a state park, he decided to focus on getting in that general vicinity, hoping there might be directional signposts or other helpful landmarks.
Continuing west, he had covered three miles when an overpass appeared ahead. He again stopped, stepping out to scout the area with his rifle optic, but found nothing of consequence. It wasn’t an exit , and he detected no movement.
Avoiding off ramps and their promised blockade of stranded relics was appealing, a hard lesson learned during the bug-out from Houston so many months ago. Images of those starving people, so desperate they used insects to thicken their soup, filled his mind. He shivered at the memory.
On the other hand, taking the truck off-road entailed certain risks. Busting an axle, getting stuck in the sand, or damaging a critical component of the drivetrain would put the mission at extreme risk.
Why is everything twice as difficult as before ? he questioned, the query a reoccurring conceptual theme. A man had to be twice as cautious, take twice as much time and worry twice as much to accomplish even the most mundane tasks. When hunting in the mountains, progress was slow because a busted ankle meant death. When sharpening his knife, extra care was mandated – the smallest wound could mean death by infection in a world without antibiotics.
Forcing the melancholy from his mind, he pulled the truck to the shoulder again , dismounting with a rifle. Despite the discomfort of driving while wearing a full load vest, he decided to don it and his body armor – just in case. Sometimes safety overrode bulk and awkwardness.
He had selected a fighting load for this trip - lighter on food and water, heavy on ammo. If things went to plan, he’d only be without resupply for a day, so nourishment wasn’t a primary concern. His chest-rig held eight full magazines of 5.56 NATO rounds, exactly 224 shots for the ACR rifle slung across his chest.
Night vision (or NVD), sidearm, knife, net and a few other essentials rounded out the heavy load. Everything else was in his pack, the risk of being separated from that critical cache always in the back of his mind.
The Arkansas highway department hadn’t been mowing the borders of the interstate, and the weeds were thigh high. I’m going to complain to my congressman , Bishop mused as he stepped off the pavement and into the growth.
He slowly climbed up the embankment , making his way to the roadway crossing the interstate, stopping at the crest to scout both directions. Nothing. Weeds, woods and wilderness were all that filled his gaze.
The next step was to walk the once-grassy area between the interstate and the country road crossing above. He didn’t want to hit a big rock or fall into a hidden ditch. The area was flat and smooth, no apparent truck-traps waiting to ruin his day.
Satisfied he could forge his own exit ramp without any issue, he returned to the idling truck and began gradually progressing across the uneven ground. A few minutes later, he pulled onto the county road and turned south.
While getting off the wide-open spaces of the federal highway provided some relief, the rural road was hardly a panacea of tactical security. He had simply swapped terrain suited for long-range engagements for surroundings that fostered close-in encounters.
Wooded land, dense with undergrowth , covered the rolling hills. Visibility was less than 100 feet in most directions. Compounding the issue were the curves and undulations of the road. Every pinnacle of a rise could deliver an unwanted surprise, every turn hiding what was around the bend.
There was also the uncertainty of the best driving speed for the
He knew to avoid the major roadways, as they would be the most likely points of congregation for any people in the area. Recalling Hugh’s comment about the airfield being part of a state park, he decided to focus on getting in that general vicinity, hoping there might be directional signposts or other helpful landmarks.
Continuing west, he had covered three miles when an overpass appeared ahead. He again stopped, stepping out to scout the area with his rifle optic, but found nothing of consequence. It wasn’t an exit , and he detected no movement.
Avoiding off ramps and their promised blockade of stranded relics was appealing, a hard lesson learned during the bug-out from Houston so many months ago. Images of those starving people, so desperate they used insects to thicken their soup, filled his mind. He shivered at the memory.
On the other hand, taking the truck off-road entailed certain risks. Busting an axle, getting stuck in the sand, or damaging a critical component of the drivetrain would put the mission at extreme risk.
Why is everything twice as difficult as before ? he questioned, the query a reoccurring conceptual theme. A man had to be twice as cautious, take twice as much time and worry twice as much to accomplish even the most mundane tasks. When hunting in the mountains, progress was slow because a busted ankle meant death. When sharpening his knife, extra care was mandated – the smallest wound could mean death by infection in a world without antibiotics.
Forcing the melancholy from his mind, he pulled the truck to the shoulder again , dismounting with a rifle. Despite the discomfort of driving while wearing a full load vest, he decided to don it and his body armor – just in case. Sometimes safety overrode bulk and awkwardness.
He had selected a fighting load for this trip - lighter on food and water, heavy on ammo. If things went to plan, he’d only be without resupply for a day, so nourishment wasn’t a primary concern. His chest-rig held eight full magazines of 5.56 NATO rounds, exactly 224 shots for the ACR rifle slung across his chest.
Night vision (or NVD), sidearm, knife, net and a few other essentials rounded out the heavy load. Everything else was in his pack, the risk of being separated from that critical cache always in the back of his mind.
The Arkansas highway department hadn’t been mowing the borders of the interstate, and the weeds were thigh high. I’m going to complain to my congressman , Bishop mused as he stepped off the pavement and into the growth.
He slowly climbed up the embankment , making his way to the roadway crossing the interstate, stopping at the crest to scout both directions. Nothing. Weeds, woods and wilderness were all that filled his gaze.
The next step was to walk the once-grassy area between the interstate and the country road crossing above. He didn’t want to hit a big rock or fall into a hidden ditch. The area was flat and smooth, no apparent truck-traps waiting to ruin his day.
Satisfied he could forge his own exit ramp without any issue, he returned to the idling truck and began gradually progressing across the uneven ground. A few minutes later, he pulled onto the county road and turned south.
While getting off the wide-open spaces of the federal highway provided some relief, the rural road was hardly a panacea of tactical security. He had simply swapped terrain suited for long-range engagements for surroundings that fostered close-in encounters.
Wooded land, dense with undergrowth , covered the rolling hills. Visibility was less than 100 feet in most directions. Compounding the issue were the curves and undulations of the road. Every pinnacle of a rise could deliver an unwanted surprise, every turn hiding what was around the bend.
There was also the uncertainty of the best driving speed for the
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