"Tamer" - PART IV

The sign on the gate read as follows:

 "TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT!

 1. RING BELL.
 2. WAIT UNTIL ACKNOWLEDGED.
 3. ADVANCE UNARMED AND ONLY WHEN TOLD TO DO SO!
 4. ADVANCE WITH HANDS UP."

It was late in the afternoon when the bell at the driveway gate rang briefly, then echoed for several seconds in the clear air before fading away and falling silent. Tamer gathered up the Ruger and walked to the edge of the driveway where it dropped-off and started it's decline to the road below. Scanning the area as she went, she glanced down the hill and saw a woman standing outside the gate next to the warning sign and bell she'd rigged.  The woman was accompanied by a small child in a wheeled stroller. The woman appeared unarmed. Tamer called out, "Can I help you?"

The woman called out in reply, "Are you the healer woman? My daughter is very sick. Can you please help us? Please!"  Tamer told the woman to come up and instructed her to secure the gate behind her. she stood and watched as the woman passed inside the gate and then slipped the loop back over the post. This was simply to prevent her goats from getting out. It was no barrier to someone bent on harm; but then anyone on the property without having announced their presence would be assumed hostile and likely shot on sight

The woman made her way up the driveway, and clearly appeared spent. She moved slowly and with great effort. She appeared to be about 35, had tangled blond hair beneath a floppy old hat, was slender [who wasn't?], and wearing tattered jeans, a flannel shirt and a brown Carhartt jacket. She wore a large backpack with two canteens strapped to it. She'd come a ways, no doubt about it.

The child was a girl, around 4, and with light brown hair. She was asleep, and her nose was running like a faucet. In her lap she held a worn and dirty stuffed rabbit; probably a favorite toy from a happier time. She pictured the toy clean and new placed in a delivery room bassinet, maybe a gift from a new Grandmother.  Tamer let out a breath, not excited at the prospect of treating some active infection.

The woman said her name was Ellen Spears and her daughter was Karen. They'd come from near Ben Lomond and had been walking since early that morning. She said people had told her about Tamer and she was desperate for help. Ellen said Karen had been sick for a week and not showing any improvement. Tamer directed her into the cabin, slipping a pocket mask over her mouth and nose and a pair of latex examination gloves over her hands.

Tamer's practice had become so active that she'd basically dedicated the living room as her office and  examination area. She had Ellen move Karen to the couch and began her examination. Karen had a high fever and indications of an active infection. Her breathing was labored and her lungs noisy. She also appeared badly dehydrated.

Tamer interviewed Ellen and learned Karen had been listless and running a fever for over a week, but no vomiting or diarrhea. She'd had trouble getting her to drink water, and Karen was sleeping a lot. It could be viral or a bacterial infection, but either way, the fact it had run over a week was serious. Tamer suspected Pneumonia.

Tamer looked at her shelf and considered her options. It seemed to her the best course was to use a corticosteroid to help the child fight the infection. She had a small stock of such medication she had collected from the Veterinary Hospital, but using animal meds in humans was dicey, though it has [had] been done. It was time for her disclaimer.

"Understand, I am not a Doctor. I was a Veterinary Assistant. I cannot guarantee anything but my best efforts." Tamer explained the risks to Ellen, who agreed it had to be attempted and so Ellen started her care of Karen. She calculated dosage and administered the medication to Karen, then made her comfortable and covered her with a light blanket. She then mixed an oral re-hydration solution and worked patiently to rehydrate the child using a baby bottle. Every little sip the child took was a small victory which went on for hours.

Tamer and Ellen took turns watching over Karen and working to get her to sip fluids. At one point, Tamer stood to go and use the bathroom, but had a back spasm and crumpled slightly. She recovered, and as she did, Ellen suddenly noticed the telltale signs and remarked, "Are you pregnant?"

Tamer nodded slowly in the affirmative, then sauntered out the door to the outhouse. Later, Ellen asked her where her husband was. Tamer was silent, then hesitantly answered, "I...I don't have a husband."

"Well...who's the father?", Ellen asked.

Tamer pursed her lips, and her gaze drifted to the window. She was silent, as though recollecting, and then replied, "I don't know. It was dark. I didn't get much of a look at the man..."

Ellen's hands flew up to her mouth, covering it. "I'm so sorry. I...I didn't realize...please, forgive me."

Tamer waved her hand dismissively. "It's all right. I'm over it. You couldn't have known," and walked off to her bedroom. She laid on the bed and napped. Sleep was the only break, the only escape, from the dismal reality of life...except for the nightmares. Rape. And just when you thought things couldn't get worse...


Two days later, the fever passed and Karen began to show signs of improvement. Another 3 days and she was trying to get out the door and play with the goats in the yard. Tamer was exhausted but her diligence paid off. Karen had been saved.

After some negotiation, Ellen paid for Tamer's services with some silver coins and two 50-round boxes of .22 rimfire ammunition, which she produced from her backpack. She'd brought along a diverse amount of items, including jewelry, coinage, ammunition and even a big mayonnaise jar of pot with which to barter.

Ready to return home, Ellen filled her canteens with water, and removed an old .38 revolver from her pack and shoved it in her waistband. "A girl can't be too careful these days", she quipped.

"You've got that right", thought Tamer, rubbing her hands over her tummy.

Ellen placed Karen in the stroller, but then she hopped out and ran to Tamer and hugged her goodbye. The little girls' eyes were bright and clear, and for a moment, Tamer felt some hope for the world, albeit a fleeting moment. She walked them down to the gate and held it as Ellen pushed the stroller through. They waved their goodbyes and Ellen and Karen took the first steps of their long trek home.

Fortunately, Ellen had established contacts with a few survivors along the route and could rest and shelter up along the way; it was essentially a return to the custom of hospitality that had existed in early 1800's California when structures and families were few.

Tamer watched as they faded from view. She could have no way of knowing whether they would make it home or if she would ever see them again.  Tamer slung the Ruger over her shoulder and walked back up the driveway to the cabin.

As she stepped inside, she was aware of movement from her blind spot, and as she spun she tugged at the 1911 in her waistband. A strong, rough, hand pinned her hand and the 1911 in place. She kicked, bit, and clawed with her one free hand as a rag covered her face.

Just for the briefest moment she whiffed ether...

...and then darkness closed around her, engulfing her. 


TO BE CONTINUED......

Copyright © Manny Silva, 2018. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

"Tamer" - PART III

Tamer moved up the road a couple of hundred yards, slowly scanned the area, and then slunk back into the brush. She sat and leaned her back against a tree on a small rise. A deep creek ran behind and below the tree. It was a good spot to watch from, and her neck and back were protected as well. A good Observation Post for a break. Removing a fresh magazine from her pocket, she reloaded the Ruger, then topped up the partially spent magazine from a box of rimfire cartridges she kept in her pack. She sat still, caught her breath, and felt her abdomen, but the baby was quiet. She was nearly into her 5th month, and movement was to be expected. She knew pretty soon she'd have to start taking it easy. She shook her head in disgust. "Easy? Really? What's easy?" Everyday was a struggle, and just getting enough to eat was already a problem, let alone having the luxury of "taking it easy". But then, that's all life was anymore...a daily series of problems to navigate.

She laid the Ruger across her legs and then examined the marauder's pump shot gun. It was in poor condition, with surface rust spots. Same with the sheath knife. This man didn't take very good care of his gear she thought...or himself for that matter. She glanced back down the road where she'd dumped his corpse. Still, they might be salvageable, but the fact was, she just didn't have the energy to add one more bit of weight to her burden. She decided she would remove the shells and stash them and the knife and shotgun. Having a hidden cache in case she was disarmed or routed from her cabin made good sense. Whenever she came into extra bit of gear, like a knife or blanket, she'd set up a cache site. She had placed several throughout the valley. She sat and took water from her canteen and watched and listened. A few birds had come out and were chirping as normal...no alarm calls. That was good. The birds were perceptive and a reliable alarm system; anyone approaching with negative energy would usually set off a series of alarm calls.

A slight breeze was stirring. the clouds had broken up and now a bit of sun shone through the canopy, dappling the forest floor with splotches of light and shadow. The bit of warmth was appreciated and helped abate the chill she'd felt. From her pocket, Tamer removed a small pouch of Bay Laurel nuts she'd harvested, shelled and roasted in a cast iron skillet. They were thought to have a stimulant effect, but she graded it more like an energy booster, like Chia seed. She munched on the bitter nuts, which she wasn't especially fond of but considered a taste acquired out of simple necessity...kind of like when you were little and your folks made you eat your vegetables...not good, but good for you. Sometimes she'd grind up the Bay nuts into a powder and make a hot drink that somewhat resembled unsweetened chocolate. Real chocolate was a fading memory.

The Bay Laurel [Umbellularia] had become a significant stock-in-trade plant for her healer practice. It was used by aboriginal peoples for all kinds of issues. The leaves had medicinal properties and could be used as a cure for headaches, toothaches, and earaches. Poultices of Umbellularia leaves were used to treat rheumatism and neural pains. A tea made from the leaves could treat stomach aches, colds, sore throats, and clear up mucus in the lungs. Steeped in hot water, the leaves could make an infusion that was used to wash sores.  You could even treat headaches by placing a leaf in the nostril and inhaling the fragrant plant oil.

The episode with Jim Pruitt in her first year following the pandemic had made her realize she was one of only a handful of humans remaining with any degree of medical training or knowledge of mammalian anatomy. Motivated, she'd made her way down the valley and acquired an old shopping cart and foraged her old veterinary workplace for what supplies she could find. The medical office had been looted, but she also knew there was a cabinet in a steel building used for large animal care, and there had found some undiscovered antibiotics, surgery instruments, and other useful items. Although only ten miles, That had been a multi-day trek.

On the return leg, she'd stopped off in the deserted Town of Felton and forced her way into the community library and carried off everything she could find on natural healing and medicinal botanics. Fortunately, Felton had been a kind of bastion of "60's flower Children" and the library had a respectable number of books on the topic. When time permitted...and there was abundant time....she explored the woodlands and riparian areas, identifying and gathering plants for testing. She stored leaves and other botanics in a mix of old Ball and Mason jars she had scrounged from homes and town.

Learning medicinal and edible plants had become an occupation with Tamer, and to some degree a passion. Nature had provided a remarkable bounty of useful plants...a virtual wild pharmacy and supermarket. She had studied books on the California natives and was amazed at the sophistication of their knowledge of useful plants; pain relievers for every ailment,  laxatives, antidiarrheals , natural washes for cuts and sores, skin cleansers... something was available as a natural remedy for every human health issue.
Tamer learned that, Arroyo Willow for example, a native and very abundant riparian tree, held the active ingredient for Aspirin, Salyicic Acid, in its inner bark and leaves, and could be decocted into a tea. And then edibles....plants that met many of the bodies vitamin needs; Manzanita berries for example, high in Vitamin C. Or Miner's Lettuce, another abundant plant, high in Vitamins C, A, and Iron, used by Gold rush Miners to ward off Scurvy.

What was especially amazing to her was when she considered that these "primitive" people had existed for 13,000 years in this sustainable model, living in harmony with the earth, and only taking as much as they required. Then modern Europeans came and became the "Masters" if the earth and pretty much started using up it's resources in just 500 years or so. "Sad...it could've been so good", she thought, but it didn't matter now. Everything had changed, and man was back to square one, like having to rework a math equation you'd screwed up.

Tamer had stayed in communication with Jim Pruitt and Samantha, and they'd established communication and trading with other survivors in the Scotts Valley region. Over the course of the year, Tamer had established a reputation as a healer woman, and had bartered her skills for seeds, vegetables and other necessary items. The grocer down the valley, Bobby Parkins, had some very painful neuralgia-related issues and so Tamer had become his "G.P." of sorts and traded pain management care for goods. Tamer learned that Bobby resupplied his store by making extended road trips to search abandoned homes and shops to forage for supplies. He made his foraging expeditions using a small trailer he had rigged to his BMW motorcycle. Bobby was a  lonely, sad-faced old man, but he always cheered up when Tamer came by. He liked to reminisce about his wife Hazel [Hazel had perished from the virus and was buried in back of the store]. He was kind and usually threw in an extra can of food for Tamer. 

And Tamer had no illusions whatsoever that supplies would last forever; that someday, the supply of left over canned soups would evaporate, leftover antibiotics would lose their potency, and leftover clothing was finite, and then life would truly return to a primitive hunter-gatherer lifestyle. Big game such as deer were cagey, rarely seen, and hard to ambush. To this end, she worked to increase her knowledge of primitive skills, teaching her self to fish and set primitive traps and snares to catch small game. Constantly battling caloric burn and diseases, it was easy to see why primitive peoples had such a short life expectancy and worked smarter to conserve calories. She managed to scrounge just enough to bind body and soul, but never felt completely free of hunger or worse yet, the fear of going hungry. Some days, there just wasn't anything to eat and life was at those times, unbearable...the hunger, the isolation, the loss of loved ones... and she'd break into tears and wail and then collapse exhausted. Then it was time to move on. Just an ongoing cycle of misery and recovery.

Rested, Tamer knew she had about 2 miles to cover to reach home. Using her fingers to measure the height of the sun, she realized she would be cutting it close to arriving home at about dusk, and decided to get a move on. She got to her knees and shouldered her pack, and slung the shotgun over her shoulder. She did a chamber check, confirmed the Ruger was hot, and stood. Slowly she worked her way out of the brush, a quiet step at a time, scanning as she went. Then, satisfied it was safe to proceed, left the brush and started back up the valley road.

When she'd walked another quarter mile she spotted a small knoll about a hundred meters or so off the side of the road and a stack of boulders next to it. It was a memorable hillock and a potentially good place for a hide. She dropped her pack and pulled out 2 plastic garbage bags and a roll of duct tape. She hiked out to the hill and inspected the rocks. They formed a small U-shaped wall surrounding a shallow depression. It appeared not only a good stash site, but a defensible position. Placing the shells, shotgun, and knife inside a bag, she rolled the bag and taped it, placed it inside the other bag and repeated the process. She then tapped the rocks to ensure no Rattlesnake was in them, as this was the cold period of the year in which they denned up. Hearing no response, she slipped the package into the rocks and moved a few to better conceal it. Satisfied, she recovered her pack and moved on, arriving home just as the sun began it's slide down behind the Coastal Mountain Range. She watched the sunset and wondered what life was like in those places where the sun was just rising.

Tamer had stopped on a rise in the road and climbed up the embankment alongside the road. It gave her some elevation and she could see her property and the road on either side. She spent some time glassing her cabin and the surrounding area, looking for any persons, or telltale signs of disturbance or an ambush. She studied her cabin closely and saw nothing moved or out of place. She looked beyond the cabin, up the canyon and saw nothing to be alarmed over. Satisfied, she moved on and entered her property, rifle held at a high ready. Her senses were peaked as she cleared the trees on approach to the cabin, swinging wide around it and scanning the whole 360 degrees. Finally, she decided to make entry. Just for a moment, she had the slightest bit of unease. She glanced back over her shoulder and took another look about her. "Was there something...?", she wondered.  She shook it off, unlocked and opened the door and made entry and cleared the interior. Finding everything as she'd left it, she locked the doors and made a small meal before turning in for rest. Within a few minutes she was out.

Across the canyon, two men in camouflage clothing sat in brush on the hillside, looking down on the cabin. One man had a broken nose and the other a long grey beard. Greybeard watched Tamer through a pair of binoculars. "Is that her?" his broke-nosed companion asked in a whisper. Greybeard lowered his field glasses and stared incredulously. "Well it sure the fuck ain't Oprah Winfrey. Dumbass. Who else would it be?" Brokennose flushed, angry, but held his tongue.

They watched Tamer as she made her cautious approach to the cabin and cleared the property. After she'd gone inside, Greybeard whispered to broke-nose, "She's pretty good. Could be a problem," and rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully. He glassed the area a bit longer then said, "Ehh, she can't keep her guard up all the time. There'll be an opportunity to grab her. And grab her we will."

A hundred meters up the hillside, concealed in the brush above and behind the two men, a man sat silently watching through his own binoculars. His clothes were muted earth colors, and he had draped a Sniper's veil over his head and shoulders to break up his outline. His hard eyes, burning with anger and hate, watched the two men intently...

...like a Hawk.

TO BE CONTINUED......

Copyright © Manny Silva, 2018. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

"Tamer" - PART II

Tamara Lyn Lund was her name, but to her friends and family, she was "Tamer".  She'd gotten the nickname from her maternal grandmother whose Texas accent had difficulty pronouncing "Tamara". It came out as TAME-ER-UH, and then Granny just shortened it to TAMER, and the nickname stuck. Tamer was raised in the Fort Worth suburbs, her parents both worked, dad in construction and mom a part-time schoolteacher. She'd had an older brother, but he'd died in a motor vehicle collision in his late teens when she was quite young and thus didn't remember him well. Tamer was a city girl but when she turned 14, she started spending her summers working for her Aunt Meg who owned and operated a working ranch.

Aunt Meggie was different. Dad called her "A spurring fool", a reference to a verse from an old Chris LeDou song, and often said that the horse wasn't made that she couldn't ride, and at breakneck speed to boot.  Aunt Meggie did it all. She could ride, rope and wrangle. She could hunt and field dress a Buck, then butcher it in her barn. She was good with a pistol and better with a rifle. A Cowgirl through-and - through, she was known to have a drink every so often, wasn't afraid of a man, and knew how to love hard. Tamer led guided horse rides on Aunt Meggie's ranch and helped the old Tejano ranch hand, Jorge, with taking care of tack and the horses. In her off time, Aunt Meggie taught Tamer to hunt and use a rifle and care for the game they harvested. Tamer was an enthusiastic student and became very adept at these skills.

Meggie also taught Tamer how to use a pistol. She owned a Colt's Peacemaker and an old USGI 1911a1 and schooled her on nomenclature and safe operation of the weapons. A tough Texian Lady, Aunt Meggie had been a Medic and was still a Reserve Deputy Sheriff and had seen a few scrapes in her time. She schooled Tamer on "How to drop your man" and emphasized the importance of double taps. "A wounded man can still shoot back Tamer. Always cover yor bets", was her counsel. Pistols were fine, but Tamer loved the scoped rifle. The ability to reach out and drop game at hundreds of yards before the game even heard the gunshot was captivating. And so it was one summer as they said their goodbyes, Aunt Meggie presented Tamer with a new Ruger 10/22 carbine of her very own. With her father's help, she mounted a 3-9 scope on it and practiced with it at the local gun range every so often. Aunt Meggie also imbued Tamer with a love for animals and so she decided on a career Veterinary Medicine.

In 2015, Tamer left home after graduating High School with Honors and got accepted to Colorado State University's Veterinary Medicine program. She completed the first four years, but then ran out of funds and her student loans needed to be paid down and so she took work in Northern California as a Vet's Assistant in a little town outside of Santa Cruz. She managed to rent a small cabin on acreage not far from the Vet's Office, which was on a large acreage in the countryside. Life was good. She loved the rural lifestyle and was gaining practical experience working with the Vet when the world unraveled.

Where the contagion originated, no one knew, but what they did know, was that it was unbelievably lethal. It was the virus Scientists had long predicted, and long feared, would someday strike mankind. A viral strain never seen before and for which there was no defense, no known antidote. Anticipating a reincarnation of the highly lethal 1918 Spanish Flu, they'd begged and plead with political leaders to dedicate funds to be spent on research to develop a "Universal Vaccine" but it fell on deaf ears; after all, there were wars to fight, bombs and aircraft carriers to build...priorities.  Highly transmissible, the virus started in Southeast Asia and quickly spread globally. Hospitals were quickly overwhelmed and then the caregivers themselves began to fall victim to the insidious illness. It wasn't the least bit selective either, and killed all ages by targeting the lungs with a severe viral pneumonia that resisted, no, ignored all antivirals in the medical arsenal. The infectious period lasted approximately 4 weeks before burning out, but the damage was done. Although they could not know it, fully 77% of human life on the planet had lost their lives to the virus. Mother Nature had spoken and had passed her judgment on Humanity, and the sentence was death.

The catastrophic loss of life destroyed infrastructure and production. Without operators, power plant operation collapsed, along with all the associated industries...oil production, gasoline production, farming, food production and distribution, communication, employment. Government collapsed as well...national defense was equally gutted by the infection and ceased to exist. Mankind became a dim memory of what it once had been; all that remained were small pockets of survivors, the lucky few who had won the lottery and by some odd dispensation of nature, had a natural immunity to the virus.

And among the so-called "Lucky Few" was Tamer.  Maybe it was natural immunity, maybe it was the lack of exposure living in a rural setting. Either way, she had escaped the wrath of nature. Early on in the event, she'd been in communication with her parents back in Texas. Aunt Meggie had been the first to pass; the rawhide old horsewoman had succumbed to the disease, then her mother. By then the nation was in a tailspin as people fought one another for the few bits of food and fuel that could be found. The last call to her father revealed he was himself ill and on his way out. He knew it and said his goodbyes, wishing Tamer luck and pledging to always watch over her. Then power generation failed and with it, cellphones and the Internet. There was no way to communicate with anyone, no one to fix it, and there wasn't anyone left to communicate with anyway. Tamer knew then that she was utterly alone in the world, what little remained of it, and her heart was broken.

In the first weeks that followed the collapse, Tamer got mad and vowed to survive at all costs. She'd been taught useful skills by her Aunt, and she felt her parents would want her to go on. She carefully conserved her limited food, and gathered and bleach-treated creek water. But then her supplies started to dwindle, and the isolation began to take it's toll. The lack of activity, the long hours of idleness, the silence...the complete lack of anyone to talk to became unbearable. Finally, she concluded that it was pointless to go on. The world she'd known, the U.S.A. she'd lived in, her friends, her entire family...all were gone forever and there was nothing left to live for. She started ideating suicide and contemplated her options for ending her life. She had the 10/22, but was dubious of her ability to cleanly inflict a killing wound to herself with the smallbore, and she wanted to go fast. Hanging herself equally seemed dicey and she didn't relish strangling and suffering. Cutting her wrists was silly; she'd known a girl who'd attempted it at college and all it resulted in was some nasty scars.

It was during this low point that her supplies were running out and a decision was needed that she heard screams coming from the road below the cabin. A woman's screams. Grabbing her 10/22, she ran out the door of the cabin and a few yards down the driveway. Looking in the direction of the road, she couldn't see anything, but approximated the screams below her rutted dirt driveway. Tamer checked the chamber and magazine and confirmed the weapon was hot, then quietly moved into the trees and chaparral. Shadows fell across her and helped conceal her approach. Her property sat on a hillside and the treeline maybe 50 feet higher than the road. She low-crawled and presently the brush thinned and the scene came into view.  A man was roughly shaking a young girl. He gripped her by the arms and clearly the girl, maybe 15 or so and obviously terrified, was crying and struggling to free herself, but the man was quite large and powerful. An adult male lay on the ground a short distance away, bleeding from the head and apparently dead or unconscious. Not sure what to do, she watched.

Suddenly, the girl bit the man's hand and he screamed as she broke free and turned and ran up the road. The man reached beneath his coat and removed a large kitchen knife and gave chase, bellowing, "YOU FUCKIN' BITCH I AM GONNA KILL YOU!" Clearly, this was not a familial matter, and required action. Tamer brought the rifle to shoulder, slowed her breathing and settled the scope's cross hairs on the man's spine between the shoulder blades. She did her best to track with him, but his movements were jerky, and when she pressed the trigger, the round missed and went into the road soil. Hearing the shot, both the man and girl stopped and looked in Tamer's general direction, uncertain from whence the shot came. The marauder's mouth dropped open, and in fear he dropped the knife and ran full tilt down the road in the direction they'd came. Tamer was relieved; she didn't like the idea of shooting a human being, and frankly wasn't sure she could. "Had I missed deliberately?", she later wondered.

The girl immediately ran to the fallen man and began to attend to him. Tamer remained concealed a few minutes and then moved from cover and joined the girl below. She was livid. "WHY DIDN'T YOU KILL THAT MAN!", she raged. "YOU HAD THE CHANCE! WHY?!! DON'T YOU REALIZE HE'LL JUST HARM SOMEONE ELSE NOW???" Tamer had no answer and stood silent. The man stirred slightly. Tamer could see that he had sustained a head trauma and was bleeding, but the head has a lot of vessels and bleeds often look worse than they are. She looked at the girl. "I have some medical training. Let me check him over." The girl moved aside and Tamer conducted a primary survey. The head wound was clotting and bleeding lessening. She felt his extremities and torso and found no indications of broken bones or other wounds. He began to regain consciousness. He became lucid and was able to answer some basic questions that established he was [somewhat] alert and oriented. He claimed no known pre-existing illnesses or diseases and responded appropriately to her testing for feeling in his feet. With no apparent spinal injuries, they then rolled him onto his side and she found no injuries to his back. Except for the head wound he appeared intact.

Tamer then told the girl, "Lets get him up to my cabin and I'll dress that." Together, they helped the man to his feet and guided him on wobbly legs up the drive to the cabin. Tamer cleaned and dressed the wound while the girl kept an eye out should the marauder return. Then she helped the man onto an old sofa in her living room and covered him with a blanket. She gave him a cup of water and he sipped it empty and then asked for another, obviously filled with thirst. She then retrieved her V.A. medical bag and used a small penlight to check his pupils. They were sluggish, but not unequal, and she suspected a slight concussion might exist. Using a BP cup, she checked blood pressure, and listened to his heart with her Stethoscope. His vitals seemed strong and stable and there was no reason to suspect he would not make a full recovery. "Are you a Doctor?" asked the girl. Tamer smiled for the first time in a long several weeks, and replied, "Nope, just a Vet's Assistant." The girl stared, then a big grin spread across her face. "Close enough", she replied. She looked at the man. "He's kind of an old Hoss anyway!", and squeezed his hand. The man smiled back weakly, and the girl kissed his forehead.

They talked and Tamer learned the man's name was James Pruitt and the girl was his granddaughter Samantha Beeman-Pruitt. Tamer learned that they lived on back country acreage a couple of miles up the road from her. They were returning from foraging for food and supplies when they encountered the marauder. They'd abandoned their handcart around a curve just down the road and fled when the marauder overtook them. The sun was dipping low in the sky, and James seemed stable, so with Tamer covering, she and Samantha ventured down the road and retrieved the handcart. It held some canned goods, a couple of sacks of flour, and other supplies. She learned that they had been making trips to trade and barter with the operator of the tiny grocery in the small village some five miles away. It was a long, arduous trek, but their vehicle was long out of fuel and any vehicles with any remaining fuel in the tank had been siphoned off weeks ago.

James fell off to sleep, and Samantha and Tamer sat and talked, this being the first opportunity to speak to anyone since the collapse occurred. They shared their thoughts, fears,  and experiences with one another. It felt good to talk to another human being...another woman.... and to find that they too shared your fears and uncertainty what the future held. Both were keenly aware that the world had changed and all their dreams had evaporated. But Samantha felt that there was hope. Samantha was a Christian and held strong beliefs and felt it unacceptable to end her life, not matter how desperate things became. She told Tamer, "If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me", apparently quoting some verse from the Bible. Tamer pondered on this, but not having been raised in any religion, didn't feel the same. She saw the situation as a practical matter; that if life wasn't worth living, why go on? What was the point?

Later, Tamer watched as Samantha walked into the trees outside the cabin and knelt down,  then raised her hands to the sky. Curious, she walked out to her. Samantha sensed her presence and turned, smiling. "He's here", she said. Startled, Tamer looked about her, scared because she'd left the Ruger inside the cabin. "Who's here?" she asked. "God", replied Samantha. "He's all about us, here in His creation." She stood and faced Tamer. "Roads, buildings, power, wars", she waved her hand, "They are temporal...the things of man. But this...", her voice trailed off, "...the creation....is His work. It will go on long after man is but a forgotten memory. The earth will fade away, but His words will last for eternity." Tamer was puzzled and looked at Samantha quizzically and asked, "Are you a Preacher?" Samantha looked down and laughed gently, then raised her head. Smiling, she replied, "No. Just saved." She turned and walked into the woods.

The following morning, James appeared to have recovered quite well and stated he was ready to resume the journey back to his property. But Tamer talked him into resting another day. She thought it wise, but more than that, was just anxious to have the company a bit longer, so they agreed and stayed another night. That evening they pooled their resources and made a decent hot meal to celebrate James' recovery. For a brief moment, life felt almost normal again.  The next day, James rose early and announced he was anxious to get home and made ready. He and Samantha gave Tamer some of their provisions to show their appreciation for her help. Before going they made a detailed map for her to follow should she choose to come visit them, and promised to visit again on their next trip down the valley road. They waved their goodbye and then set out, pulling their handcart along with them.

Tamer watched them walk out of sight and then walked back into the cabin. Glum to be alone again,she began busying herself straightening up the place. As she was putting the supplies from James and Samantha away in her pantry,  she caught movement in her peripheral vision, just outside the kitchen window. Frightened, she spun fast and saw that a small Buck, a Yearling,  was moving down the hillside in the brush. Tamer glanced at the .22 Ruger leaning in the corner. She doubted the rimfire's ability to drop a deer, and it certainly was not "ethical" hunting, but this was survival...she concluded the chance for fresh meat was worth the risk of a shot.

Slipping out the front door, she stalked to the corner of the cabin and took a knee. The deer was now just fifteen yards away, grazing on a manzanita bush. Tamer decided the only chance would be a shot through the eye orbit in hopes the tiny 40 grain bullet would strike the brain. It was a tough shot, and she knew the Ruger was sighted for 50 yards point-of-aim, so she adjusted her aim and pressed the trigger. The bullet flew true and smashed through the eye orbit and the deer ran down the hill maybe 50 yards, then stopped, swayed drunkenly on wobbly legs, and collapsed dead.

That night, Tamer dined on tender Yearling venison. As she ate, she reflected on the past 3 days. Maybe she could be of some help to restore mankind. She had some medical training after all, and James and Samantha had definitely needed her. She decided to hold off a bit longer on ending her life...


TO BE CONTINUED......

Copyright © Manny Silva, 2018. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

"Tamer" - PART I

High clouds and fog blocked the Winter sun. A mist floated in the air. It was late in the day and somewhere beyond the clouds, the sun had already started its descent, not that it had risen very high anyway, given the season. These combined factors made for very dim conditions. A light rain began to fall, foretelling the advance of yet another in a daylong series of rolling cloudbursts. There was a fresh fragrance of sagebrush and damp wood floating in the air. Droplets splashed in the puddles alongside the dirt road and spattered on tree limbs, leaves and brush. The shower became heavier as a squall passed, building until it obscured all sight and sound with a thick curtain of silvery-gray rain.

In spite of the cold and damp, Tamer lay motionless in the vegetation alongside the road, wrapped in a surplus woodland camo poncho. Her pants from the knees down were soaked, but as cold as she was, she resisted an urge to shivver.  Water soaked the shredded-fabric wrapped barrel of the 10/22 and blurred the objective lens of the scope. Water dripped from the edge of the poncho hood into her eyes, but she dare not move to wipe it away. Danger was near, and I must be careful she thought. Within about five minutes the rain began to lighten as the squall passed over, and then all that remained were pops and plops as the deposited rainwater dripped from the soaked vegetation into puddles and upon the wet floor of the woods. Tamer was backed away from the road, perhaps five feet or so, tucked into some brush that closely matched her poncho's camo pattern and colors. It was a dark place that hid her well.  She heard a slight sound, held her breath, and waited.

Presently, a man came into view. The man who had been coming up the road from town behind her all morning. She'd first observed him from a place of concealment on a curve, while on a routine precautionary stop to take a knee, rest and glass her backtrail. She'd been surprised to see movement and focused up on a dark mass to find it was a man coming up from behind. She estimated the man was a mile or so behind. Watching him through field glasses, Tamer noted a slight limp and decided to assign the name "Gimpy" to her pursuer. She liked giving names to people based on some observable characteristic. The Native Americans had done it.  The Sioux War Chief, Crazy Horse was originally named "Curly" but was renamed following a vision he'd had. Geronimo's true name was "Goyarla", or "One who yawns". Beyond that, she was unable to discern any details of the traveler, and most importantly, whether he was armed...but that he was following her, well, that was a concern.

All morning, Tamer had hugged the cover along the right side the road. She rarely went into town, only when necessary to barter for some essential items, and less so lately.  Only a fool would walk in the center of a lane, in the open. Walking close to the cover gave her an option to hastily dive into brush and concealment if need be. She'd left only the faintest track that a careful observer, or experienced tracker, could follow. Finding another point to observe from, Tamer had noted Gimpy was moving slow and paying attention to the tracks on the ground. He was clearly following her track, but was savvy enough to pause and do a 360 from time-to-time. That didn't bode good intentions, and she hated having to look over her shoulder, so she decided to hole up and address this threat, hence the ambush she had set.

Now, as the man came abreast of her position, Tamer could see that Gimpy was indeed armed. He had a pump shotgun slung over his shoulder, muzzle down. The tip of a knife sheath protruded from beneath his waist-length jacket. But more importantly, he held a pistol, possibly a GLOCK, in his right hand. Gimpy scanned the vicinity slowly, and at one point looked to his left directly at Tamer's place of concealment, holding his gaze for a few seconds, but then passed it off. Tamer was careful not to stare at him and watched him with her peripheral vision lest he sense her presence. The ruse had worked; he'd been fooled by the false track Tamer had laid for another 100 meters, and then dropped into the cover on the opposite side of the road. She'd circled back to the selected ambush site. Being right-handed, Gimpy was obeying his nature and favoring the cover at the right side of the road, a big mistake. 

Keeping both eyes open, Tamer sighted through the scope, picking a spot on the side of Gimpy's head, an inch ahead of and an inch above the ear. This was the thinnest point of the skull and a large feeder artery ran beneath it. What damage the .22 subsonic didn't do to the artery, the broken fragments of bone would finish. Follow up rounds, if necessary, would be slammed into the spinal column at the back of the neck. Tamer waited until Gimpy was a couple of steps ahead of her position so she'd be at his back in a perfect position to murder him. Not wanting to startle him and elicit a response, Tamer challenged him in a very calm, flat, and just-audible voice. "Don't move."

Caught completely off guard, Gimpy jerked to a stop and remained absolutely motionless; he obviously knew he'd been had and was at a bad disadvantage with a threat in his blind spot. He was about 10 or so yards away and his head turned ever ao slightly to his left. Clearly he was trying to locate the voice. He said nothing. A long awkward silence of several seconds followed as neither moved or spoke. "Drop the gun", Tamer commanded, again in a calm voice, keeping her sights on Gimpy. Again she saw Gimpy's head twitch ever so imperceptibly as he strained to pinpoint Tamer's hiding spot. The man's body appeared to lose it's tension and the shoulders dropped a little, and Tamer knew what was coming.

Time seemed to stop and Tamer felt as if she was watching events unravel in slow-motion. Gimpy began to spin to his left, at the same time crouching and bringing up his hand that held the pistol. Before it was on target, 2 rounds had already left the barrel and flown wide, several feet from Tamer's hide. Another 2 rounds and he would be on target. Tamer had already adjusted and re-acquired her target, pressed the trigger and sent a single round downrange. The 40 grain lead hollow point slammed into Gimpy's temple and buried itself deep in his skull, disrupting his mental processes and seriously impeding his ability to function. He spun slowly, mouth agape, sinking first to his knees then landing on his rump. His arms flailed and the gun discharged once before falling free from his hand. Denied a nape-of-the-neck shot, Tamer realigned her sights and aimed for an eye socket. Two rounds, fired in quick order, sailed into the thin bone at the rear of the eye orbit. Bone and lead fragments exploded into the dura mater and entered the brain cavity.  Gimpy's mouth worked silently and his good eye became fixed and looked skyward as he slowly fell backwards. His feet kicked spasmodically a couple of times, and then he went still.

Tamer held her fire and remained still and watchful. Gimpy appeared deceased, but it was not unheard of for wounded men to regain conciousness and become a threat again.  She also needed to confirm no one else was in the vicinity. Tamer waited a full five minutes, looking and listening. Satisfied, she slowly got to her knees, covered Gimpy with her rifle, and then eased out of the brush. She stepped on the pistol, an old 1911, and married it to the ground with her booted foot as she studied Gimpy. He was a white man, maybe late 30's or even 40, and very dirty. He had shaggy black hair and a scraggly beard. He smelled badly and his clothes were tattered and mud-stained. His intact eye was lifeless and his chest was still. Tamer prodded him with her muzzle, but there was no reaction. He was dead. Good.

Satisfied, Tamer slung her rifle, recovered the 1911 and did a chamber check. It had a live round in the chamber, so she dropped the magazine, catching it as it fell free, worked the slide, ejected the round and locked the slide back. The barrel was free of debris and there were 3 rounds remaining in the magazine. She closed the slide, applied the safety, and tested the trigger. It appeared the safety was functioning. She then pressed on the cocked hammer with her thumb, but it remained cocked and didn't slip. Good, no worn sear notch to worry about. Pressing the muzzle, she tested the trigger and confirmed the disconnect safety was functioning. She deemed the pistol safe to use and reloaded it and stuck it in her waistband. It would be a nice barter item, or perhaps a keeper.

Retreating across the road, she waited several minutes while she looked in all directions to confirm no one was approaching. Awareness was critical to Survival and one could not afford to get sloppy, even for a second.

By now, some ten or fifteen minutes had elapsed, so she considered it safe to check Gimpy over. Tamer retrieved a stick from the edge of the trail and poked and prodded and lifted open pockets. Syringes for slamming bootleg crank were common and she did not wish to get poked and contract a disease. Tamer hit on a bulge in Gimpy's jacket. Using the stick, she drug a pouch from the pocket. It was an old SEAGRAMS velvet bag and was heavy, though small. Tamer had an idea what it contained, and she dumped it and confirmed her suspicions; gold teeth. The man had been murdering and mutilating his victims for gold crowns.  It was a sizable bag, worth a small fortune...or certain death for the person caught carrying it. 

Tamer weighed the bag in her hand and considered melting it down to render a block of gold, but decided against it. That much gold would elicit a lot of questions and the ending would be anything but good. She wound up her arm and cast the bag as far as she could into the dense underbrush on the hillside. Grabbing Gimpy by the ankles, she dragged him well back into the brush, then used her knife to cut some branches to cover the body. It was hard work and when done she staggered back to the roadway. She paused to rest for a moment and catch her breath.

Suddenly she felt very tired, and for the first time, the baby kicked.


TO BE CONTINUED......

Copyright © Manny Silva, 2018. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Making char cloth with DURAFLAME fire starter

Learning is a process of ongoing experimentation...

A few weeks ago, a friend and I were browsing the Sporting Goods section at Walmart and I happened to spot DURAFLAME fire starters. These were individually wrapped 6 oz. blocks priced at about .89 cents. I've used Duraflame fireplace logs in the home, but had never really thought of them for field use camping. You've probably seen these...they are essentially a composite log made of sawdust mixed with some kind of proprietary waxy material, creating a long-lasting fireplace log.

I've used COGHLANS Tinder Sticks with good results. They are a similar composition and can ignited intact or can be shredded using a pocket knife to create a long burning tinder. I decided that I would pick one of the Duraflame starters up and add it to my fire bag. I like having a lot of options for getting a fire started. I've been out enough times to learn that not every thing works all the time.

Recently I started subscribing to Prepper Ralph a self-reliance YOUTUBE channel [prepperralph.com], and eventually joined his Facebook group the Black Crow Survivalists which describe themselves as "...Taking a look at the darker more grungy side of preparedness. Not for the faint of heart...". I like that. I'm not a prepper per se, but have never doubted that if [when] a disaster strikes, given desperate circumstances, the "Rule of Law" that governs society rapidly devolves into "The Law of the Jungle" [Look at footage of the Rodney King Riots or Hurricane Katrina looters if you doubt this]. 

Anyway, Ralph recently issued a challenge to the group to put up a video demonstrating fire making skills. I decided this was a good time to try out the Duraflame block and see how it worked. I also decided I would use the fire as an opportunity to make some fresh char cloth. Removing it from the package, I could see that it could easily be quartered and enough to place one in more than one trail bag or bugout kit, if you wished to do so. Using my Emerson's serrated edge, I scraped a pile of material from the block. Here is my video of the Duraflame fire:

 

Once the fire was established, I placed cotton material into a tin and began making char cloth. Making char cloth has been very hit & miss, at least for me. I have turned out great batches and completely CRAP batches. And I've had batches in which some of the char worked great and some not at all. But one thing I have learned is don't throw it out! Sometimes it won't take a spark from your striker but works just fine with a ferro rod.

The other thing is that it may not be your char at all, but the steel striker isn't tempered well and thus isn't producing a hot enough spark to ignite the char. Be careful before you plunk down cash for a custom forged striker and make sure it is made by a reputable smith. A file can sometimes be used, and I have had hit and miss luck with files...some throw sparks like crazy and others not so much...there seems to be a lot of variation in temper. Here is my video demonstrating the completed char cloth:

The striker in this kit is from a FIRE IN FIVE commercial kit I purchased when I first started learning this skill. The best char material I ever had came in the FIRE N FIVE kit, and was some kind of shredded cotton fabric and was just incredible. The originator of that kit BTW, was an old Navy veteran...I picked it up in the mid 90's at RAY'S BEAVER BAG, a muzzle-loading store on the Vegas strip. That gent that developed the FIRE IN FIVE has passed, but somebody still markets that kit, though I do not know if it is the same char fabric as before in the current kit.

Flint....folks, there is no Flint here in the USA...just Chert. Finding good Chert with a sharp edge is an essential, or pay money and by some nice shards of English flint. You can also knap the edge of Chert and restore a nice sharp edge. This is what Buckskinners that shoot flintlock rifles and muskets do...they just tune the rock up in the jaws of the lock...don't even remove it. Survival Preacher is up in Indiana and found what appears to be a big chunk of English Flint in his yard. I am guessing it might have been brought here for trade or to render into flints for rifle locks, and may be a couple of centuries old...there was some serious fighting up in that old Northwest Frontier country in the 1700's.

Something else to add to your fire bag or kit is a magnifying glass [burning lens]. I found a pair of broken binoculars on the side of the road and harvested the objective lenses and they are incredible....big, thick ground glass lens will cook anything. I've re-started charred campfire wood using the lens. Historical reenactor Keith Burgess has used lens to ignite tinder. Some Frontiersmen used brass tinder boxes with a burning lens set in the lid.

Historically accurate tinder box

One final suggestion for tinder....Bracket fungus [Horseshoe fungus]. This is a fungus that grows on Oaks. Once it establishes it can become very large with a very tough, hard exterior. You can scrape the interior material into a fluff and it'll catch a spark and smolder as an ember. Aboriginal peoples in the U.K. used it, striking flint and Magnetite [Pyrite] to create sparks and catch them on the fluff. They could also set the bracket fungus disk smoldering and carry it to take fire with them to their next camp.

Bracket Fungus

Fortunately, these days we have modern resources to make fire, but like the aboriginal peoples, we need to practice our skills and learn them well. In a modern survival situation, such as a lost hiker, making fire is critical to maintaining warmth to avoid hypothermia and signaling help. Experiment, Practice, LEARN.

Happy Hiking!

Goblin Ranger

[Bushcraft Woods Devil] 

Inexpensive does not necessarily mean "cheap"....

Sometime back, I purchased a UNITED CUTLERY M48 Apocalypse Fighter". This was an inexpensive knife, perhaps 10 dollars on closeout. It had a zombie green paracord wrap handle and came with a matching paracord bracelet. The knife itself measured roughly 12" overall, with a Tanto-styled blade about 6" in length. Weight was around 11 ounces. It came in a nylon belt sheath. I'll be honest; I bought it purely for the coolness factor...I liked it's looks and it made me happy. I should also tell you up front, these are discontinued and I see nothing similar on the United Cutlery webpage.

M48 Apocalypse Fighter 

The knife bumped around in my truck and other places for a couple of years. Eventually, the paracord wrapped handle came loose and then fell off altogether. It bumped around some more, still lacking a use or purpose. then a couple of weeks ago I decided to use it as a thrower. It actually performed quite well as a thrower. The squared off pommel kept catching my hand on release, so I re-profiled it on the bench grinder, giving it a round profile. Then, I snapped a half of an inch of the point off the blade. It was stuck in the throwing round and I flexed it and snapped it off clean. 

Using the bench grinder, I re-profiled the blade tip, giving it a hybrid Tanto-Drop Point profile. It would probably still stick on a throw, but I wasn't so sure.  BUT, I did feel that the blunted tip would make for some prying and batoning tasks, if necessary.

Re-Profiled Blade Tip

I see a lot of knives like this offered for little money, and wondered how they are used. My guess is they rarely see much use, probably purchased more as a back-up or for the occasional task like cutting rope or some such.

I decided to see if I could break it by batoning, so I decided to craft a handle for it so I could hold and use it with some degree of comfort. I split a piece of Sycamore limb and then fashioned it into handle scales, securing it to the knife tang with paracord. This was nice; hand-filling and comfortable. 

Re-Handling the M48 fighter

For the batoning test, I used seasoned, rock-hard Eucalyptus. This nasty wood has a twisting grain and often has knots running through it. Very hard to baton. I batoned steadily for a half an hour and produced a small mountain of kindling.

M48 delivers the goods!

Examination of the edge showed it to still be sharp and have no chips or deformations whatsoever.

Blade had no damage

What can we say then? Should one throw all caution to the wind and buy a cheap knife? No, most certainly not. Generally, it is wise to buy the best kit items you can afford. However, if you cannot afford much, buy what you can afford, and practice skills and learn on it while you save for something better. Also, we must realize that all knives, even the finest made, can be used wrongly and exceed their abilities and fail.

Finally, I am reminded of a famous firearms training center whose motto is "Any gun will do...if YOU will do!" The same could be said of blades. At the end of the day, quality aside, it is practice, knowledge, and skill that counts.

Happy Hiking!

GOBLIN RANGER

[Bushcraft Woods Devil]

COLD STEEL "Sport Series" Perfect Balance Thrower

Well, hello all! Its a new year and I apologize for being an absentee landlord the last few months. I had some medical issues in the second half of 2017, but am back and feeling much better.

Sooo, to start out 2018, I am experimenting with a COLD STEEL Throwing Knife. Specifically, the CS "Sport Series" Perfect Balance" Thrower. I have made 2 videos...a tabletop and a practical session:

Anyhow, I hope you enjoy the videos!

Happy Hiking!

GOBLIN RANGER

[Bushcraft Woods Devil]