The Telling – Strawberry Fields
This is the third in the series: The Telling
The Crust and The Rind
The Wheat Eaters Journal
follow the link below.
The diary page was found in one of those silver metal cigar tubes with a screw cap. A little sign, next to the letter announced; the finder stated, he would rather have found a cigar.
Now housed under glass, the letter was part of the archives of a Civilian Wars archive in Mexico that chronicled the Second U.S. Civil War that brought down the former United States of America and much of the global economy.
The page is creased and there is some blood stained fingerprints in the margin.
I reckon this is as accurate a story of how we was all kilt today to be recorded. A group of us Red Hats was sent out on a scouting party looking for food. We was more marauders than soldiers. Ten of us went out in two trucks. Not sure what State we are in. In a home with little or nothing to steal a woman told us strawberries were in season and there were wild patches just up the rode a-ways. ‘Just follow the dirt tracks, about a mile up the road.’
The boys that was with me climbed in the truck and off we went looking for the dirt tracks. The other truck followed. We turned off were the tracks lead us. A couple of miles in the road stopped and we got out and started looking for the strawberry fields.
One group went off to the East, our boys went North. Our luck, we found plump wild strawberries. Me and the boys picked our fill and sat and enjoyed the sweet nectar. We was relaxed and laughing. The shock hit us quick when three gray haired women stood up, out of Hidy-holes and leveled double-barrelled shotguns and fired killing the three closest to them.
Jim-boy and me rolled out over a brim, just as a volley came from our right. I spotted a woman at the end of one of them rifles, as I ducked for cover. We crawled about thirty yards into the undergrowth.
Jim-boy stood, his cheek stained with strawberry juice. He looked about cautious and angry. He checked the action of his rifle.
‘Let’s head back to where we parked the truck. The others heard those gunshots and will make their way back,’ I told Jim-boy.
I was right, and I was wrong. The boys made it back, but the trucks were gone. There were some horse tracks. They must a followed us in, and towed the trucks off behind their horse teams.
The seven of us checked the clips in our weapons. It was decided to go and see if we could find out who did the shooting. The group of five went to circle around. Jim-boy and me, thinking this was a bad idea went the same direction we went the first time.
When we got to the spot. Our three dead had been stripped and their tongues had been cut out.
‘It’s a message,’ said one of the boys. ‘Soup,’ said another, looking up into the trees, finger on the trigger.
I nudged Jim-boy and he and I stepped backwards. It occurred to me that, the goat of revenge had been staked to the ground on this spot. And we fell for it. I turned and ran. Jim-boy followed.
We heard a sneeze from a thicket and then multiple burst from long barreled hunting rifles. Jim-boy screamed. Something struck me hard, but I kept running. After a few more yards, I wanted to rest. I found a boulder near a tree and wedged between them. I dressed my wound. It would be sunset soon. The forest had gone quiet. Figuring it was just a matter time, I lit my last cigar and took to writing down the story of how they kilt us.
If you enjoyed this story you might also find The Telling - The Wheat Eaters Journal of interest.
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