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My Private Global War, Part Nineteen

Mike is a long-time supporter of procrastination and enjoys doing as often as he can.


A Note from Me, A Name I Call Myself

As of right now, I'm stuck on what comes next, and every time I try to get back to the story, I end up typing something else, so I'm going to take a short break (until the beginning of the new year) from this story and the connecting Jimmy stories.

Part Nineteen

Trying to think back over the events of the last three months while drinking heavily isn’t the best idea. I’m sure I have mixed up events and names, but all I have is time, well maybe not that much time. I know how most of this ended and knowing that I’m having a hard time separating events, or perhaps it’s the whiskey……. Yeah, it’s the whiskey. Sit down wherever you are and try to type out the events of the last three months, with as much detail as you can without assuming the people reading it already know what you know…… yeah, know. I also know I’m omitting much. I don’t talk about how much sleep we had or didn’t, what we ate, or every bathroom break we took. It was about this time when events outside of our adventure started to climax. The dog army and deer war turned into something I doubt Hollywood would ever make into a movie. I’ll tell you about that in context to where I learned about those events in the story.


We turned northwest using an actual map with GPS gone along with all the satellites. Learning about the working prototype was the first good news we had in a while. We didn’t know what we should expect when we got there, and there was no way we could have ever expected what we found, but first, we had to get there. A very helpful member of Boone’s team volunteered to tell us where we could find the prototype. Yes, we beat the shit out of the guy until he told us what we wanted to know. The narcissistic Boone put it in the Daniel Boone National Forest. To put this into perspective, Boone is no relation to Daniel Boone.

Captain Matt Gray was behind the wheel of the Jeep as Diana, and I sat in the back, watching for drones, deer, and geese. The remaining dune buggies did the same. We lost a buggy along with four good men to a drone, and we didn’t want that to happen again. At some point, we decided not to drive in the dark, so we searched for a place where we could hide the vehicles and ourselves. Somewhere along the border between Tennessee and North Carolina, we found an abandoned farm with a barn big enough to hide us. I should say we thought we found a place earlier, but it had been a dairy farm and well…… no one had done anything with the cows and after more than a month……. I don’t want to think about it. Just typing this is bringing that smell back. I remember looking back as we ran from the farm, seeing a sign proclaiming the name of the farm, The Jacobson Family Farm 1869. Someone had made this place and passed it down to what should have been generations of their descendants, but now it was a nightmare. I wonder if any of the Jacobson family made it out of this alive. Given the state of their farm, I doubt it.


We pulled into the barn about ten miles away from the Jacobson Family Farm and closed the doors. A light came on in the nearby house. I don’t know if there’s a word of the mix of sheer joy and terror in seeing that light come on, but I’m sure it’s good and would fit just how we all felt. Many of the survivors were the type that had been prepared and don’t take kindly to outsiders. The light was a single candle-shaped lamp with what looked like a solar panel on it. We looked around, seeing nothing. One of Gray’s men and yes, I don’t remember his name pointed out that there were no cars or trucks. A working farm needed transportation, and there was nothing here. Also, there were no animals in any stalls or even chickens in the chicken coop.

The front door was open. I think the family knew someone would eventually find their farm, and they hoped whoever it was would try the door rather than breaking it in. The farm had this strange feeling; I don’t know how to describe it. I had never been to this house, but somehow it felt like home.

It felt wrong for us to stay in the house; the family laid out everything from their pantry out on a table with a note saying, take what you need. We didn’t take anything. Diana and I had plenty of MREs in the Jeep. We moved into the barn where we found a loft office that would work as a place to wait out the night. What it didn’t offer was privacy. This would be a common theme for the next couple of weeks. We took shifts sleeping and watching until the morning.

We opened and ate some of the MREs. Even now, as I sit staring at a box of MREs knowing my last meal is among them, I can remember thinking about how I didn’t want to eat another one of these meals. This guy on YouTube did a show about tasting them, and while he did a good job, he never was able to convey just how salty and bland most of the food was. The soldiers seemed to know, and they almost fought over the pepperoni pizza MRE. Mine came with an oatmeal cookie, but the rest was…... I don’t remember what it was. One of them did tell me to save the vitamin drink mix. He said to mix it into a canteen, and it would dilute down till it was drinkable. I did this from that point on, in fact, back in the other control room, I left my bottle of lemon-lime drink.


Gray put the pedal to the floor, and we blasted our way to Kentucky. We passed the border and made our way to the park. Near where the park should be, yeah should be, we came upon another steel palisade. On the other side was a drainage ditch. It was an effective barrier. The fence came up to the road to a gate with a guardhouse. On either side of the gate were twin machine guns. The gate was on the other side of a bridge. Two men were at each of the guns. All four men had that beard, and no mustache look common with the Amish. It was a weird dichotomy of the weapons of war at the hands of pacifists. This is probably a spoiler, but they weren’t Amish. We found the Cult of Boone.

© 2019 Michael Collins aka Lakemoron

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